Author: 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 an indie 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.

Written in the Stars

The frosty flurry in old London Town soon turned to sloppy slurry. Sunday was our day of rest away from commitments. We decided to do what we rarely do these days – a West End jolly, just the two of us. It was a strangely alien experience. The Sunday evening stalwart – Jivin’ Julie’s karaoke night for the hairy marys down the Kings Arms (or Kings Arse, as it’s affectionately known) was a shadow of its former self. The fat crowd has thinned to just a few old fairy faithfuls. We ventured to Comptons, the pivot around which gay Soho revolves, to find it bereft of punters except for a few lonely tourists, northern fag hags in mountainous heels and Russell Grant. Sadly, cuddly Russ hasn’t managed to keep the weight off following his stint as housewive’s choice on Strictly Come Dancing. I bet he didn’t see that coming in the stars.

All the bars told a similar sad and sorry tale. Was it the long recession or the wind chill that kept the boys under the duvet? Perhaps it was neither. Restaurants were buzzing away to the sound of glasses clinking and tills cher-chinking. Perhaps the crowd has moved on to pastures new. Perhaps the pubs should lower their beer prices. We joined the throng at an eaterie and supped Rioja into the small hours.

Whitney Houston, RIP

RIP

Another prodigious talent wrecked by addiction. No doubt the internet is awash with tasteless jokes and serves-her-right statements. Whitney Houston’s slow descent into hell was a media circus that picked over the bones of her catastrophic life. Some people seem to take pleasure in it. According to Guinness World Records she was the most awarded female artist of all time.

Ms Houston once said:

“I finally faced the fact that it isn’t a crime not having friends. Being alone means you have fewer problems.”

I wasn’t a great fan though I really liked the ‘My Love is Your Love’ album and this is my favourite track.

The Big Chill

Our trip to Blighty was blighted by the big chill. Before our exodus, I could count on the fingers of one hand the number of times I’d experienced snow in London with its urban microclimate. In fact, three of our four last winter tours have been a white out. Perhaps global warming really is pushing the Gulf Stream out of kilter. What next, winter fairs on a frozen Thames? Shocking. Fortunately, we landed at Heathrow just before the weather closed in. Two years ago, we were diverted to Cardiff by a light dusting at Gatwick.

Once on land, we trundled off through town to celebrate the half century of an old friend and watched the arctic flurry from the comfort of an Islington restaurant. As the winter wonderland of bobble hats and woolly scarfs scurried past the window, a wonderful warmth enveloped us like the Ready Brek halo. Glory be to the god of central heating.

Perking the Pansies eBook

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Back to the Future

Liam and I were minding our own business in Tansaş. We were queuing up at the till, weighed down by a basket-full of cheap plonk. The lady in front of us turned towards me and smiled. “You’re Jack,” she said. “I love your book.” I blushed like a spotty teen and shifted uncomfortably from side to side. It was like being a z-list celeb, furtively emerging from a grubby massage parlour with my tail between my legs. Next time, I’ll don a floral headscarf and designer shades before I venture out.
I composed myself and we chatted over the veg and booze. It turns out that we’re near neighbours. My fellow shopper was a former Bodrum Belle of years long past and she recently returned to renew her club membership. As an old and new kid on the block, she has started her own blog, Back to Bodrum. The then and now observations offer a unique perspective of a town on the move. Take a look – fascinating stuff.

The Postman Never Rings Twice

The Turkish postal system is a hit and miss affair at the best of times. We do get mail delivered to our house. Well, not delivered exactly, more chucked over the wall into the garden. I’m not joking. The postman always rings twice? Round these parts he can’t be arsed to ring at all. Thankfully, we’ve had little to do with post services since our arrival from Blighty. This is just as well. Receiving the credit card bill a week after it is due to be paid is a novel approach to financial management. Recently though, I’ve been sending one or two of my books to people hereabouts. Complementary, of course; I’m not allowed to make money here. I’ve been down to the main post office in the centre of Bodrum a couple of times now. What is it that makes post office counter staff the world over miserable, surly and unhelpful?

Hot Pipes and Wonky Erections

The good burghers of Bodrum have been ripping the town apart with giant yellow diggers. No pain, no gain. It’ll all look fine and dandy by the start of the season. The town will be freshly dressed to impress, with newly-laid tarmac accessorised with fancy paving, modern street furniture and lush landscaping, just in time for the Easter early birds (we hope). If last year is anything to go by, it’ll never be quite finished – a few edges will be left a little on the rough side.

It isn’t just the posh promenade that’s getting the makeover. The little local square near our house has been furnished with brand new playground equipment for the little ‘uns – a multi-coloured medley of swings, slides and metal tubes in bright primary hues. During the height of summer, the kiddies risk being permanently soldered to the glowing pipes in the 45 degree heat.

The old lamp posts along our street have been replaced by a row of elegant green lights. We’ve been without street lighting since the old lamp post blew up a few weeks ago – so the new light next to our garden gate is a welcome illumination. It was installed by five burly men. Well, one did the erecting; the other four supervised. It’s not the straightest erection I’ve ever seen. I should know. I’m a bit of an expert.

The Graveyard Slot

Where to now?

My 500th post was about marriage equality which seems fitting considering we’re a couple of old ‘married’ pansies. I’ve no idea how many words this miraculous milestone represents. It must be more than 100,000, maybe a lot more. It’s been a great ride on an epic journey of little importance that’s kept me out of mischief and sober(ish). And now there’s the book. I’m often asked if I’d always intended to start a blog and write a book. The answer is no. In fact, we didn’t give any thought at all to what we’d do after we paddled ashore. One lesson we learned very early was that neither the journey nor the destination is the be all and end all. What really counts is what you do after you’ve arrived. That’s the clever bit.

I started the blog 15 months ago. Generally, I’ve written little and often, virtually every day. This strategy has worked well. However, my daily ramblings can’t continue now that I’m preoccupied with promoting the book to earn a honest crust (outside Turkey, obviously). The blog’s been good to me. It deserves my best attention. I’ve decided that the only way to do this is to change the recipe and post less often. There wasn’t a post yesterday and there won’t be one tomorrow. Will this result in plummeting ratings, a kick to the graveyard slot and cancellation of the show mid-series?  We’ll see.

And this is the reason why I can’t do it all.

Turkey v Fergie

Bad Hair Day

I assume we won’t be seeing Fergie slumming and beach-bumming it down Gümbet way any time soon. Not unless she wants her collar felt by a teenage paramilitary conscript and a stiff sentence from an un-amused Turkish beak. The ill-advised ex-HRH was foolish to embroil herself in a clandestine filming raid on a huge Turkish orphanage for disabled children in 2008. Poor Fergie’s a loose cannon at the best of times. She’s not cut out for investigative journalism and neither is my foster home. She’d do better earning her living more honestly and less controversially. Apparently, she’s to be prosecuted for violating the rights of five Turkish children and damaging the reputation of the Turkish State. I humbly suggest that Turkey’s reputation is best served by the dropping the whole thing.

Signed, Sealed, Delivered I’m Yours

If you live in the United Kingdom and would like to buy a signed copy of Perking the Pansies, Jack and Liam move to Turkey, delivered free, please click here.

If you’d like a signed copy of the book but live outside the UK, please leave a comment on this post or contact me via my personal website.