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.

Tricks of the Trade

The Displaced Nation Trilogy – Part 3

During the height of the summer we were like camp vampires and only ventured out after dark. Earlier in the season, we found ourselves sweltering in 40 plus heat with no air conditioning. Because our little cottage has 18 inch thick stone and concrete walls, it took us weeks to find a technical solution. In the meantime, I received a host of suggestions to help us through the sleepless, sweaty nights. I’d like to share a few:

Wrap a gel-type freezer pack in a wet tea-towel and apply it to your hot bits (and watch them shrink)
Buy a floor-standing industrial fan (but nail everything down)
Bathe your feet in an ice bucket (and develop frostbite)
Take a cold shower before bedtime (except the cold water is hot at this time of year)
Sleep on a wet towel (and rot the mattress)
Decamp to the roof (and get eaten alive my mozzies)
Emigrate to Sweden

Thank you Pansy Fans for the suggestions. Any more? You can read the full Displaced Nation article here.

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Disenchanted Jack

The Displaced Nation Trilogy – Part 2

We were wandering down Bodrum’s bar street, a procession of cheap and cheerful bars and hassle shops. We normally rush by; casual shopping in Turkey can be a bruising experience best only tried by the foolish or heroic. On this occasion, Liam popped into a corner shop to buy some cigarettes. Keen to use the local lingo, he asked for them in passable Turkish. The po-faced assistant looked at him blankly. Liam repeated the request. Another blank look. After a brief standoff, Liam relented and repeated the order in English. The surly man behind the counter viritually threw the cigarettes at Liam, snatched the payment and slammed the change on the counter. Welcome to Turkey where hospitality greets you at every corner. I know there are arses-holes in every country but next time we’ll just shout loudly in English.

Part 3 tomorrow – Tricks of the Trade

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Enchanted Jack

Last month the fabulous people at Displaced Nation asked me about:

My most enchanting experience this summer
My least enchanting experience, and
Tricks of the trade for dealing with the unforgiving heat.

I feel a little trilogy coming on.

Displaced Nation Trilogy – Part 1

Bodrum is the most secular and modern of Turkish towns. Normal social rules don’t apply here. It’s where people come to escape the conformity of everyday Turkish society. However, scrape the surface and you will find magic of a different kind. We were visiting our friend Jessica – a thoroughly modern Millie and a gorgeous Bodrum Belle to boot. Jessica lives just a few hundred metres behind the swanky marina with its luxury yachts and raucous watering holes. Her home is set within a traditional quarter of whitewashed buildings huddled together along narrow lanes. As we approached her door, we noticed an elderly neighbour dressed in traditional livery: floral headscarf, crocheted cardigan and capacious clashing pantaloons. She sat cross-legged in a shady spot of the garden and seemed to be plucking a fleece. Liam and I are self-confessed city boys and asked Jessica what the old lady was up to. Apparently, she was preparing the wool for hand carding, straightening and separating fibres to weave on the spinning wheel she kept in her house. The amazing woman hummed as she plucked, happy under the cool of an ancient knotted olive tree and doing what women have done in Turkey for millennia. Now you don’t get that in Blighty.

Part Two tomorrow – Disenchanted Jack

I’m a Lady!

Following on from yesterday’s soccer post, a vetpat pansy fan sent me a picture taken at the Fenerbahçe Ladies’ Night. Allegedly, a supporter was accused of trying to trick the stewards at the turnstiles by dragging up in his mother’s headscarf and Playtex eighteen hour girdle (lifts and separates). Transvestism has a long, though often rocky, tradition in Turkey. Imagine the indignation of this poor sister, when what was thought to be a cross-dressing man was, in fact, a bone fide woman. Okay, she’s no Elizabeth Taylor but what an insult!

You can catch the original CNN Turkey article here but it’s in Turkish so let’s hope I’ve got the story right and I’m not maligning some poor woman’s reputation.

Thanks to Angela for this one.

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Sisters are Doing it for Themselves

I’ve never really got futbol. In my experience, few gay people do. Having said that, there is a Gay Football Supporters Network and London has its very own gay-friendly team, the London Titans, who play serious soccer in local leagues. So what do I know? Perhaps times are changing and the sport is finally shedding its well-trodden racist, sexist and homophobic image. I suspect the jury’s still out on that one. In any case, it’s too late for me. I’m set in my gay old ways. The only football game I’ve ever attended was when I popped along with my sister to watch my young nephew proudly captain his little league team in a local park. My usually calm and matriarchal sibling was transformed into a screaming harridan. Such is the intoxicating power of the beautiful game.

England gave football to the world then ruined it by exporting hooliganism. The tribal thuggery that afflicted the English game in the 80s and 90s has largely died out but is still alive and kicking in many other corners of the world. Fenerbahçe, one of Turkey’s top soccer teams, had a bit of bother with their own fans of late. Rather than play their matches behind locked gates, they decided to punish their unruly supporters by filling their stadium with women and children only. Men were persona non grata. It was a rip-roaring success that hit the headlines. The ladies electrified the good humoured ambience as they partied in the stands, sang, chanted, waved and danced. They knew all the words and all the moves. Was this a just a cynical gimmick to attract positive PR or a genuine attempt to keep the bad boys at bay and let the ladies shine? Who knows? Still, women are invading the pitch all over the world these days with their own local and national teams. Are Turkish women finally coming out of the kitchen and doing it for themselves? I do hope so. Go girls!

