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.

One Out, All Out

The internet police have been at it again in the continuing war between Google and Digiturk. As from the 1st of March Google Blogger in its entirety was banned in Turkey. The draconian censors are indifferent to the effect on millions of blogs, many of them small businesses trying to earn an honest crust in challenging times. Digiturk is acting like an overbearing corporate bully and Google just doesn’t give a toss about anything other the bottom line. There’s no profit in blogging as it’s a free service so why cause a fuss? The core of the dispute is infringement of broadcasting rights. This is laughable when you think that Turkey is flooded by counterfeit goods. Fancy a bootleg copy of the ‘King’s Speech’? No problem.

It’s relatively easy to get round the ban with a proxy server, an application that lets us pick up British TV. Please take a split second to complete the poll below. Don’t worry, you can’t be identified!

Tree Huggers Unite

We honeymooned in Kaş on the Turkuaz Coast. I was by then a seasoned Turkey traveller but Liam was an excitable novice. Kaş is a beguiling Bohemian jewel, surrounded by a pristine hinterland that has been mercifully spared the worst excesses of mass tourism. No expense was spared and we took a suite at the Deniz Feneri Lighthouse Hotel through Exclusive Escapes, an altogether superior hotel by an altogether superior travel company. No one star Gümbet with no star Thomas Cook for me on my first and final honeymoon. We bathed in the sparkling blue waters, strolled along the relaxed hassle-free promenade, feasted by candle-light and danced the night away with the locals in Bar Red Point, the best watering hole in town. I promised Liam the genuine Turkish shave experience and we got a lot more than just something for the weekend from the predatory married barbers on the pull. It put Liam off for life.

We hired a car and explored some of surrounding must sees in old Lycia. The area is stuffed with them. We lunched in pretty but twee Kalkan, meandered through the grand ruins of Patara, relaxing awhile on the adjacent beach – a stunning 18km protected stretch of soft white sand – and bathed in its shallow waters. We stumbled across the intimate ruins of the cult sanctuary of Letoon and watched turtles play in the warm pools. Letoon seduced us with its intimacy while nearby Xanthos, one-time capital of Lycia, awed us with its monumental scale and picture postcard aspect.

My first visit to Kaş was ten years earlier and it had hardly changed a bit. It was then that I met a middle-aged Scottish emigrey couple. They were ex-publicans with money to burn. The lazy town had worked its magic and they instantly decided to buy a house – no research, no cooling off, no going back. Prices were cheap and they visited a cashpoint machine each day to gather the deposit. I wonder if the dream lived up to the reality.

It was in Kaş that the seeds of our own change were sown though germination took another year. As we sipped chilled wine by the glorious infinity pool, we idly speculated about dropping out of the rat race and finding our place in the sun. We dreamed of Kaş and the Turkuaz Coast as if our lives could be one long honeymoon. Common sense prevailed as it must. Kaş is what it is because of its glorious isolation, protected by a wilting three hour drive from the nearest international airport. I hear talk of a new gateway to open up the coast. I would gladly chain myself to a tree like Swampy or pitch a tent like a Greenham Common lesbian to prevent it.

Second Time Around

We spent a chilly evening warmed by a blazing grate and a bottle of red romantically reminiscing about our civil partnership ceremony in 2008. It was a splendid festival of family and friends in the Sky Lounge at the City Inn Hotel, Westminster. We tied the knot silhouetted against a picture postcard backdrop of the Palace and Abbey. With the simple words “The relationship between you is now recognised in Law” ringing in our ears, we embraced to an ocean of beaming smiles, rapturous applause and a chorus of cheers. Blighty has come a long way since the awful Thatcher years.

A champagne reception was followed by an old routemaster red bus tour of London Town from the Abbey to St Paul’s. We crossed Old Father Thames by London Bridge onwards through Borough towards ‘Horse’ in Waterloo, the gastropub venue for our reception and evening knees up. Tables were dressed French bistro style with crisp white linen and porcelain contrasted with a single stem tulip of vivid red. We dined at a top table for two. Speeches were informal and unrehearsed. There were flowers for the seniors, toys for the juniors and posh chocolates and bubbly for significant others.

Liam said it all with a song called ‘Second Time Around’ which he composed covertly over many weeks. Vocals were supplied by Sally Rivers, a top-notch singer of enormous depth and experience with a rich, soulful voice. Fortified by a vat of Dutch courage, Liam nervously accompanied Sally’s recording live on the piano. I listened intently from a distance. It made me thankful he chose me. It was a sweet triumph without a drunken bum note that brought the crowd to its feet and had us sobbing in the aisles.

If you fancy a listen, click here.

The evening shindig brought in a bigger audience. I pre-mixed the music with old favourites, dance classics and pop standards – No ‘YMCA,’ ‘Agadoo’ or ‘the Birdie Song.’ The evening jolly was joyously punctuated by a big screen showing of a camp compilation of cleverly cut snippets from famous musicals synchronised to a soundtrack of  ‘I Just Wanna Dance.’

See how many musicals you can name but if you are offended by the word f*****g then you’d best not play it!

The evening was brought to a close by Petula Clark’s ‘The Show is Over Now,’ a fitting end to a momentous day.

