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.

Words and Music

We took the dolly to Yalıkavak to lunch with friends. The once dormant village has awoken like Sleeping Beauty from hibernation and is draped in a new spring livery. The beach has been replenished with imported grit and dressed in sun beds and parasols. The tea houses along the attractive high street have been displaced by seasonal souvenir shops and postcard vendors returning from their winter pastures. Village life is in jovial mood and much improved with a new collection of smarter establishments that will give the greasy spoons a run for their money.

In some ways it’s a shame our perfidious landlord prompted us to move on. Yalıkavak is deservedly popular with visitors with a charm that eludes many of the resorts hereabouts. The trouble is winters are grim and the village is too small for city boys like us. We will return from time to time when we crave a little respite from the hassle and bustle of Bodrum.

To its credit wintering in a ghost town has given me the time and space to start Perking the Pansies. Until we moved to Turkey my writing was confined to dull business plans, strategic reports and the like that would gather dust on a lonely shelf, unread and soon forgotten. Now I blog daily, have a book in the offing and have developed previously unknown skills in web design. Also, Liam has started to write music for the first time in years. So thank you little Yalıkavak. We owe you one.

Internet Censorship in Turkey

Eurovision Song-fest fever has subsided and I need to get over Blue’s so so showing. My playful poll asking readers to vote for the least worst song of their choice was a dismal flop. Ironically, hits to Perking the Pansies went through the roof and I had my best day ever. I suspect few of the newcomers will return but I may have picked up some new pansy fans along the way.

I’m constantly amazed at the power of the internet as a means of communication. This is liberating for most but subversive to some.  I’ve read that the Turkish Government plans to compel all internet users to access the web through state controlled portals. The Government claims this will protect children from inappropriate sites. Others declare this is an attack on personal freedom because their internet usage can be monitored. Paranoia is fuelled by the Government’s reluctance to open up the list of banned sites to independent scrutiny.

No one would disagree that children should be protected. However, I have always thought this to be the job of parents. Relatively few Turkish children have direct and unrestricted access to computers. They are just beyond the reach of most. A more effective and less draconian strategy would be to offer parental control software free of charge or provide simple advice about how this can be managed through search engine restrictions.

A genuine attempt by the State to protect the young or insidious censorship, China-style? The proof of the pudding, as they say…

Eurovision, The Verdict

The greatest music show on Earth

As class act Pet Clark famously warbled:

The Show is over now

My song is dying

This is the end, my friend

There isn’t anymore

The greatest music show on earth has drawn to a close. The super trouper has been dimmed, the glitter ball has been packed away and the legions of obscure half-baked camp crooners have boarded the buses bound for their Carpathian villages. Their five minutes of fame is up. The Eurovision Song Contest rebuilt war-torn Europe sequin by sequin and our continent is a more colourful place because of it.

Blue are blue but they shouldn’t be. We Brits are used to vengeful Eurovision voting by our neighbours. We’re destined never to win but to always pick up the tab. It’s the cross that we bear. We could offer up a singing goat for all the difference it would make. We should be consoled by the utter dominance of our once obscure and marginal Germanic tongue. It’s a shame though, that the ethnic tint has been squeezed out of the competition by insipid Euro-pop sung in la la la Ingelish.

Predictably the Balkan conspirators, Baltic cartel and ex-Soviet mafia played their aces. So there we have have it. The travelling circus is off to Baku in Azerbaijan in 2012. At least with all their oil money they can afford to pay for it.

Watch the winning entry on You Tube. It’s a sweet song and a little bit Glee.

Eurovision – Vote Now!

Vote for your least worst Eurovision song.

Eurovision – Nil Point

Join us as we tweet our way through the dirgy ballads, second rate Euro-trash ditties and sycophantic compering of the Eurovision Song Contest. Let us  unite for the nail biting, edge of seat parochial madness that will be the result of the European jury.

Eurovision Song-Fest Fever

Euro Camp-Fest

Forget the crisis in Syria, the civil war in Libya, Bin Liner’s death or the impending draconian clampdown on internet freedom in Turkey. It’s Eurovision Song Contest night and Europe’s having a party. Various angst-ridden bleached blond divas, euro pretty-boys in tight pants mincing around the stage and ruritanians in pantomime drag have been bussed in to Düsseldorf for the annual kitsch camp-fest. What started as a genuine attempt to heal the wounds of a war-torn Europe has degenerated into a financially crippling travelling circus of political intrigue and regional love-ins that now requires an ECB bailout to stage.

