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.

Road Runner Writing

Although I get a buzz from it, this blogging lark is a cumbersome business that requires dedication, stamina and forethought. In order to preserve an independent life away from the keyboard, I write fast and frequently.  After all, we migrated to rest our weary bones not to develop a repetitive strain injury (actually I’ve got that already which is why I use a full size keyboard and an odd looking roller mouse thingy).

The trouble with the Road Runner approach to my minor art is the inevitability of typos, grammar errors and daft gaffes when I speed write or replace a word and don’t recheck the sentence. Changing a positive to a negative can have a devastating effect on the meaning and get me into hot water. Added to this I become word blind and simply don’t see the clangers staring me in the face. Spell checkers help a bit though WordPress employs American spellings that just get in the way. Liam does his best to proof read my posts but he isn’t always on hand to slap my injured wrist.

I beg your indulgence for my slipshod style. God help me for the book.

To Comment or Not to Comment, That is the Question

I recently followed a heated debate on the Turkish Living Forum in response to an article in the Guardian called Turkey is not a free country. The predicable salvos from unbending minds ensued – I think this, you think that and never the twain shall meet. It’s a futile exercise in grand standing and the usual stuff of forums. I rarely comment on the rhetoric. I moved to Turkey to keep control of my blood pressure, not to see it go into orbit. However, one particularly rigid point of view really got me thinking. One of the combatants declared with absolute righteousness that foreigners who live in Turkey do not have the right to criticise their foster land. Is this right, I wondered? The more I thought about it the less clear-cut my own view became.

To some extent, I found myself in agreement with his statement. Whinging is a peculiarly British national pastime. It must be frustrating and irritating for Turks to endure the endless whining of the bar room bores. After all, if you choose to live in a different country you need to accept that it’s different. We Brits are the first to complain when immigrants to the UK refuse to learn the language or make no attempt to integrate. Sound familiar? It should do. This is the everyday practice of many expats in Turkey (or Spain or Portugal or any other destination of choice for north Europeans wishing to live out their dotage in the sun). Too few venture out of their whitewashed ghettos to sample the real Turkish delight. Frankly, I’m surprised that our hosts are as tolerant as they are.

There is another side to the argument of course. Turkey has actively encouraged foreigners to invest and settle here. With this comes a responsibility to give non-nationals a voice about the issues that matter most to them. It won’t wash to say ‘thanks awfully for the cash but put up and shut up.’ We are supposed to be living in a democracy.  All the money Liam and I spend goes into the local economy. As consumers of goods and services we have the right to complain when they’re not up to scratch. Who pays the piper calls the tune, I say. At least that’s the way it’s supposed to work. We do the right thing and pay our dues to the Government to be bone fide residents We have tax numbers and the income from our capital is taxed at source, all adding to State coffers. Given the size of the black economy this can’t always be said of all Turks. We cannot vote, of course, but does this mean that we can’t hold a view on the political process? After all, wherever we live, what the Government does affects us too.

I think we need a more balanced approach. It’s immature and insecure to suggest that foreigners cannot express a contrary opinion, even a mildly critical one, but we foreigners have a responsibility to ensure that what we say is reasonable and culturally sensitive. After all, we can always get out of the kitchen if we can’t stand the heat. There are taboo subjects best avoided by everyone of course, Turks and foreign residents alike. Now that’s another story.

On Your Marks…

Our house is located on an old narrow street furnished with intermittent pavements. The street traverses the old town and is part of the busy one way system. By day pedestrian passage is a testing experience. At particularly narrow sections, unsuspecting tourists find themselves pinned up against a wall clinging for dear life as overladen trucks thunder past at impatient speed. By night the street is transformed into a pale imitation of the Monaco Grand Prix circuit as suicidal biker boys race flashy fast cars and each other in reckless abandon. Death and permanent disability lurk at every tight twist of the ancient road.

Jack the Hobbling Goblin

I had a little accident. I was running up the stairs and my flip-flop caught on the underside of one of the steps. My toenail lifted up like a flip top bin. My ashen face gave the pain away and Liam Nightingale tendered my wound attentively. This was proof if proof were needed that I must stop running around the place like a teenager and show a little more respect for my age. My hobbling demeanour has driven home the point. The timing was lousy as we were due to lunch with friends at La Passion, a delightful little Spanish restaurant providing a delicious three course set lunch menu for a fiver. We are regulars. At that price, it would be churlish to deny them our custom. After a decent period of recovery and with my toe bandaged, we made lunch, albeit late.

Bodrum, A Town of Two Halves

We fancied a few bevvies in the sunshine to talk the afternoon away. Bodrum is a town of two halves divided by the castle. Like London the east end is the rougher, dominated by Bar Street, a procession of cheap and cheerful bars and hassle shops patronised by the foreign tourists who either board in that part of the town or have ventured in from Gümbet. The west end is swanky and obscenely expensive. The exemplar bar is Fink a lavish watering hole dominated by an enormous overhanging sparkly red chandelier suspended from a graceful arched crane. The elegantly carved gate is guarded by a platoon of huge, brooding bouncers. Only the moneyed sort gain entrance. The bar is set above the street enabling the seriously loaded to look down on the plebeians passing by below.