Tomorrow’s post – The Honeymoon

Land of Confusion

Beats Me!

We’ve made the decadent choice to retire early before we start to feel our bones, against the better judgement of many. Nothing is going to compel us to return to the world of the waged. We’ve grown fond of our foster land but are constantly astonished by its many paradoxes. Turks are eager to please but slow to apologise, love their country but careless with the countryside, promote rigid social rules but tacitly accept our own rebellion against time-honoured conformity. Despite this confusing conundrum Turkey is a benign host for our leisure.

Wild About the Oscars

I lost Liam to a night at the Oscars on the CNBCe channel. He watched the entire back-slapping marathon from the glitzy red carpet entrée of fixed Hollywood smiles, borrowed frocks and asinine chatter right through to the tacky banquet of tearful and gushing OTT acceptance speeches. I awoke to find Liam asleep on the sofa wrapped like a babe in swaddling clothes. I went about my morning household chores silently. The washing machine on final spin finally roused him from his slumber.

‘The King’s Speech’ won Best Picture and Colin Firth who made his name wearing magnificent britches and a stiff upper lip was awarded the gong for Best Actor. We’ll take in the film when it’s released in Turkey. The multiplex at the Oasis Shopping Centre just outside Bodrum is cheap, comfortable and civilised, providing armchairs and a mid-screening fag break for the punters. Unfortunately, the entertainment can be rudely disrupted by a Turk shouting down a mobile.

Our Daily Bread

The momentous political upheavals in North Africa and the Middle East have prompted a number of concerned messages and calls from friends in Blighty thinking that the winds of change may blow next towards Turkey. After all Turkey does have an unenviable history of military coups. They needn’t worry. Whatever I may think of the current Government, my host country is a functioning democracy, not the personal fiefdom of some murderous dictator, mad mullah or medieval monarch. However, Turkey does share the same demographic time-bomb with her Arab neighbours. Half of the population is under 30 and with too few jobs to go round the Devil might make work for idle hands. Young people across the Middle East are fighting for their daily bread as much as for political freedom. Turkey mitigates the risk with strong economic growth, conscription to keep the restless boys onside, a rudimentary social security system to dodge destitution and European Union ambitions to export spring-loaded surplus labour. Lonely ladies of Europe be afraid.

My Drug Dealer

How Much?

The phone Liam bought in Blighty was blocked by Virgin so off we strolled to a back street shop in search of solution. I was ushered into a tiny antechamber to negotiate the transaction with a seedy looking gangster type in cheap jeans surrounded by untidy piles of disassembled hand sets and spare parts. For a small consideration, the swarthy chap entered the magic sequence of numbers. I felt like I had just visited my drug dealer. The phone for a fiver now works like a dream.

Politics is a Dirty Business

We were suffering from an advanced dose of cabin fever. We braved the inclement weather to stroll down to the village and take tea in the municipal café along the Yalıkavak harbour front. It’s a nice spot if it’s not too breezy. An earnest young local man with intense eyes and passible English engaged us in conversation, curious as to why we were in town out of season. Clearly, an educated and reflective individual it didn’t take him too long to turn the chat to politics, particularly the differences between the British and Turkish brands. We have been warned against talking politics and tried to keep it light and frothy, but he persisted. I mentioned the positive result for the Government in the constitutional reform referendum last year. As a passive observer, I thought the proposed amendments to be reasonable, and so too did the European Union. He assured me that politics is a zealous and divisive business in Turkey, and the referendum exposed the deep fault lines that exist in society. He said that many people passionately believe that the constitutional changes are just part of a larger, more sinister plot by political Islam to undermine the cherished secular state. Politics is a dirty business in every country and we shall see if the sceptics are right.

And All Who Sail in Her

According to AFP, the French news agency “A further 68 Britons and 139 others are on board HMS Cumberland heading to Malta. The navy frigate’s progress has been hampered by bad sailing conditions.” My disappointment with the cancelled cocktails has been mitigated by a rush of pride. It seems a shame that she was on a farewell tour prior to being scrapped.

Grey Britain?

Peering out of the damp windows provides a timely and salutary reminder of one of the reasons we left Britain. The sea and sky are united in an unbroken dirty greyness disguising the horizon and cloaking the Greek islands in the far distance. We are confined by the persistent drizzle. There are many things I miss about London but the weather isn’t one of them though I was surprised to stumble across Interesting European Weather Facts that suggests that my home town has one of the most benign climates of the major European cities. It must be true. I read it on internet. Whatever the facts I’m glad of our regular city fix that enables us to have the best of both. Despite our warm and forgiving hosts, London is a place where we can genuinely breathe free. I can’t see us becoming diehard Blighty bashers unlike so many of our compatriots.

Everyone has a tale to tell and tell it they do. Many of the stories are depressingly similar – running away from something or someone and seeking renewal. It’s hard to fathom why poor old Blighty is so often blamed for their plight. Do people really think a faraway land offers a sure fire panacea for the demons who lie within? Liam and I have chosen to embrace our new life, not as a rejection of what had gone before, but as validation of our future. We are under no illusion that we can simply deposit our unwanted pasts at left luggage.