When the big skies of Norfolk are low and dreary, the only remedy for seasonal affective disorder (SAD) is an emergency injection of sunshine. Happily, we don’t actually suffer from SAD but hey, any excuse for a holiday. And we thought we’d better get a trip under our belts before a hard Brexit brings the sky falling in. So we’re off to Gran Canaria for a bit of fun in the sun. To call Gran Canaria, with its cheap thrills and even cheaper men, a bit of a gay cliché is an understatement. And the icing on the cake is our stay at a men-only bungalow complex, one that tends to attract the slightly older gentleman. We’re expecting saggy arses, ravaged faces, walkers and a defibrillator on standby behind the bar. Liam intends to amuse himself by counting the liver spots round the pool. We should fit right in. Now that’s what I call sad.
Jack Scott Imagine the absurdity of two openly gay, married, middle aged, middle class men escaping the liberal sanctuary of anonymous London to relocate to a Muslim country. I chronicled our exploits with the mad, the bad, the sad and the glad in a blog for the whole world to ignore. Then came the book which became a critically acclaimed best seller. Its success opened out a whole new career for me, firstly as an author, and now as a publisher. Who'd have thought it? Certainly not me. In June 2012, we ended our Anatolian affair and paddled back to Britain on the evening tide, washing up in Norwich, a surprising city in eastern England, then to the wilds of Norfolk as the only gays in the village. I’m sometimes nostalgic for our encounters with the hopeless, the hapless and, yes, the happy go lucky. They gave me an unexpected tale to tell and for this I thank them.