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Graham Easterling
Freddie
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Metman2012
Ken Cook
Best wishes
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The Sheik's Sizzling Sandsational Scheme
Sheik Abdul Abdul of Suddai surveyed his vast, sun-baked kingdom with a furrowed brow. The once bottomless well of petro-dollars was starting to resemble a thimble half-full of sand. Tourists, those harbingers of foreign currency, seemed to have an insatiable appetite for luxury hotels built on islands shaped like palm trees, not the sprawling sand dunes and the occasional scrawny camel that was Suddai's current offering.
Now, Abdul wasn't one to shy away from a challenge. After all, he was a man who'd not only wrangled a scholarship to Cambridge but had persevered through the ordeal of punting a leaky bathtub down the River Cam while hungover from a particularly enthusiastic May Ball. Surely, he could whip up some tourist allure from the desert's sun-scorched backside.
Inspiration struck like a heatstroke hallucination. Sheik Abdul, a man well-versed in the peculiar habits of tourists, recalled a documentary he'd once seen about a place called Death Valley, famed for its record-breaking temperatures. People, he'd learned, actually paid good money to bake themselves silly in the desert!
"Aha!" boomed the Sheik, startling a nearby falcon into a flurry of feathers. "We'll create our own tourist inferno!"
Now, Abdul was a man of integrity – or at least he tried to be most of the time. Fiddling with thermometers to create fake heat waves was a bit too Dubai for his tastes. No, he needed a natural wonder, a place where the very air shimmered with the promise of spontaneous combustion.
Enter Wadii, a sun-baked depression conveniently 137 meters below sea level. The only snag – well, more like a sandstorm – was the relentless onslaught of gritty particles that threatened to exfoliate any tourist to the bone. But a minor detail like that wouldn't deter a determined Sheik.
Sir Archibald Sands, a tweed-clad Brit whose name seemed tragically ironic in the desert climate, was summoned. Sir Archibald, a man whose idea of a thrill was a brisk walk in a drizzle, was instructed to build a series of barriers around Wadii. Their official purpose? To curb the sandstorms. Their unofficial purpose, a secret whispered between the Sheik and a sly desert wind? To trap the heat, like a giant solar oven baking tourists to a golden crisp.
Sir Archibald, bless his oblivious soul, set about his task with gusto. Walls rose from the sand, and within two short years, Wadii was transformed into a secluded basin, blissfully ignorant of the meteorologically devious plan brewing around it.
Then came the magic moment. The official thermometer, a gleaming contraption imported from Switzerland at great expense, clicked and whirred, its little red needle trembling excitedly. 58.2 degrees Celsius! A new world record! Sheik Abdul whooped with glee, a sound that startled a nearby herd of fennec foxes into digging themselves even deeper into their burrows.
News of Wadii, the hottest place on Earth, spread like wildfire (though thankfully not a literal one). Tourists, those masochistic thrill-seekers, came in droves. They donned thick-soled boots, wide-brimmed hats, and oven mitts (a sartorial choice Sir Archibald found particularly baffling) and descended upon Wadii, eager to say they'd braved the desert's fiery breath.
Hotels sprouted around the oasis village of Abu like desert flowers after a rare downpour. Gift shops sold tiny thermometers keychains and T-shirts that said "I Survived Wadii!" in ten different languages. The once sleepy village was now a bustling tourist trap, a testament to Sheik Abdul's cunning plan and Sir Archibald's unwitting contribution.
Of course, there were occasional hiccups. Tourists with a penchant for fainting and lawsuits. The time a particularly enthusiastic group tried to fry an egg on the sidewalk, only to melt the spatula in the process. But overall, Wadii was a sizzling success. A scorching hot, sand-filled, record-breaking success.
Jack