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.

Two Nations Divided by a Common Language

Photo: Carryn M. Golden

I recently received the first edits back for the book. I downloaded the file with nervous anticipation, expecting it to be mauled with angry red lines and a must do better report at the end. I was pleasantly surprised to find the text relatively intact. My editor is a talented young man from across the pond called Kilian Kröll. Kilian’s day job is treading the boards as an eminent life coach. He’s also a superb writer and is moonlighting as editor at the request of my publisher, Jo Parfitt. Jo gave him the specific remit to check the text for British idioms and cultural references that might fly over the heads of our Yankee cousins. Kilian is well-qualified for the job and is doing sterling work – meticulous and professional. His interventions have been smart, literate and illuminating. Striking the right balance between keeping the essentially British feel of Perking the Pansies and appealing to the greatest possible audience is going to be tough. Cor blimey, mate.

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Perking the Pansies

Jack Scott

Caveat Emptor

Liam and I love living in our little stone cottage tucked away in the middle of old Bodrum Town. A perilous spark, a sieve-like roof, heat exhaustion and frostbite have not put us off. Our neighbours are a joy and the locals are warm, welcoming and obliging. We feel blessed. We rent and are thankful for the freedom. We can move as we please and when the mood takes us. We have been mercifully released from that inbred notion to own (something we Brits nurture in the womb).

For some, the dream can turn sour. For years now, we’ve read reports about people buying property abroad falling foul of unscrupulous builders, vendors, agents or officials. Some of the stories are enough to make you weep, particularly when the unsuspecting lose their shirts in a single dodgy deal. Sadly, it’s a phenomenon which afflicts many countries around the world – not just Turkey – and the laws which protect such people vary from country to country.

I was recently contacted by a member of the Turkish Living Forum who is fronting a campaign for change in Turkey. He points out that while many people successfully purchase property here, there are plenty of examples of those who have a really rough ride. He’s not alone in this view. The Turkish press is littered with examples of  scams and only last year, police raided the Central Tapu Office in Bodrum.

Of course, fraud can afflict all buyers, foreign and Turkish alike. But for foreigners, coming to grips with the complexities of unfamiliar property law in a foreign land can be a daunting task. Not to mention an emotional one.

Wherever you are willing to splash out, in Turkey or elsewhere, it clearly makes sense to do your homework. Do everything you can to understand the buying process, get good legal advice, don’t be tempted by cost-cutting shortcuts and don’t dish the dosh unless you are absolutely sure that everything is above board. Let’s face it, that’s exactly what you’d do in your own country so why lose your head (and possibly your life savings) when abroad? If it looks too good to be true, the chances are it is. There are plenty of people around who can offer good advice.

Turkey is a fabulous and seductive country to live or invest in. Dreams really can come true if you do it right and the authorities play their part too.

 

Pussy Galore

Continuing the pussy theme from yesterday, Liam came across this splendid little video montage of Mrs Slocombe from Are You Being Served, played by the marvelous Mollie Sugden, a jobbing comedy actress who sadly died in 2009 after a long illness. Many people will remember that Mrs Slocombe was always having a bit of bother with her pussy. Obvious, lewd and unsophisticated? Certainly. Funny? Absolutely. A bit like me. Sit back and enjoy.


Pussy on Patrol

Our neighbours have rowed little of late. There was a time when we were regularly disturbed by bubbly Beril screaming like a banshee. Beril has an excellent set of pipes which she can use to volcanic effect. I think the acquisition of Bianca the snow white cat a few months ago has calmed the spirits and silenced the guns. Bianca is an inquisitive creature. She’s now firmly in charge of our shared garden and tolerates no incursions by rivals. I often see her patrolling the low garden wall looking inquisitively out on the world beyond. I hope she doesn’t get too bold otherwise she may get set upon by the mean felines that strut their stuff by the communal bins or end up as road kill along the busy thoroughfare where the speed junkies race.

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Get Thee to a Nunnery

Road Kill

Now That’s What I Call Old

Civilisation in Anatolia has deeper roots than most people imagine. The recently discovered ruins of Göbekli Tepe are among the oldest human-made structures yet discovered. The site is almost 12,000 years old, predating any other known civilisation by several thousand years. Eat your heart out Abraham (c1800 BC) Rameses the Great (c1300 BC), Nebuchadnezzar (c600 BC) and all those daft fundamentalist Christians who think that the world was created 6000 years ago.

