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.

So You Think You Can Dance?

We decided on a diverting night of fun and frolics in Bodrum to celebrate vetpat Charlotte’s birthday. Nancy was back in town, continuing the ebb and flow of her frequent sojourns and combining her twin roles as best friend and chief concubine. Leaving Alan convalescing at home, Charlotte and Nancy arrived dressed to impress, replete with f*ck me heels and bountiful bouncing breasts shimmering in the twilight like overripe waxed melons. As we promenaded along the marina, men of all ages fixed their gaze at cleavage level and jaws hit the newly renewed paving. We dined at Tango, an Argentine-themed steakhouse where meals are served on bloodied breadboards and the price of run of the mill French wine is stratospheric.

After the meal, Charlotte escorted us to a bar of her long acquaintance called Seyfi, famous for ethnic entertainment and décor of manufactured authenticity. Charlotte, Nancy and Liam danced the night away in true local style. I eyed up the talent. Liam’s dance technique, woefully inadequate to the hard beat of the Freemasons was strangely adept at indigenous rhythms.

Our girl’s night of carefree flirtation was cut short by the drunken arrival of Sultan Irfan, the philanderer. Charlotte had unwisely texted him our location and he’d come in search of Nancy, his troublesome and tempestuous paramour. Irfan bounced in a like a giant pinball, finally coming to rest at an adjacent table. Nancy faked outrage at his intrusion but grabbed Liam for a seductive boogie in a brazen attempt to incite his jealousy. I observed from the wings. It was a pretty futile exercise as Liam hadn’t slept with anyone of the fairer sex since the early eighties and these days would need an instruction manual and a road map. Even though Irfan knows Liam’s inclinations, Nancy’s strategy worked. Clearly, I have completely underestimated the any port in a storm mentality of the average Turkish male.

Needless to say, Irfan and Nancy ended the game cooing like adolescent love birds. Irfan escorted the girls home, determined to nibble on Nancy’s savoury titbits. Liam and I retired to the house to watch the sun rise and contemplate the destructive tango of these two middle-aged, lustful teenagers.

Are You Up For It?

Now that the season is in full swing we’re receiving messages from across the World through Gaydar. Gaydar is a rare British internet success story – a social networking site with global reach. The site is banned here in Turkey but, of course, there are easy ways to circumvent this. We’re asked about Bodrum life with the occasional implied offers of comfort. I’m flattered that some people out there still think there’s life in these old dogs. However, I’m mightily relieved that I’ve locked away my stall. I’m happy at home.

I have prepared a stock response which I cut and paste into a reply. It goes:

Hi there,

There aren’t any gay bars as such at the moment. It hardly matters as Bodrum is a laid back, gay friendly kind of place, and you will be made to feel welcome wherever you go. We live in the heart of town and I assume the people around us have got our number. We never get any bad attitude. So enjoy.

We rarely hear from the enquirers again.

Stand Up and Be Counted

I’m going a bit off message to share a touching video that my friend David stumbled on and posted on his Facebook page. It brought a small tear to my eye, something which is quite hard to do in this cynical old goat these days. Makes me proud to be (half) Irish. I think this should be shown in all schools. Any teachers out there? Check out the Stand Up – In Schools campaign.

Alas, Hell will probably freeze over before this ever happens in Turkey.

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Dream Girls, the Nightmare

We were hauled off to see a drag show in Gümbet. ‘You’ll love it,’ we were told. We didn’t. If every sequin tells a story then this was a Greek tragedy. We survived the show – just. It was truly dreadful and I’ve seen some dreadful drag acts in my time. We endured tired old routines that I first saw in the Green Room at the Wheatsheaf, Shepherds Bush circa 1977.  We’re not talking about the superb Lily Savage or the sublime Dame Edna or even the multi-talented Dame Edna Experience (resident Sunday afternoon cabaret at the Vauxhall Tavern in South London). It was about as funny as toothache. This may have had ‘em rolling in the aisles on Seaside Special but that was forty years ago. It was no surprise that the act was a couple of rough old queens from Blackpool. Still, the (almost exclusively straight) punters lapped it up. We ate chicken in a basket.

Golden Girls

My two favourite TV Blanches died within a few months of each other. The first was Maggie Jones from Corrie (Coronation Street – Blighty’s longest running soap) who died in 2009. I thought she was magnificent. She had all the best lines, one of the finest being (when she suspected her son-in-law Ken Barlow was having an affair with an old male school friend):

‘I have nothing against the gays, Kenneth. It’s just I don’t want my daughter married to one. I’m old fashioned that way.’ Priceless.

