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.

Rum, Bum and the Navy

God Bless Her and All Who Sail in Her

We were invited by the Honorary British Consul to cocktails with the captain aboard HMS Cumberland while it was in port in Bodrum. I sponged down my sailor boy outfit and rehearsed the steps to the Village People’s ‘In the Navy’ while Liam spent all weekend running up a skimpy black thong on his Singer. He intended to amuse the plucky tars by his lip synching rendition of Cher’s ‘If I Could Turn Back Time’, legs astride a gun barrel. He reckoned they deserved a little light entertainment after an arduous tour of duty chasing savvy Somalian corsairs across the Indian Ocean. We hoped to see the cut of the Captain’s jib and a reccy around his engine room to survey the magnificent greased pistons. Liam had a mouthful of pins to hem the lacy loincloth when we received word that the rum punch was off. No frigging in the rigging on the frigate for us. I assume our brave boys are steaming at full speed towards Libya to help evacuate foreign nationals in the event that mad Gaddafi decides carry out his deadly threat to torch the place and murder his own citizens. What a party pooper.

Watch ‘In the Navy‘ by the Village People.

Thank the Madonna for Virgin

We foolishly mislaid our Turkish mobile phone a few weeks ago and replaced it with a little second hand number. It looked quite nice in the display cabinet but this turned out to be just an illusion. The bloody thing started to fall apart the minute we got it home, and after a few days it became impossible to see the screen after dark. Like the rest of the World, Turks have begun an enduring love affair with mobile telephony though it’s difficult to imagine how most people can afford it since even a modest phone costs the average weekly wage. There are three main phone operators in Turkey – Turkcell (by far the biggest), AVEA and good old British Vodafone. I thought it quite reasonable to expect a little healthy competition. Not a bit of it. As far as I can see the whole market works as a cartel. So, during his mercy dash to Blighty, Liam bought a new phone. It cost a fiver. Thank the Madonna for Virgin.

It turns out you can’t just buy a phone willy-nilly and swap the SIM card over. Oh, no. All phones must be registered with the State. Apparently it’s an anti-terrorist measure. It probably facilitates phone tapping which I read is surprisingly commonplace. Off we trotted to the main Turkcell shop in Bodrum to discharge our legal obligations. We were processed by a cheery young woman with forearms hairier than Liam’s. She sorted us out in no time with a registration form in triplicate with two official stamps on each copy and countless photocopies of Liam’s passport and residency permit. There are now enough copies of his official identity in circulation to supply the Israeli Secret Service for years.

The Homecoming

Liam is back from Londra safe and sound but knackered after a six hour delay at Istanbul. Atatürk Airport is up there with the most tedious and expensive airports on the planet; rip off duty free and eight Euros for a cup of insipid burnt coffee. I warmed the house with a roaring fire framed by IKEA candles, decanted the red and cooked a hearty supper. When Liam crossed the threshold I held him for an age.  He’d only been away for a few short days, yet I couldn’t help myself. I am a forty something, worldly wise old cynic behaving like a silly school boy with an adolescent crush.

Mother’s Ruin

I rode the dolly to a bar we know in Turgutreis. I was warmly welcomed by Mehmet, the jolly owner. As usual he was very much the worse for wear, indulging his infamous tendency to drink the profits. After initial reticence his new waiter started to give me the serious glad eye. Tall, slim and handsome, in a previous incarnation I might well have been tempted. These days I am a fine and faithful married man. In any case, I know through bitter experience that encounters with Turkish men are invariably complicated and often require recompense for services rendered. My advanced inebriation was such that I couldn’t tell if this young man’s favour was genuine or if he was just another member of the gay for pay brigade.

Mother's Ruin

Discounting the waiter’s flirtation, I engaged Mehmet in drunken conversation. I was supping gin. He ordered one of the waiters to fetch the Bombay Sapphire from the store room and proceeded to lavish it upon me. My reputation as a drinker is legendary and Bombay Sapphire is my favourite tipple, but even I couldn’t handle the quantity of mother’s ruin he overpoured into my glass. I tipped much it on the floor when his back was turned. Sensing I had reached my limit, I paid my bill, made my excuses and staggered off to the taxi rank. The winsome waiter waved ruefully as he watched his bounty disappear into the night.

