Dubai reveals $1 billion plan to build Taj Mahal replica

Dubai are at it again.

Seemingly unsatisfied with boasting the world’s tallest skyscraper, the world’s largest man-made archipelago, and the world’s only 7-star hotel, Dubai has unveiled fresh plans to construct a billion-dollar (£665m) replica of the Taj Mahal.

Dubbed the ‘Taj Arabia’, the enormous building is set to be four times larger than the original and is scheduled to be complete in just 2 years, in stark contrast to the 22 years it took emperor Shan Jahan to build the marble wonder in the 17th century.

Taj Arabia with the Leaning Tower of Pisa pictured behind. Photo: Daily Mail

The 20,000 square metre project will also feature a 300 room 5-star “hospitality endeavour” (read: hotel) and a 3,000 capacity banquet hall reserved for wedding ceremonies, flanked by seven mixed-use buildings, two of which will house 200 serviced luxury apartments.

Arun Mehra, chairman of lead-developer Link Global Group, spoke of the project’s intention to make Dubai a wedding destination of global significance:

“The Taj was made as a monument of love and we hope to promote this in Dubai as a major wedding destination”, he said.

“Currently, Dubai is not regarded as a wedding destination. People go to Bali and other exotic places to marry. Now they will come to Taj Arabia”.

The audacious venture forms part of the “Falconcity of Wonders” – a 41 million square foot city aimed at capturing the essence of world’s ancient civilisations. The city is set to be comprised of a whole host of iconic architectural feats, estimated to weigh in at a staggering £7.4 billion.

An artist's impression of Falconcity of Wonders. Photo: Daily Mail

The artificial city will feature replicas of the Pyramids, the Eiffel Tower, the Great Wall of China, the Leaning Tower of Pisa, and the Hanging Gardens of Babylon.

London Bridge, Big Ben, St Paul's Cathedral and the Houses of Parliament are also expected to appear in the city’s skyline when it opens in 2014.

As the emirate’s penchant for architectural excess continues unsatiated, what comes next is full mystery. Whatever it is though, I don’t think I’ll be surprised.

Artist's Impression of the Taj Arabia. Photo: Emirates 24/7

Alex Ward is a London-based freelance journalist who has previously worked for the Times & the Press Association. Twitter: @alexward3000

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I can’t follow Marie Kondo's advice – even an empty Wotsits packet “sparks joy” in me

I thought I’d give her loopy, OCD theories a go, but when I held up an empty Wotsits bag I was suffused with so many happy memories of the time we’d spent together that I couldn’t bear to throw it away.

I have been brooding lately on the Japanese tidying freak Marie Kondo. (I forgot her name so I typed “Japanese tidying freak” into Google, and it was a great help.) The “Japanese” bit is excusable in this context, and explains a bit, as I gather Japan is more on the case with the whole “being tidy” thing than Britain, but still.

Apart from telling us that we need to take an enormous amount of care, to the point where we perform origami when we fold our underpants, which is pretty much where she lost me, she advises us to throw away anything that does not, when you hold it, “spark joy”. Perhaps I have too much joy in my life. I thought I’d give her loopy, OCD theories a go, but when I held up an empty Wotsits bag I was suffused with so many happy memories of the time we’d spent together that I couldn’t bear to throw it away.

After a while I gave up on this because I was getting a bit too happy with all the memories, so then I thought to myself, about her: “This is someone who isn’t getting laid enough,” and then I decided that was a crude and ungallant thought, and besides, who am I to wag the finger? At least if she invites someone to her bedroom no one is going to run screaming from it, as they would if I invited anyone to my boudoir. (Etym: from the French “bouder”, to sulk. How very apt in my case.) Marie Kondo – should bizarre circumstance ever conspire to bring her to the threshold – would run screaming from the Hovel before she’d even alighted the stairs from the front door.

I contemplate my bedroom. As I write, the cleaning lady is in it. To say that I have to spend half an hour cleaning out empty Wotsits packets, and indeed wotnot, before I let her in there should give you some idea of how shameful it has got. And even then I have to pay her to do so.

A girlfriend who used to be referred to often in these pages, though I think the term should be a rather less flippant one than “girlfriend”, managed to get round my natural messiness problem by inventing a game called “keep or chuck”.

She even made up a theme song for it, to the tune from the old Spiderman TV show. She would show me some object, which was not really rubbish, but usually a book (it may not surprise you to learn that it is the piles of books that cause most of the clutter here), and say, “Keep or chuck?” in the manner of a high-speed game show host. At one point I vacillated and so she then pointed at herself and said, “Keep or chuck?” I got the message.

These days the chances of a woman getting into the bedroom are remote. For one thing, you can’t just walk down the street and whistle for one much as one would hail a cab, although my daughter is often baffled by my ability to attract females, and suspects I have some kind of “mind ray”. Well, if I ever did it’s on the blink now, and not only that – right now, I’m not even particularly bothered that it’s on the blink. Because, for another thing, I would frankly not care to inflict myself upon anyone else at the moment.

It was all a bit of a giggle eight years ago, when I was wheeled out of the family home and left to my own devices. Of course, when I say “a bit of a giggle”, I mean “terrifying and miserable”, but I had rather fewer miles on the clock than I do now, and a man can, I think, get away with a little bit more scampish behaviour, and entertain a few more illusions about the future and his own plausibility as a character, when he is squarely in his mid-forties than when he is approaching, at speed, his middle fifties.

Death has rather a lot to do with it, I suppose. I had not actually seen, or touched, a dead body until I saw, and touched, my own father’s a few weeks ago. That’s what turns an abstract into a concrete reality. You finally put that to one side and gird up your loins – and then bloody David Bowie snuffs it, and you find yourself watching the videos for “Blackstar” and “Lazarus” over and over again, and reach the inescapable conclusion that death is not only incredibly unpleasant, it is also remorseless and very much nearer than you think.

And would you, dear reader, want to be involved with anyone who kept thinking along those lines? I mean, even if he learned how to fold his undercrackers into an upright cylinder, like a napkin at a fancy restaurant, before putting them in his drawer? When he doesn’t even have a drawer?

Nicholas Lezard is a literary critic for the Guardian and also writes for the Independent. He writes the Down and Out in London column for the New Statesman.

This article first appeared in the 05 February 2015 issue of the New Statesman, Putin's war