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.

Til Death Us Do Part

I’ve written before that some Turkish men prefer to wed, rather than just bed western women. Not all the Shirley Valentines who come ashore end up as VOMITs. Some lucky lasses marry their handsome hunk, learn the lingo and settle down. I can see the attraction to a modern, progressive Turk. Our girls do have their advantages – a can do attitude, a stronger sense of sex equality and a more open mind. This is something that some of the local po-faced princesses would do well to emulate. The trouble is that we don’t just marry our partners. We marry their families too. This can work once the village in-laws get used to the idea that their darling Ahmed has got hitched to a foreign infidel who can’t cook, can’t clean, answers back, expects fidelity and demands an orgasm. It’s not always a square peg in a round hole.

Pity the poor wife whose in-laws descend to scrub and whinge, colonise the kitchen, move furniture around, re-press the laundry and re-arrange the larder. It takes a strong woman to grin and bear it. There can be a dark side to this cross-cultural tale when the families simply refuse to accept the yabancı wife and make her life a living Hell. Some men are too weak or too stupid to resist the pressure and buckle under the strain. Strong, butch Ahmed will always be his mother’s little boy and do as he’s told. The moral of this story? Meet the in-laws first before he slips a ring on your finger. This doesn’t mean you can’t sleep with him though.

Check out

VOMITs

Fancy a Jump?

Defiant Blighty

The nasty riots that raged across London and other cities seem to have thankfully abated. There’s been a lot of easy talk about Broken Britain and knee-jerk reactions from here today, gone tomorrow politicians with their silly sound-bites who play to the gallery. What’s broken can be fixed but it takes everyone to do their bit. The indomitable spirit of the overwhelming number of Brits of all hues will overcome those who trash their own.

This is an incredible amateur video of a brave woman who challenged the rioters. If you don’t like swearing then I suggest you don’t watch this clip.

Normal Pansyland service resumes tomorrow.

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Riots in London

Huddled Masses

Mosquito Massacre

We may be suffering from an advanced case of heat exhaustion but at least the much anticipated mozzie threat, like Saddam’s WMD, has been wildly exaggerated. When we lived in suburban Yalıkavak Liam suffered unrelenting assaults from the most ubiquitous of warm weather pests. There’s a definite benefit to living along one of Old Bodrum Town’s busy thoroughfares. The weekly bug-busting van that tours the streets at night drapes the entire house in mustard gas and nips the nasty nibblers in the bud. It probably exterminates all insect life except cockroaches which are indestructible and the true heirs to a post-apocalyptic world.

If you like bug tales you may like Bugs

Last Chance Saloon

Riots in London

London’s Burning

London’s burning and the rising anger felt by most about the three nights of viral riots that escalated across the Capital and other major British cities is understandable. It’s easy to take a lock ‘em up and throw away the key attitude to those stupid people binging on recreational looting and casual arson. Even a bleeding heart pinko liberal like me feels a sense of revulsion when witnessing inner city hoodies in designer trainers, wielding iron bars and Blackberries and rampaging through the streets. I’ve read calls for social networks like Twitter and Facebook to be closed down as if this was the problem. It isn’t. I’ve heard people ask ‘Where are the water cannons?’ There aren’t any. I’ve read calls for the army to clear the streets. I’ve even heard calls for the imposition of martial law. Britain isn’t Syria. However, Britain is France and these riots bear an uncanny resemblance to those that engulfed Paris and other French cities in 2005. Let’s try and keep a sense of proportion. Of course, law and order must be firmly restored but then we need to examine the why. Is this a case of sub-class, out of control feral kids with little care for their families or communities? Or is it a case of a lost-generation, disenfranchised youth with few prospects and a bleak future? Like most things the truth lies somewhere in between.

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Their Daily Bread

Defiant Blighty

How Do You Solve a Problem like Marie?

I don’t normally do the cute dog thing. I leave that to the legion of emigreys who frantically fret about the welfare of street animals. The trouble is that my friend and fellow semigrey Marie is in a bit of a pickle. Marie has a dog called Harry. Allegedly, happy Harry’s an ardent Arsenal fan. He’s got the dog collar to prove it. I say allegedly because I’ve seen plenty of dogs watching the footie but not one from the canine variety. However, I’m content to be challenged on this point since I could write everything I know about the beautiful game on the back of an envelope. I digress. Harry’s not why Marie’s in a pickle.