 

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The Mausoleum of Halicarnassus | Bodrum’s Crusader Castle | Cappadocia, Then and Now | Rutting Reptiles | Communal Crapping

Mausoleum of Halicarnassus
Bodrum Castle
Cappadocia
Library of Celcus, Ephesus
Temple of Apollo, Didyma

And for My Next Trick

When Liam and I first set up home together, certain concessions had to be made. I’d spent a lifetime developing a neat demeanour – a place for everything and everything in its place. This stemmed from the rich chaos of my early years in a large family, when competition for the bathroom was fierce and you’d do well to find matching socks during the Monday morning scrum. Liam’s approach to organisation had always been a little more laissez faire. During our salad days I would come home from work to find a shoe on the mantelpiece or a pair of Calvins in the fridge (freshly laundered ones, obviously). This was his way of telling me to lighten up. I listened to the gentle provocation and over time, saw the light. Down the years, Liam’s raised his game and I’ve lowered mine: we’ve arrived at contented compromise. All except for one small thing. When Liam retires for the night, he just slips effortlessly out of his clothes and leaves them in a concertinaed heap on the floor by the bed, collapsed in a series of folds like a deflated accordion. Slippers poke out from under the crumpled jeans that sit tidily beneath a discarded tee shirt. It’s as if he’s disappeared through a trap door. All that’s missing is a puff of white smoke. It’s quite a trick.

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Last Will and Testament

Sex and the Citesi

The Demon Drink

We’ve finally managed to collate all the incriminating photographic evidence of our wicked trip to Bordeaux back in September to celebrate the half century of Blighty life friend, Ian. Liam has produced a timely public heath broadcast about the evils of alcohol. A sorry collection of over-the-hill so-called fine and upstanding members of society (well, except for the birthday boy who runs a sex shop in Soho), strutting their drunken stuff in an isolated French farm house is a pathetic spectacle. It’s enough to put you off your pink gin. Listen up kids, in Nancy Reagan’s immortal words, ‘Just say no.’

We had a ball.

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The Bow Belles

Fifty Years in the Business

Fried Alive

After a romantic evening of candlelight and cards, we fell into bed and prayed to the electricity fairy for a constant supply. Our landlady returned the next day with the sheepish pixie spark in tow. He fessed up that he was to blame for the dodgy circuit board. It had been completely mis-wired and caused a whole series of intermittent power surges. It was good to know we could have been fried alive in our bed. He fiddled his final fiddle and all seemed well. Sockets and switches worked as they should, and this time, nothing blew up. Our landlady, worried we might move out in a huff, assured us that we were model tenants (if only she knew) and agreed to replace the extinct appliances. The modem transformer was quickly substituted, brand new circuit breakers were supplied and a new circuit board for the water heater was ordered. It’s just as well there was enough sun to supply the solar panels; otherwise I’d have been forced to use a bucket of cold water to flannel-wipe my pits and sponge down my important little places. Another cross to bear in a Moslem land.

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Pansy Pioneers

Wacky Baccy

Bang, Bang

Our electricity supply continued up and down like whore’s drawers. Strangely, the power seemed to mostly misbehave during daylight hours when our consumption was relatively light. The main circuit breaker tripped at random so there was no obvious explanation. Once again, our formidable landlady swung into action and sent her little pixie spark to re-check the fuse box. He fiddled with the fuses and re-knitted the wires like a lazy carpet weaver. Progress was slow but steady. He flicked the kitchen light switch. The electric heater fired up. He plugged in the kettle. The air-con beeped. He smiled a satisfied smile and returned to his fiddling. Finally, through a tortuous process of trial and error he concluded that the root of the problem was a power surge in a circuit running along one side of the house. To test his theory he plugged in our modem. Bang went the transformer. He plugged in the TV. Bang went the independent surge protector. He plugged in the bathroom water heater. Bang when the circuitry. As a flume of smoke filled the house, bang went our tempers and we threw the pixie out.

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Wash, Reset and Blowdry

Whore’s Drawers

Polari Literary Salon

I’m really excited to announce that Paul Burston, award winning author, LGBT Editor of Time Out London and one of Blighty’s leading commentators on LGBT life, has invited me to speak at the Polari Literary Salon in February. Paul created Polari to showcase new gay and lesbian writers. Since its launch in 2007, Polari has established an enviable reputation as a centre of excellence for promoting new talent. I’ll be reading passages from the book and taking questions. I’m completely terrified. Paul assures me it’s a warm and easy crowd. I will have to dig deep into my past to resurrect the orator in me. I’ll be trolling down to Soho to ask the literati omis, palones and palone-omis to vada my bona book*. I hope this pansy will still be perking by the end of it. What shall I wear?

*For a quick lesson in Polari slang check out Trolling on the Net.

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Publish and Be Damned

The Dorothy Dollar and Pink Pound