Somewhere around the middle of July, I found myself eyeball-to-eyeball with a Dhabi man-beast. We’re talking flesh and blood, here – none of your Maritime Museum waxworks nonsense. There he stood, bare-chested and pale, his waxen face hidden beneath deep facial foliage; his eyes yellowed with the manic look of something that’d ruthlessly kill for food or company. Looking about the room behind him, it quickly became evident that there’d been a scuffle. Dirt and sweat blackened his brow. An LG washing machine stood triumphant in the corner.