Help me

One of the street dogs Marie occasionally feeds turned up at her door up the duff and she’s been left holding the babies, all eight of them. To add insult to injury their mother hasn’t the strength to nurse her pups and Marie has resorted to hand-rearing and intensive care. Some hard-hearted idiots have suggested she should just let them die, particularly the two little bitches as it will cost to have them spayed. Girls will be sluts and they’ll bring more trouble to your door. Marie won’t do this. ‘This isn’t India,’ she says. However, Marie’s in imminent danger of becoming a crazy dog lady, surrounded by poo and a pack of pups that’s turning her fine Gümüslük pile into makeshift kennels. She needs help and needs it fast. Can you solve a problem like Marie?

If you can please email Marie on mtcoggin@prospermarketing.co.uk

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Baby, It’s Hot Inside

What is the greatest invention of all time, I wonder? Might it be the steam engine that drove the industrial revolution and the age of mass transportation or the printing press that spread the word to the people? Perhaps it’s the pill that liberated woman from the servitude of incessant child-bearing or the chance discovery of antibiotics that began the age of health and longevity (in the West, that is)? Lee Kuan Yew, the man who ruled Singapore for three decades, is reported to have claimed it was air-conditioning. Without it, he said, body-sapping Singapore could never have developed into the modern, dynamic, thriving city state it is today. Given our recent exposure to a life in sweat pants, I tend to agree.

 

The Good Samaritan

Liam had popped out to the cashpoint to withdraw the rent money. While he was gone Beril, our neighbour, ran into our shared garden shouting for help. I leapt from the radiating sofa, slipped on my flip flops, followed her out of the gate and along the narrow lane that runs along the side of our cottage. Beril led me through the large ornamental gate that lead to Sofiya’s courtyard. I found pedigreed Sofiya heaped in a flower bed. Her knees were blackened and bloodied, her white delicate cotton dress crumpled and muddied. Her grimaced face gave the pain away. I examined her wounds. Fortunately, they seemed no more than a graze and she was able to move her legs.

I galloped back down the lane, through our gate and back into the house. I nearly tripped myself on my wobbly, flopping footwear. I quickly washed my hands then returned with antiseptic cream, kitchen towel, large plaster dressings, paracetamol and water. I gently washed Sofiya’s wounds with the towel soaked in bottled water, unscrewed the cap of the cream and dabbed the ointment onto the cuts. She winced a little but otherwise seemed calmed by my attention. We gently lifted her from the bedding and Beril helped place Sofiya’s arm over my shoulder. I held her firmly round the waist as she hobbled across the garden to the ramshackle conservatory. I gently lowered onto a floral sofa and went in search of the kitchen. Beril followed behind. I located the fridge, opened up the freezer compartment and removed a tray of ice. Beril immediately understood my intention and hunted around the busy kitchen for a plastic bag. She found one wedged at the back of a deep pan drawer. We filled the bag with ice and returned to the patient. Beril placed the cold press against Sofiya’s knees.

‘You must be careful. One fall might carry you off,’ I said.

‘Me, darling? No, I’m invincible.’

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It’s a Bug’s Life

Now we’ve moved to the gaudy lights of Bodrum Town we no longer hear the rhythmic call of crickets that rocked us gently to sleep but are mercifully spared the worst ravages of the squadrons of ravenous mosquitos that disturbed our slumber. Mother Nature’s splendid beasts are a wonder to behold, even the bug variety (except cockroaches which are an abomination).

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I should add I don’t extend my wonderment to the glory of nature to the army of tiny brown ants that I found marching across our kitchen work surface. Dousing them in bleach soon dealt with that little problem.

If you like bug tales, you’ll love Bugs

Welcome to Pansyland

I completed the Ultimate Blog Challenge which was to post every day during July. I blog daily anyway so it wasn’t much of a challenge to be honest. Well done to everyone who participated. A pat on the back from Jack to one and all. I came across a couple of interesting sites and may have picked up a few extra pansy fans along the way. It’s difficult to be certain about numbers as my posts on Amy Winehouse and Gay Marriage sent my hits through the roof – 4,500 for these two posts alone. The Amy Winehouse piece was so successful that I’m thinking of concentrating on obituaries from now on and will be scouring the pages of the London Times for the recently deceased. The posts also attracted some great comments. However, there was one that I didn’t publish. Some sicko wrote something truly vile about Ms Winehouse. I trashed it. I can do that. It’s my site. Hopefully one or two of these  pansy novices liked what they read and will come back for more. Not the sicko, though. He’s not welcome in Pansyland.

Rest in Peace

Amy Winehouse RIP

Gay Marriage

Gay Marriage in New York