Knots Landing

Michael Fish's Blooper

I was diverted from my solitude by gale force winds. The magnificent bougainvillea that graces the front of the house, still bald from the last meteorological onslaught, lashed about like a cat o’ nine tails. The winter-weary palm finally surrendered to the elements and laden terracotta pots slow-danced across the terrace like cheap plastic fakes. Apparently, the wind gusted to 55 knots. I may be slightly familiar with knots vis-a-vis bondage but have no clue what this means maritime-wise. Since I was nearly blown off the patio trying to have a fag, I can claim with some confidence that 55 knots is very windy indeed.

It reminded me of the great storm of 1987, the worst since 1703, that hit southern England on the early morning of my birthday. It was the vicious tempest that killed 18 people, felled half the trees in the Home Counties and transformed Sevenoaks into Oneoak. I lived in Windsor at the time. I lay in my bed listening to the sound of Welsh slates sliding off my roof and smashing onto my neighbour’s BMW. Serves him right for parking outside my house.

Old Scrubber

I am bored rattling around our big house on my own. I know I’m an old scrubber but there’s only so much scrubbing even I can do. Anyway, I can’t get down on knees like I used to. Well, getting down is a doddle but getting back up requires the assistance of two strong lads. I am considering getting a little Turk in to dust down my knick-knacks and clean out my drawers.

Neighbourly Clement invited me to a spot of lunch to relieve me of my solitary confinement. He’s all angst and ringing of hands at the moment because his dream retirement bungalow in the hills is delayed by a plague of minor technical hitches (no windows or roof).

Gaygle It

Last December Perking the Pansies was permanently blocked by the Turkish internet police. I threw a hissy fit at the prospect of a firm hand on my door knob, a frisk by a frisky conscript and instant deportation. It all turned out to be a storm in a çay cup. My inconsequential contribution to the blogosphere was simply caught by lazy censorship that uses a scatter gun approach to punish the innocent and the guilty alike. Perking the Pansies became, as the Americans say, ‘collateral damage‘. I had to abandon my old site hosted by Google and move lock, stock and barrel to WordPress. A couple of days ago I noticed that the page hits on my new site overtook those of the old for the first time. Nowadays I need only the slightest excuse to make merry so I raised a glass in thanks.

I’m endlessly fascinated and bemused by the search terms that bring some surfers to my website. I’ve already mentioned ‘Yalikavak Sex’  and ‘Gay Hairy Turkish Men’ but there is also:

  • Porn Torkish
  • Gumbet porno
  • Turk Gay Sitesi
  • Thermal Bloomers
  • Sex Sitesi
  • Gay Calis Beach
  • Middleaged Sexpats
  • Gundogan Gay
  • Lyrics to I’m as Gay as a Daisy

A definitive gay guide to Turkey for the curious traveller seeking a little relief in the sun is sorely needed. Sadly it would be a thin digest and probably banned.

Home Alone

Alas I am abandoned, albeit temporarily. Liam has dashed home to Londra on a mercy mission to look after his Mother while Liam Senior is in hospital having his arthritic knee repaired. My delicate and kindly Mother-in-Law is as Irish as a dainty shamrock. She and I gossip about the silly twists in Corrie and I make her giggle when I gently tease about her youthful antics when she used to climb over the convent wall to attend the local dance.

Tilting at Windmills

To distract me from my solitude I joined Greg and Sam on their weekly visit to a Pazar. They were in desperate need of soft fruit for the last batch of their winter preserves. After filling their shopping trolley with fruity seasonal goodies we ventured onwards for a bracing ramble across the desolate, windswept headland between Bodrum and Gümbet. We toured the tumble down windmills, now sadly derelict save for a solitary Turk we found self-abusing in one of them. Apparently, local men go there after dark. I wonder why.

Yalikavak Skies

We relax at home to revel in our continued good fortune with G&Ts, ice and a slice on the terrace. We sit in silent awe as the sun descends into the sea releasing a final flourish of soft red, peach and orange light into the evening sky. Spectacular but short lived, the riot of delicate hues is displaced by the chilled black night studded with a thousand stars. Now you don’t get that in Walthamstow.

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Thank you to Clive, Greg and Sam for some of the images.

Stupid Cupid

cupidValentine’s Day took an unusual twist this year. Chrissy  invited us to her place for a romantic dinner for four. We were instructed to wear something red or pink for the occasion. Obviously, as gay men our wardrobe is dominated by different shades of pink. We feebly complied for a quiet life. The table setting was a glittering display of fussy pink and lilac chintz, hearts and flowers and enough tea lights to power a small city. The food was great. Bernard is a good cook. However, the happy couple bickered loudly in the kitchen between courses. Cupid had taken the night off.