Thanks to Marie for the inspiration for this one.

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Emigrey Extras

Quite a while ago I wrote the Expat Glossary to help describe the wide variety of expats we’ve encountered on our Turkish escapade. The glossary includes the pre-eminent expats I call vetpats. These are veterans who have been living in Turkey for many years, have picked up the lingo and are better informed and more integrated than many of their peers. Today, I’m adding a couple more categories to the expat lexicon, both of which are vetpats of a unique kind. Please give a warm hand to the:

Bodrum Belles

The Belles are single ladies of a certain age with rollercoaster pasts and plucky presents. Some may once have been VOMITs but, unlike many of their sisters, they have learned from bitter experience and now live quiet and contented lives with a refreshing insight into their lot. To qualify as a Belle you must live in Bodrum Town. Anywhere else just doesn’t cut the mustard. Interestingly, we’ve yet to bump into any Bodrum Beaus. Middle-aged male singletons are thin on the ground round here. So, if you’re a solvent unattached straight man with your own teeth and working tackle, book your passage on the next emigrey express.

Emiköys

A rare breed of seasoned pioneers, Emiköys have forsaken the strife of city life and deodorant for the real köy mckoy and eek out a life less ordinary in genuine Turkish villages. They get down, dirty and dusty with the locals, contribute meaningfully to their small rural communities, keep chickens, get unnaturally close to nature and talk Turkish to the trees (well not always, but I’m sure some do).

The Expat Glossary has been duly updated. Any further suggestions gratefully received.

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VOMITs

What’s Your Poison?

Hardly a week goes by without being told that this is bad for you, that is good for you, what used to be good for you is now bad for you, eat more of this, eat less of that, blah, blah, blah. What’s a boy to do? We’ve already abandoned terribly important jobs with responsibility and status (or so we thought) and we’ve jettisoned the Gü Puds. Jobs and puds were the instruments of our undoing. On the minus side we’ve developed a unhealthy weakness for strong liquor and failed miserably to pack in the fags. The cigarette variety, obviously; hell will freeze over before I give up the other brand. Yet despite our various vices, Liam and I have lost weight, feel infinitely less stressed and our blood pressure has dropped. In Liam’s case, it’s so low that I keep a vanity mirror by the bedside to check for breathing in the morning.

I’m not promoting an entirely degenerate existence but ponder this:

This woman is 51. She is a TV health guru advocating a holistic approach to nutrition and health. She promotes exercise and a vegetarian diet high in organic fruit and fresh vegetables. She recommends detox, colonic irrigation and multiple supplements. She advocates regular faecal examination like some kind of scat fetishist. She’s painfully thin and looks ill, even in makeup. It’s enough to make you anally retentive.

This woman is 51. She is a TV cook who eats nothing but meat, butter and lots of desserts, all washed down with top-brand vodka, single malt scotch and a bottle of good wine every day. She’s voluptuous, sexy and licks a spoon like a porn star.

I rest my case.

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Thank you Nikki for the inspiration for this one.

Supermarket Sweep

Liam and I took the dolly to Gümüslük, the pretty picture postcard bay with overpriced fish restaurants and tedious hassle from the press-ganging waiters. We were visiting friends who lived in the village. As we travelled along the pot-holed road, I was wondering what the scenery was like before the mad march of little white boxes up hill and down dale. Stunning I imagine. It’s still pretty in parts and the views from the coast road are dazzling. We turned a coastal corner and happened upon a huge supermarket that wasn’t there before. It’s a sign of the times. I see the advantage. Residents and holidaymakers alike no longer have to endure the sweaty trek into Yalıkavak or Turgutreis to stock up on booze and larder essentials. Who wants to do that in 40 degree heat? Sadly, I fear for the living of the little man in the local shop. Times are hard and, in the winter months, times are impossible. We all know the tale of the big boys who muscle in and soak up all the trade. It’s a sad story that’s oft repeated in high streets across Blighty. Still, this particular supermarket does have the most spectacular view of the Aegean from the rooftop terrace. Sütlü Americano, lütfen.

Tick Tock

Liam has become increasingly alarmed at the pendulosity of my neatly pruned testiculaire. It’s a long hot summer and without the provision of a support hose, gravity has taken its toll. I could run a grandfather clock with ’em.

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Tales from the Harem

Charlotte and Alan invited us to cruise with Captain Irfan on the pleasure craft he co-owns with chief concubine number two, a neurotic Netherlander, who religiously covets his nether regions. Irfan’s financial dependency is not lost on Nancy, chief concubine number one. She decided to queer the Dutch pitch by forsaking trade and lodgings in Blighty and driving across a continent to drive home her determination to be the only mistress in town. Scuppered Irfan was peeved that the harmony of his harem had been so rudely disturbed.

Nancy joined us on the nautical jolly. I feared the perfect storm as the two randy combatants exchanged frosty glances and icy words. It all turned out to be a storm in Nancy’s D cup. By open water, Nancy and Irfan flirted like spotty adolescents at a school disco. By anchor drop, Nancy’s moisture meter had hit critical. They canoodled in the lower cabin. After their frisky frolic, Nancy emerged slightly nauseas. ‘Nancy dear,’ I chided, ‘I told you to spit, not swallow.’

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Perking the Pansies

Jack Scott's random ramblings

Author: Jack Scott