Turkey was knocked out in the semis. Who are the Azeri Turks going to vote for now? Will it be the usual Balkan back-slapping bonhomie from people who only a few years ago were at each other’s throats? Who’ll pick up the Greek vote now Cyprus is out? Was Dana International’s unceremonious ejection because the Israelis are beastly to the Palestinians or due to the fact that she’s gone rather broad at the beam and sang a crap song? Will anyone vote for the UK? I doubt it even with Duncan James’ newly acquired disco tits out on display. These are questions of profound global significance.

There will be Eurovision parties the length and breadth of Blighty, staged by queens for queens. Soho will be a ghost town and we will be glued to the set doing our bit for the boys.

Blue did a nude photo-shoot for Attitude magazine in Blighty. Stripping off for the folks back home won’t bring in the votes but might get their so so song into the charts. Watch the video below. It’s a bit naughty so if you are of a nervous disposition or easily offended I suggest you give it a miss!

Mobiles and Megaphones

A short and narrow lane runs along the side of our new house leading to a modest block of flats rented out to itinerant workers. Judging by the constant throng of virile young men who pass to and fro, the building is either the TARDIS in disguise or these poor boys are topping and tailing in sardine shifts. Understandably, such enforced intimacy presents privacy problems. My enjoyment of the latest edge of seat clinical dilemma in Casualty (or Doctors or Holby City)  is regularly and loudly interrupted by a Kurd bellowing down his mobile phone outside our window. Anatolians use their mobiles like megaphones. When our new neighbour, bubbly Beril, talks to her friends she doesn’t really need to use her phone as they can hear her in Ankara without it.

Perking the Pansies, The Book

A few months ago I happened across someone called Jo Parfitt purely by chance. Jo is an accomplished and successful author, mentor, journalist and publisher with 26 books and hundreds of articles under her belt. Jo specialises in publishing books by ex-pats who write about their lives or have something original to say about living abroad.  I thought that Perking the Pansies had the potential to be something more than a blog and set about writing a book version. I sent Jo a sample of my work. She thought I had an interesting idea with a different angle. Since then Jo has been helping me to knock the book into shape. Her critique has always been fair and honest but gentle and encouraging. Jo has been my muse and my mentor. I listened. Her advice and guidance have been freely offered with a carry on, you’re nearly there message. I think Jo now thinks I have got there. She has offered me a publishing contract. I couldn’t have got there without her.

Now I’ve got to finish the book so no summer loving for me this year. I doubt I’ll make it out of the front door. Liam will mop my sweated brow and keep me fed and watered. He is my other muse and is much less kind than Jo. I’ve promised the manuscript by September and, if I deliver, Jo will publish Perking the Pansies by Christmas. So what’s Santa bringing you this year?

Check out Jo’s website.

Read a sneak preview of Perking the Pansies.

New extract…

Chapter 6 Extract

Previously released…

Chapter 5 Extract

Give Me a Hand

Now we’ve moved to the big city, we had to go to the bank to change our branch. A simple enough procedure, I just had to write (yes write) a short letter requesting the change. Now, teacher Clive’s hand is lucid and tutorial. You can almost imagine three neatly ruled lines. Maurice’s hand is precise, crisp and artisan as befits his elevated status as an engineer. Philip’s script is stately, born of a more genteel age and fashioned down the years to a pleasing flourish. I can imagine him as a medieval monk devoting his life to illuminating the Gospels (and buggering the rector in the rectory).  The common denominator here is that all of these marvellous hands are easy on the eye and perfectly legible. My small missive, on the other hand, was not. Furthermore, even after just three simple lines, my hand ached. A dozen or more years tapping on a keyboard has rendered my handwriting laboured and indecipherable; pretty to look but as Liam said, might as well be in Gujarati. So there it is. I have been permanently disabled by new technology.

The Day Perking the Pansies Went Viral

After I posted So You Think You Can Write a Pop Song? last night I checked my pansy map and thought there was a nuclear attack on North America and Western Europe – very Cold War. Pansies were bursting out all over the place. It shows that a title that catches the mood can go a long way. I hope all the spotty teenagers across the western world weren’t too disappointed. I suspect they won’t return!

See the video on my Facebook Wall.