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.

Gorging on Cheddar

There are a number of food obsessions that often preoccupy the everyday emigrey life. We’ve attended many a Come Dine with Me soiree where the conversation inevitably turns to bacon, ham, pork chops and cheddar cheese. Visa hops to the Isles of Greece are a regular excuse to stock up on pig products and emigreys return from Blighty with trunk loads of larder essentials. Coming to stay? Bring a few bricks of mature cheddar with you. It’s a precious gift worthy of the Three Wise Men.

The French are amused by our national love affair with cheddar which they consider to be an insipid, mass produced atrocity that doesn’t even have to be made in Somerset and is indicative of our immature palate and dreadful cuisine. This Gallic jeer is not without merit but is hardly very entente cordiale. We all know our continental cousins can be insufferably smug, eat anything that moves and speak English behind our backs.

The British are gradually waking up to the glory of cheese in all of its infinite varieties. Small independent cheese shops and delis have sprung up in recent years spreading the word and the pong to the masses. It’s a noble, if smelly, cause that deserves to be supported, particularly during these days of austerity.

Old pal Philip and his partner David own a cheese shop in St Margarets, across the Thames from Richmond in Southwest London. It’s called Yellowwedge Cheese and it’s weathering the recessionary storm remarkably well considering. If you’re in the area pop in and sample their goodies. Philip also writes a food blog called What’s for Tea Tonight, Dear? Liam tried his southern fried chicken recipe and it was finger lickin’ good.

Finger Lickin’ Good

Liam’s kid brother called by for a couple of days. These days he’s a very important businessman and had been attending a conference in Izmir. For some inexplicable, obscure family reason his name is Troy. The only other Troy I know used to be a stripper whose real name is Nigel and is hung like a Trojan horse. Our Troy inherited the entrepreneurial gene in the Brennan Clan and is doing very nicely whereas Liam will remain a penniless creative genius, to be applauded only after his demise. My brother-in-law wears his success in an unassuming, non-showy way. He shares our solid liberal values. I think of him as the acceptable face of capitalism, particularly when he insists on picking up the tab for his poor relations.

The Brennan brothers enjoyed a two-day fraternal love-in of liver failing proportions with me in tow. Naughty boy Troy has a desert dry wit, a mischievous streak and an unhealthy obsession with Kentucky fried chicken. Bodrum has already succumbed to the American cultural imperialism of Mcdonald’s, Burger King and Starbucks. The locals are lovin’ it. I must confess I’m partial to a Big Mac myself from time to time. It’s good for lining the stomach before hitting the sauce. I assume it’s only a matter of time before Colonel Sanders invades our shores with his secret blend of eleven herbs and spices.

We competed to see who could drink who under the table blending grape with the grain diluted with Rakı chasers. I can proudly declare that this diminutive English proddy romped home. So much for the legendary Irish reputation for hard drinking. My emerald lads conceded defeat with typical Celtic good humour. ‘I ain’t care,’ Troy slurred as we poured him into his cab for the airport carrying his liver in a jiffy bag.

Troy is a quality pro bro.

Check out the book

Parlez Vous Francais?

The Perking the Pansies Showcase can now be translated in Chinese, French, German, Italian, Japanese, Korean, Russian and Spanish. Now something like 90% of the planet can read my trivial drivel. Mind you it’s done by Google so who knows how meaningful the translations will be. I haven’t yet found a way to make the showcase available in Turkish which is ironic considering I live in and write about Turkey.

Clunk, Click Every Trip

The Turkish Government is blitzing the airwaves with a road safety campaign. A combination of light-hearted and deadly serious adverts are being broadcast to warn of the dangers and consequences of jumping lights without a seatbelt while yelling down a mobile phone. It will take divine intervention to break the Turkish love affair with suicidal driving but ten out of ten to the Government for trying.

Liam does all the driving in our family but will only drive in Turkey when absolutely necessary. He’d rather negotiate the North Circular during the morning rush hour than the Torba Road at any time. Our near-fatal crash earlier in the year killed his confidence. He’s had his fill of lunatic Turks and inebriated emigreys. I never learned to drive. I never saw much point in London where jumping on the Tube is by far the most efficient way of crossing the city. Liam’s lot in life is to chauffeur me around. He calls it driving Miss Daisy.

The End is Nigh

To paraphrase Mark Twain the reports of our deaths have been greatly exaggerated. I arose yesterday morning expecting the Day of Judgement only to find a day of sunshine. Poor Harold Camping, leader of the Family Radio Ministry got it wrong again. It’s a tough call. The Old Testament was originally written in ancient Hebrew and has changed down the centuries as it has been transliterated from one language to another. I doubt what we read today bears much resemblance to the original texts. Perhaps this is why the old goat can’t get his sums right. For months happy clappy Harry and his nutty band of religious doomsayers have been touring the United States in a camper van spreading the good news to the damned. I bet they feel stupid now.

Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf?

Our neighbours, Beril and Vadim row a lot in a very Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf? kind of way. Evidently, she is highly strung and screams at him at full volume. He rarely responds in kind. I think he knows that she is the kind of girl who might wield a carving knife if provoked.  She’s always very sweet and giggly with us though and pops across the courtyard with plates of delicious home made morsels from her kitchen.

That’s all Folks!

Liam’s was making strawberry jam and, just as the kettle was coming to the boil, the electricity pylon blew up again. This time some poor little bird flew into it. The luckless creature exploded into bits like an old Hannah-Barbara cartoon leaving a flurry of feathers to float gently to the ground. Five minutes later, power was restored and Liam returned to his preserves.

Jam-making is the true vocation of all hardened emigreys.

Don’t Dilly Dolly on the Way

Move along the bus. Plenty of room on the roof

Charlotte and Alan invited us over for dinner in Yalıkavak. Charlotte used us as guinea pigs for her latest culinary acquisition, a lavishly produced padded vegetarian cookbook. The meal was splendid. As usual, we journeyed by dolly and, as usual, it was chock-a-block. It was a lively excursion. We were entertained by an animated row between the driver and an unseen female passenger at the rear of the bus arguing about the distance covered by an indi-bindi (short hop fare). Her loud and persistent protests were met by a robust stern-ward defence by the driver who feverishly waved about his official fare chart. Since he was paying little attention to the road ahead, he was oblivious to the small scooter carrying four individuals slotted together like Lego that weaved ominously in and out of the traffic around us. A disaster was averted by an evasive wrench of the steering wheel prompting a sudden lurch of the bus. All in a day’s work by a dolly driver.

Wacky Baccy

We thought bonfire night had come very early. For three days the electricity pylon located a few metres from the house entertained us with a nightly impersonation of a Roman candle. We feared we would be fried alive in our bed as sparks bounced off the roof. The power clicked on and off like Morse code until the fuses finally tripped. Thank the Lord for surge protectors otherwise our fancy electricals might have exploded in sympathy. On the night of the final performance I spotted arcs of lightening dance along a cable to a neighbouring house. We speculated that some dodgy local was cultivating hashish hydroponically like Brenda Blethyn in Saving Grace. Every cloud has a silver lining. The light and sound show roasted our meter. Once reset, our recent consumption has been lost for all time.

Keeping the Wolves from the Door

I’ve joined a new organisation called Expat Workforce. They have a great concept matching expats with prospective employers. You never know, someone might one day actually pay me for writing my trivial drivel. I’ll need to do something to keep the wolves from the door if the book doesn’t sell.