"Never mind football - try Parliamentary democracy!"

Considering it was written a decade ago, and is set 40 years ago, Michael Frayn's Democracy feels like it could have been penned last week. As well as the piece of dialogue that heads this review, there are a number of knowing chuckles to be had in lines such as 'that leaking tub of a party sinking towards oblivion... the Liberals, even the name turns my stomach!'

Of course, we aren't talking about Britain in the 2010s but West Germany 1969-1974, during the Chancellorship of Willy Brandt, the first left-winger to hold the office since the pre-Nazi era. Brandt is authoratively played by Patrick Drury but the real protagonist is Aidan McArdle as Gunther Guillaume, a self-effacing  'nobody' who rises through the party ranks to become Brandt's trusted personal assistant despite being all the while a covert East German agent.

The play starts a little awkwardly with some heavy-handed info-dumping for those not au fait with post-war German politics and the introductions of a number of characters little known even to political junkies like myself. Guillaume's side of stage conversations with his East German handler don't work quite as well as they could, but both he and Brandt are sympathetic, if flawed, characters and the story of their growing friendship - and Brandt's eventual downfall because of it - becomes genuinely absorbing, and a very solid ensemble cast gives life to the crowd of devious political operators that surround the Chancellor.

Brandt is the kind of politician you don't see any more - imperfect as a man of course, but capable of inspiring great devotion from the public and with a charisma and sureness of purpose that our current crop of politicos can't come close to matching. His replacement at the end of the play with the bland technocrat Helmut Schmidt can't help but look like a early sign of things to come. Maybe we're better off without too much ideology though - as Brandt says in Democracy 'under capitalism man exploits man, under socialism it's the other way round.'

Ancient and Modern - Jordan and Dubai March 2012

First impressions can be misleading, and so it proves with Jordan. The taxi ride from Amman airport is certainly an experience - my driver seems to have a phobia about touching the steering wheel, and spends much of the journey raging in Arabic into his mobile phone. It’s when I discern that he is asking someone for directions to my hotel that I start to get a little nervous. Nevertheless, after an uncomfortable forty five minutes we reach my destination and I gratefully allow him to rip me off for the cab fare.

Fortunately, the taxi driver proves to be an aberration and the welcome I receive at the Toledo hotel is a warm one. My time here is limited so I hasten to arrange tours to the Roman city of Jerash, and to the main reason for my visit, the ancient city of Petra - so frequently hailed as one of the wonders of the world.

The next day I share a cab to Jerash with an older British couple who have also recently arrived in Amman. The husband comments that the taxi driver that brought them from the airport was ‘a maniac’ and we wonder if it was the same fellow who conveyed me so memorably. Our driver to Jerash is a charming Jordanian called Abu Saleem who takes time to point out olive and pepper trees by the road and to purchase cheap but filling flatbread sandwiches for us.

Jerash itself, framed by the imposing Hadrian’s Arch which rises incongruously above the modern town that guards the entrance to the ancient city, is extraordinarily well preserved. As I sit on the upper levels of the magnificent amphitheatre and gaze down on the stage I can’t help but think of the Romans who warmed the seat for me nigh on 1800 years ago, indeed some of them carved their names into the stone, an early method of reserving their seat for whatever attractions were put before them.

As for Petra, a three hour drive to the south of Amman, it proves to be even more extraordinary than I have imagined. The Treasury, familiar from Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade and countless guidebook covers, stops me dead in genuine awe when I glimpse it through the slit of the gorge that marks the entrance to the ‘rose-red city half as old as time’.

Further in to this magnificent fusion of the man-made and the natural I begin the climb up the mountainside to the mysterious building known as the Monastery. The ascent, past hawkers, donkey taxis and perspiring German tourists, proves arduous but more than worthwhile. The great columned facade of the Monastery impresses, but most remarkable of all are the magnificent views of the valley that are revealed from this lofty place. I stand for some time on the edge of a rocky outcrop, alone, but not remotely lonely, the vast red mountains a reminder of how insignificant so much of our lives are. They’ve been here forever, and they’ll be here long after we’re gone. Yes, the city of the Nabataeans is amazing, but finally it is the wonders of nature that really put things in perspective.

I get another dose of perspective on my way out of the site, when a little Arab boy asks me for a gum. I give him a sweet which he takes with dusty fingers. I’ve seen many young children around the site, selling stones and trinkets - a hard life for them amongst all this beauty.

Thirty-six hours later I’m standing on the observation deck of the Burj Khalifa, the world’s tallest building, at least until someone decides they have to build a bigger one. The view of night-time Dubai is impressive but it doesn’t touch the soul like Petra did. As I stare through the windows at the metropolis below I think of the Nabataeans. Is the city below so different from theirs? The neon-lit skyscrapers have the same purpose as the Treasury and the Monastery – to impress - and its vast shopping malls are just temples to a different set of idols. No doubt the Nabataeans never thought that Petra would one day be dead and abandoned; and I can’t help but wonder if in two thousand years the ultra-modern city below will be one more desert-buried mystery for tourists to marvel at.

Shelley put it best perhaps when he considered the temporary nature of human power and civilisation.

‘My name is Ozymandias, king of kings,

look on my works, ye mighty and despair!’

Nothing beside remains,

Round the decay of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare,

the lone and level sands stretch far away.

Danes bring home the bacon

The words 'Danish political drama' don't immediately inspire confidence, but having just watched the final episode of the superb Borgen one can say that this Scandinavian offering is one of the finest television series of recent years, and one that brings shameful comparison to the smug, formulaic retreads delivered by British TV.

Of course, the setting, at once familiar yet subtly strange, does help - for some reason drama often seems better in a foreign language - and for political nerds like myself the contrasts and comparisons between the Danish and British systems are of interest; but the real strength of the series is the depth of characterisation. The protagonist Birgitte Nyborg transforms from the gauche minor-party leader struggling to find a dress that fits her for an appearance in a TV debate, to the power-suited first female Prime Minister whose dedication to her office sees her sacrifice her family and closest friends to remain in power.

Nyborg is a character who in the wrong hands could be dreadfully unsympathetic, but in Sidse Babett Knudsen's brilliant performance we can still see the humanity in a woman for whom power is gradually leading her to lose touch with what is truly important in life. If Borgen were a British series one can only guess at how superficially the role would be played, with Nyborg likely either a paragon of virtue or a power-bitch right from the start. Similarly, her spin doctor Kaspar, is a damaged, unscrupulous, yet ultimately sympathetic figure who in a different context could easily have been portrayed as a stereotypical 'bastard'. Even the minor characters in the story, like the amiable but passionate Finance Minister Bent Sejro, and the weak but ambitious Justice Minister Troels Hoxenhaven have depth to them, although I would have liked to have seen more of the splendidly loathsome Labour leader Michael Laugesen.

With British TV now so enfeebled that trite, hammy nonsense like Sherlock can receive remarkable praise from fashion conscious critics, it is good to see BBC4 take a chance on broadcasting such excellent foreign fare, even though, along with other recent imports like Dexter and American Horror Story, it makes you realise how far our once unrivalled television has fallen behind over the last few years. Ah well, I guess while I wait for the next series of Borgen I can catch up on The Killing, another acclaimed Danish series I now wish I'd tuned into first time around...