My second Blanche was Rue Mclanahan, my favourite character from the Golden Girls. Now only the fragrant Betty White remains from the cast. ‘And then there was one,’ Liam sighed at the time. We spent a commemorative evening reliving a few of Rue’s golden moments from the golden years of the Golden Girls, especially poignant now that we have reached our own golden age.

Top Cat

Street dogs are less prevalent in Bodrum than in Yalıkavak. The few canines wandering the streets are vastly outnumbered by the litters of feral cats that bother al fresco diners and rummage through the bins. After our neighbours moved in they encouraged a tabby cat to take up residence in our shared garden by feeding her kitchen scraps. We called her Tabitha. We assume she’ll be handy for keeping rapacious rodents at bay.

By day Tabitha spends the time basking in the warming morning sunshine and only stirs when the sun is at its height to resume her cat nap under the dappled shade of an old olive tree. By night it’s breeding season and the queen wakes from her idle slumber for a bit of the other. We’re serenaded by a cat’s chorus of ear-splitting decibels loud enough to wake the dead as our feline neighbours indulge in orgies of Roman proportions. I assume Tabitha is the local bike being ridden by every Tom, Dick and Harry. No doubt she’ll soon present us with a litter of multi-coloured kittens.

Vipers in Paradise

We heard glad tidings. The Vipers and their dreadful old colonial ways have returned to Blighty. Thankfully, the British Raj is no more and neither are they. Bossy Chrissy intends to return now again to torment the natives. Even better news is that I’ve managed to persuade mother, sister, brother-in-law and their large brood over for my bi-centenary in October. It’s expected to be the best party since the fall of Constantinople.

The Dawn Chorus

The battles between our neighbours are becoming louder, longer and more frequent. They seem completely uninhibited by our close proximity. It is all the more frustrating since we don’t know what the rows are about. Late night fights inevitably end with Vadim sleeping al fresco on their balcony to escape the heat. His cacophonous snoring adds to the dawn chorus of canines, cocks, cars and the call to prayer.

Stop and Search

Fellow jobbing blogger Deborah writes Bitten by Spain, an amusing narrative of living on the Iberian rural edge. Deborah commented on my recent post about the Turkish Government’s attempt to curb suicidal driving. Deborah wrote:

‘We have an absurd situation here at the moment whereby the Spanish police are stopping to fine all extranjeros for driving in sandals without heel straps, or not having the dog belted into the back seat. During this operation a moped can be passing unsanctioned bearing two adults with a child sandwiched between them and a goat in the front basket. And none of them will be wearing helmets.’

It made me think of our own experiences of the local Jandarma. Road blocks are common, particularly at night. Drivers are routinely stopped and their particulars checked. The authorities are looking for drunk drivers and uninsured or un-roadworthy vehicles, all too common offences hereabouts. It’s the Law in Turkey to carry ID at all times. We often forget. Being Brits we’re just not used to it. We’ve been stopped a number of times by a youth in an ill-fitting uniform. On each occasion we smiled sweetly, spoke politely in English and were waved on. We assumed the spotty conscript just didn’t think it was worth the hassle. Or maybe we were just lucky.

Jack the Mascot

I have just reconnected with a long lost Blighty pal. His name is Andy and, nowadays, he’s someone awfully important in local government. We first became acquainted many moons ago at a drunken trivial pursuit work shindig. We were on opposing teams. I was the captain of my team which I called Kings and Queen. His team was called Gail Tisley’s Chin. The chin won by a nose. We got chatting afterwards over a tankard or two and thereafter became pals. Andy is a Barnsley lad with thick accent to match and a call a spade a spade Yorkshire charm.  I was a cynical old pro and he was the new kid on the block at the tender of just 21.

Corrie Gail

Andy is irrepressibly heterosexual and so secure in his sexuality he isn’t fazed by mine in the slightest.  I dragged him around the gay fleshpots of Soho. He didn’t flinch from the lecherous shenanigans. He assumed the role of my bodyguard protecting me from the wanted attentions of the dive bar boys, much to my distress. He used to drink in Earls Court, a gay mecca in those far off days. He isn’t bi-curious. It was the only place to get an after hours drink back then.

Andy decided to get hitched and held his stag do in Blackpool. A bit of a cliché but great fun nonetheless. It was thirty straight lads and me. I was the little gay mascot. I got chatting to one of his unsuspecting northern mates. ‘I hear a poof’s come along for the ride,’ he said. ‘That’ll be me,’ I replied. Despite the macho bravado from the boisterous boys I was the only one who actually got a ride that weekend.

Eventually Andy moved on to a better job and we lost touch. It’s an all too common problem for the transient workers of London. He’s still married to pretty little Jill and a proud father of two boys. They’ll grow up happy and well-balanced. Andy will make sure of it. I’m looking for a trip down memory lane when I’m next back in Blighty.