Month: July 2011

I Believe the Children are our Future

For all the fast talk of political Islam and a return to piety, there truly are two sides to this magnificent resurgent nation. Istanbul’s Kadir Has University clearly has a modern, progressive curriculum that allows students to express themselves in  music and dance in a fun and inclusive way. I’ve picked three great examples of this. The first two are uplifting romps that had us rolling in the aisles. The third brought us to our feet. You’ll see why at the end.

You might also like to look at Turkey’s Got Talent. I challenge you not to at least smile.

Yes, this really is a duet with Jennifer Saunders, presumably remixed from Shrek 2.

Thanks to Death by Dolmuş for this one.

You might also like:

X Factor Ads

So You Think You Can Write a Pop Song?

Britain’s Got Talent

I’d like to introduce you to my namesake nephew, Jack. He’s fourteen and bursting with the energy and confidence that I never had at his age. If your ears can stand it watch his plucky performance in front of his peers at a school assembly. He’s got the look and the moves though sadly not the voice. He learns, he thinks and writes poetry. He’s good with a football and with a pen. He enjoys life and loves his family. He’s a young man of rounded ability. Let’s give it up for the much maligned state school system.

Bodrum Belles

We’ve become acquainted with a number of hard-core vetpats following our move to the sweaty city. I call them the Bodrum Belles, single ladies of a certain age, rollercoaster pasts and plucky presents. We have yet to bump into any Bodrum Beaus. Middle-aged male singletons are thin on the ground round here. Most of the belles live quiet and contented lives with a refreshing insight into their lot and a sense of humour. However, we did have the misfortune of wasting some time with a pompous middle England misery, a highly educated woman of depressing stupidity. She waxed imperiously about the educational shortcomings of British youth. As this dumb belle was born with a silver spoon up her arse I wondered what she could possible know about the state school system beyond what she’d read in the tainted pages of the Daily Mail.

Delivered from Delirium

Abandoned Bed

After weeks of sleep deprivation, we’ve finally solved our debilitating predicament with the installation of a wall mounted air conditioning unit in the ground floor spare room where the walls are of standard girth. We’ve abandoned our marital bed with its superior sprung mattress for the rest of the summer. No matter, the gentle cooling hum has delivered us from delirium.

Thank you for all the words of sympathy and suggestions about how to solve our pesky problem. It helps when people can feel our pain.

We Are Not Amused

We are not amused

I am sorry to bang on about this but I really don’t know how the empire builders did it. Those buttoned up Victorians in heavy drapes must have been made of sterner stuff. We’ve mastered the art of minimising all movement unless absolutely necessary. The upper floor of the house is completely abandoned save for our clothes which radiate heat as if just removed from a tumble dryer. We take regular cold showers and Liam’s only bound copy of his treasured composition for string quartet is employed as a fan stand in an attempt to dry our clammy old hides. Death by heat exhaustion is surely to follow.

The Punkawallah and the Pansies

punka_wallahObsessing about the weather is a national pastime for the Brits. I guess I’m no different from my compatriots. I railed against the wind, cold and winter monsoons in February. I’m now wilting in sizzling summer and the varnish is peeling off the window sills. So far our search for a cooling solution has been fruitless. I’m touched by the concern of others towards our plight and the ingenious suggestions to douse the heat (of the wrong kind) in our bed.

  • Carole suggests an industrial fan – comes with a built in facelift as a by-product which is well worth thinking about.
  • Deborah suggests sticking our feet in a bowl of iced water – a method of torture favoured by the KGB.
  • Karyn suggests sleeping outside which would be like trying to catnap on the hard shoulder of the M25.
  • Alan suggests a dehumidifier – more bloody lira down the pan
  • Linda suggests wrapping a freezer pack in a tea towel and applying it our hot bits – get your mind out of the gutter.
  • Kym suggests retiring at night in wet socks – guaranteed to dampen our ardour and rot the mattress.
  • Hana suggests getting down to Arçelik and reviewing the problem with someone who knows what they’re taking about – what in Turkey?
  • As a last resort, Karyn suggests using child labour to fan us with ostrich feathers – How very British Raj and a practice likely to court the attention of the local Jandarma.

All is not lost. We’ve hit on an idea that might bring relief. Inşallah.

Sleepless in Bodrum

Off we went on another flight of fancy in search of an air conditioning solution. The wall mounted unit was exchanged for a mobile machine which is vented out of a window. Another bloody catastrophe.  The contraption did reduce the ambient temperature to almost sleep-able levels but it’s like berthing next to the engine room of a cross channel ferry.

Wilting Pansies

It’s 103 in old money and we’ve like a pair of camp vampires only venturing out between the hours of sunset and dawn. Our sofa radiates heat like embers from a dying grate, the home entertainment system has gone on strike and the top floor of the house has become an oven which our useless ceiling fan only assists. We move slowly. This is not the climate in which to do anything quickly. We’ve never been keen on air conditioning. In our old Yalıkavak house on the hill we were able to leave our windows ajar to be cooled by the constant sea breeze. The mozzie net protected us from assaults by the squadrons of bloodthirsty bugs. Bodrum is a different kettle of fish. Twenty four hour traffic and a constant throng demands that windows are kept firmly shut at night. We can bear no longer our glowing bed and the nightly rite of sleepless sweats so we’ve relaxed our aversion to aircon. We procured a unit from a local store. The following day a child arrived to install it. The pre-pubescent boy stared at our 18 inch thick uneven stone and concrete walls in absolute horror, shaking his head and fumbling despondently with his woefully inadequate tools.

Liam rang our landlady for assistance. Canny Hanife arrived with plums in hand, quickly followed by husband and son. For good measure our neighbours also joined the jolly fray. An impassioned and gesticulated debate ensued around our marital bed. We left them to it and put the kettle on. Eventually, the Turkish Jury awarded nil point to the child and his woefully inadequate tools and cast him out into the street. More debilitating sleepless nights are anticipated until we find a solution.

News of the World, RIP

I hear the hacking hacks at the News of the World, that famously progressive liberal rag, got caught red handed indulging in a little illegal phone tapping (as opposed to legal phone tapping which is commonplace in Turkey, only requiring consent from the local Jandarma chief). That’s the red tops for you, anything for a salacious scoop. The News of the World isn’t the only newspaper that panders to the base and reactionary instincts of the ignorati by any means. Now that it’s published its last issue the slack will be taken up by another soon enough. To think the British Government is about to hand over full control of BSB (the British satellite broadcaster) to News International, the News of the World’s parent company.

I must confess to one tiny regret about the demise of this 170 year old Sunday institution. If it hadn’t been for their relentless and vicious campaign to expose the twilight world of the perverted homosexual in the late 1970s I never would have known where to go for my jollies. I haven’t looked back since. So thank you, News of the Screws. I owe you one.

Get Thee to a Nunnery

Our neighbours have acquired a fluffy little kitten. She’s very cute in a kittenish kind of way. She’s a little ball of virgin snow white fur with big blue eyes. I’m not an expert on cats but I’m guessing this is a rare look. They’ve called her Bianca. Alas, I fear poor Tabitha the Tart’s days are numbered and she’ll be forced to seek board and lodgings in someone else’s garden. Given her promiscuous behaviour I’d recommend a cat convent where she can repent her sins and meow for forgiveness.