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.

Cuba Libre

It is the occasion of Maurice’s half century. He is adamant that he doesn’t want a fuss so he’s off on a Caribbean getaway to Cuba to celebrate the day on a beach with a cuba libre and a fat cigar. He clearly underestimated the determination of partner Alun, the fiery Welsh dragon. A surprise party was planned and executed a few days before. We joined the jamboree along with a parade of bears, cubs and chubby chasers who had forsaken their XXL fix to congratulate the birthday boy. XXL is a huge London club for fat boys and their admirers providing an excellent alternative service to those of us with our best years behind us and who can’t compete in the otherwise body obsessed, steroid-buffed twinky scene.

Maurice is not one to take centre stage, preferring to let others fly. He endured the attention with his usual polite charm grinning through gritted teeth and dreaming of the beach and the bacardi.

A Game of Two Halves

The walls of Karen’s gaff are dripping with original art. One or two of the canvasses are worth more than my pension pot. As I have reached my clumsy age I fret endlessly about knocking over the Clarice Cliff especially when returning slightly worse for wear after a night on the tiles. I’ve been trying to drop subtle hints about making sure the will’s up to date and to remember her poor gay relations.

Karen is the Honorary President of the Wycombe Wanderers Trust in recognition of her grandfather, Frank Adams, former player and club benefactor. She carries out her responsibilities with dedication and enthusiasm even on the coldest match days. She’s promised me a stadium tour. I’ve accepted on the understanding that I can be the soap on a rope in the changing rooms.

Evenin’ All

Once more we are staying at Karen’s gaff in Southfields. She, on the other hand, has decided to decamp to the States for the duration leaving us in the safe hands of her lodging nephew Jack, my namesake. Jack junior is a special constable and looks devastatingly cute in his uniform. He let  me feel his truncheon though I resisted the urge to handle his helmet. Thumbing his warrant card reminded me of the time, many years ago, when I met an arresting sergeant from the Los Angeles Police Department. He showed me his LAPD badge which was so heavy I asked him if he hit people across the head with it. Before entering the Police Service, Jack had been a part time model for Abercrombie and Fitch. Expect to see him as the new pretty face of  Crimewatch sometime soon. He can feel my collar anytime

My Family Jewels

London calls again. As we waited for our taxi to take us to Bodrum airport, Tariq our newly dentured caretaker playfully tweaked my nipples and tried to push me into a flower bed. He has also taken to pointing to my lower furniture and snapping his fingers in a scissor-like action. I’m not sure if he is referring to my intact prepuce (which would be amusing enough to anyone who’s never seen one) or his desire to rid me of my family jewels altogether and keep me as his personal eunuch. Maybe there was some truth in that old Ottoman adage that women are for procreation and men are for recreation.

Y Viva España

Liam loves a spreadsheet and a bit of research. He’s at his most content when fiddling with his formulas and colour coding his columns. I set him a challenge. I wanted to know the price differential for living our kind of life in Blighty, Spain and Turkey. Having worked out our major expenses – food, booze, travel to Blighty, rent, bills, healthcare etc, Liam set about the task with gusto and usual thoroughness. The analysis is remarkably detailed and the results are not at all what we expected.

Based on our spend in Turkey

  • We would spend a third more living in the UK than in Turkey (in the southeast of England, outside London). This is mostly due to higher rent levels.
  • Our average weekly grocery shop would be cheaper in the UK than in Turkey
  • Our average grocery shop would be cheaper still in Spain
  • Overall, we would spend a fifth less if we lived in Spain

These are headlines only and many factors are variable. Nevertheless, it makes an interesting read. What makes the most difference to our fiscal health is our income. As we don’t work we depend on our investments. British and Eurozone interest rates are negligible so we would have to supplement our income somehow, leading to an obvious and unpalatable conclusion. However, rates won’t remain low forever.

Of course, we don’t live in Turkey on cost grounds alone and we don’t intend to move on any time soon. We’ll keep an eye on it though. We don’t know where our doddering dotage will take us.

The Hills Have Eyes

Clement has fled to the hills to his village bungalow. I must confess to a slight sense of ambiguity by his exodus. In many ways he’s been a gracious and kindly neighbour but his quaintly old-fashioned views are way out of kilter with the modern world, a bit like an eccentric maiden aunt. I shall not to miss his angry evening discourses – how dear old England has lost its moral compass and is going to Hell in a handcart. He is emotionally and spiritually drawn to the warmth of traditional Turkish family values. It reminds him of the Blighty of his youth where everyone knew their place and were happy with their lot. Those were the halcyon days of consumption, grinding poverty and backstreet abortions where the love that dares not speak its name would result in persecution and a stiff prison sentence. I wish him the best but fear for the worst.

Ground Hog Day

What Day Is It?

Work is a four letter word round here. It reminds me of the bitter daily grind and sends a shudder down my spine. I have to admit, though, that gainful employment did provide a structure to my day and a timetable on autopilot  – 6.30am, Heart FM; 7am douche, press, brew, fag, no breakfast; 8am, Tube no seat; 8.55am, Café Nero Americano; 9am PC on. Ready steady go. Now all that is in the past and I can do as I please I sometimes don’t know what day it is. I don’t know where the months have gone since I gave all that up and I often don’t know what I did yesterday. Liam is no better. It’s not a complaint just an observation. Perhaps it’s early onset dementia. Besides it’s easy to imagine I’m Bill Murray in Ground Hog Day when watching the same episode of The Weakest Link on a continuous loop. Tis the fate of all emigreys.

Jack Scott, Writer

To celebrate my fifteen minutes of infamy, I’ve created a promotional website for Jack Scott, Writer. Who knows someone might fall for it and actually pay me for my ramblings. Read it and weep.

Hold the Front Page

Jane Atakay, Fethiye correspondent for the South Monday Supplement of the Hurriyet Daily News contacted me recently. Would I mind if she included me in a feature she was writing on English language bloggers in Turkey? Mind? I nearly bit her hand off. We had a long chat on the phone and Jane came across as a top drawer vetpat of distinction and depth, rare qualities in these parts.

Jane has cleverly inter-woven the views of five different bloggers, each with their own unique perspective on expat life. The article was published this morning and it’s a ripping yarn. You can find it here.

Handbags and Gladrags

Chrissy invited the ‘Come Dine with Me’ set to a local restaurant in Torba on the occasion of her birthday. The restaurant is run by a slightly fey man called Emir who rides a motorcycle but keeps his helmet hidden in the pannier to avoid getting it dirty. The gang assembled preened, pressed and powdered with breasts out on display despite the nipple-hardening chill.

Recently engaged Emir joined Liam and I at the bar. He suggested that when the weather improved we might like to join him for a skinny dip on Dodo Beach, an isolated spot where we can bathe unmolested. I suspect he had molestation of his own in mind.

The soiree was as cold as the weather. I was asked to judge a handbag competition because, as a gay man, I obviously know all about women’s handbags. I was presented with a ghastly array of (presumably fake), Gucci, D&G, Burberry and the like. I awarded first prize to the ugliest bag, big enough to transport paint from B&Q. The event became increasingly ill tempered. Bernard, a petty, humourless man of many hidden shallows, complained loudly that Chrissy no longer “puts out” as he delicately phrased it, preferring instead to take Jeffrey Archer to bed. We are growing weary of the relentless rivalry and trivial keeping up with the Jones’ village mentality. The crème is starting to curdle.