I Fink It’s Fantastic

We prefer the east end by day where totty watching is more fruitful and the drink prices more palatable. We generally frequent Café S Bar, an unrefined little watering hole opposite the town beach. A rainbow flag hangs proudly alongside the ubiquitous Cross of St George, Cross of St Andrew, Irish tricolour and Welsh Dragon. Everyone’s welcome regardless. You may be lucky to watch the owner, Ozzie, strip down to his tight trunks and dive into the shallow waters, weapon in hand, looking to spear the catch of the day. I’m not sure if this is a serious expedition or just done to impress the girls and some of the boys. It certainly impresses me. Unlike the bar, the toilets can be dry so a number two is not recommended.

More Cheesy Tales

A few days ago I posted a tale of two cheese shops. What I shamefully failed to mention is that Yellowwedge Cheese (the shop) and What’s for Tea Tonight, Dear (the blog) are hoping for a gong from the Observer Food Monthly Awards. The shop is owned by David and his partner Philip and caused quite a stink in 2008 by running away with the British Cheese Award for Best New Cheese Retailer. Not bad for a couple of old reprobates.

Philip is a treasured old soul and the Imelda Marcos of scarves (the wrap-around-the-neck kind, not the bad hair day kind). He never travels by open top car for fear of being strangled like Isadora Duncan. He and I worked together for donkey’s years. I managed him for a while though I was always left wondering who really worked for whom. His innate intelligence is beautifully blended with creativity, wit and style, and the ability to drink me under the table.

Philip sent out a begging letter a short while ago. He wrote:

Dear Friends,

Voting in this year’s Observer Food Monthly Awards is open now and will close on 24 June. There are several categories which might be of interest (you can vote in as many or as few as you like) but I’m shamelessly trawling for votes in the categories:

  •  Best food blog (UK based)
  • Best independent local retailer

 My humble recommendations for your consideration in these categories being:

 I’ll leave you to work out which is in which category!

I’d be grateful for any support you’re happy to offer so if you have friends, family, colleagues, schoolmates, children, parents, students, tutors, parishioners, customers, clients, readers, editors, drinking buddies, PAs, personal trainers, hairdressers, naughty bits on the side or anyone else you think may be interested then please feel free to GO VIRAL and forward freely!!!

Philip

PS in the new category of Best Cookbook my vote goes to Lucas Hollweg’s Good Things To Eat 

If I didn’t agree to plug the nominations Philip threatened to dispatch a Lancashire bomb (a black waxed cheese in the shape of a sphere with string poking out the top). No pressure then.

Be Careful What You Wish For

Election fever has gripped the nation ahead of the national vote on June 12th. Democracy is a serious and sometimes deadly business in Turkey judging by the recent bomb attack in Istanbul. Thankfully, no-one was killed this time.

The view from our balcony provides a voyeuristic treat of meandering misplaced tourists, lunatic drivers in a rush and colourful electioneering travelling vans blazoned with party political slogans crowned with giant loudspeakers. We’re serenaded by an ear-piercing mix of Turkopop and Soviet-era patriotic marching tunes. It’s all very jolly.

The current government incumbents, the AK Party is flying high in the polls and victory seems assured. It’s the margin of success that interests me. A strong opposition is essential for a healthy democracy anywhere but the Opposition here appears fractured and ineffective. The AK Party may secure a sufficient majority in Parliament to revise the Turkish Constitution without recourse to a referendum.  If Turkey continues to slip towards religious conservatism, we may reconsider our place in the sun.

Bikini Bare

Our balcony provides a wonderful vantage point to watch the world amble by. We spend amusing mornings with cuppa and laptop occasionally distracted by the colourful, the curious and the crazy. We couldn’t believe our eyes when we spotted two young ladies walking down the main road in skimpy bikinis that left absolutely nothing to the imagination. Cars broke hard, horns blared and the jaws of pedestrian men dropped like limp mechanical diggers. I’m no prude but what did these silly girls think they were doing? If attention is what they were after then they got it in spades. Would they walk around their own home town like this? Bodrum may not be Bahrain but it ain’t Blackpool either. The ignorance of some of my compatriots makes me cringe with embarrassment. At least the bikini babes had the foresight to wax first.

Global Village

Requests for me to contribute to other websites are like London buses. There’s nothing for months then two come along at once. Yesterday it was a guest post for Turkish Muse while Barbara, the author, spends a romantic few days in the city of lovers with her husband. Today it’s my interview for The Displaced Nation, a website dedicated to exploring why people become global residents. It’s a stomping good read but then I would say that, wouldn’t I?

You’ll find it here.

At the end of the piece, readers are asked to vote on my inclusion in the The Displaced Nation Hall of Fame. The jury’s out.

Hot and Steamy in Old Bodrum Town

Yankee vetpat Barbara Isenberg dishes out a delicious mix of daily essays, photos and advice on living and travelling in Turkey in her colourful blog Turkish Muse. Barbara is currently celebrating her wedding anniversary with hubby Jeff in gay Paree. To avoid any distractions from their romantic indulgence in the city of lovers she asked me and a number of others to guest post while she’s being swept off her feet. I was delighted to be asked and happy to oblige. It’s an inspired idea and one I might try on our next sojourn to Blighty in August.

My piece describes a naughty night out on the tiles before we migrated to the sun. Picture it – a hot and steamy summer night in old Bodrum Town…