Category: Americans

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.

Ask Angela

Ask Angela

I’ve been working on a website for our friend Angela. A vetpat of distinction, Angela is like a delicious transatlantic cocktail – a Fulham girl with a Yankee twist. She provides a one stop shop for all of your needs in the Bodrum area. We have first-hand experience of Angela’s great service – fast, efficient, friendly and cost effective. Take a look at Ask Angela and if you need any help, give her a call.

PS I don’t get a penny!

Yankee Pranks

Grand Design

A Pansy flasher in Washington DC brought back happy memories of journeys across the pond. Over dinner I led Liam on a jolly romp down memory lane. He kindly indulged my remembrance. I’ve been to the States four times – to New York, Boston, LA and my first visit was to the District of Columbia at the tender age of 20. I had dallied with a travelling Yank who worked for the Federal Government and was attending a conference in London. He invited me to stay so I did. I had tired of my dull, dead end job as chief cashier and pound counter for Habitat in Chelsea and had in mind to do as millions of others had done before me and seek my fortune in the land of opportunity. I saved my pennies, quit my job, booked a one way ticket on Freddy Laker’s Skytrain to New York and off I went. I flew out of the Big Apple and down to DC.

Me, yes really

My Yank got a shock when I called. It seemed his invitation hadn’t been entirely genuine but he was good enough to let me stay for a few weeks in return for occasional sexual favours. Springtime in Washington is very agreeable and a riot of cherry blossom. The federal heart of the city is laid out in imperial style and built in monumental neo-classical majesty as befits the capital of the most powerful nation in history. The grand design is best appreciated from the top of the Monument, the world’s tallest true obelisk. Rameses the Great must have turned in his tomb. I did the obligatory tour of the White House and the Capitol and strolled along the Mall popping in and out of the various museums along the way. It struck me how everything was described in the definite article – The White House, The Monument, The Capitol as if no others exist. It’s a sign of a confident young nation with a touch of teenage arrogance.

Gay life in Washington was a world away from recession-ravaged buttoned up Britain with its grubby backstreet gay bars. It’s taken London 30 years to catch up. I loved it and it loved me. I was young and handsome with cheekbones that could slice cheese. My hosts lapped me up and I let them. I wowed the randy scamps in Rascals, a popular watering hole and pick up joint for federal employees near Dupont Circle. They just loved my accent, along with my uncut assets.

Is it still there I wonder?

Alas, I sensed I was overstaying  my welcome and my reluctant landlord feared I would claim squatters rights. My low-key patriotism also annoyed him. He rather expected me to be enamoured with all things American. I really liked what I saw but I had learned patriotism from my soldier father’s knee and have never been able to shake it off. After a few weeks living the American dream I pined for the old country and flew home on BA.

To this day I remain quietly patriotic, though not nationalistic. To be proud of where you are from is fine but to think you’re a cut above is not. This is a message some emigreys hereabouts would do well to hear. I wonder though, if I had settled Stateside, what would have become of me?

Bubba’s Gobbler

Perking the Pansies has exceeded 50,000 hits in just five short months. How did this happen? I know the winter months are long and bleak but we all really do need to get out more. As the orbit of the Earth slowly warms the northern hemisphere with longer days, pansy fans will emerge bleary eyed from centrally heated hibernation. We can free ourselves from our enforced virtual lives and enjoy the bountiful summer. Alas, I guess my hit rate will plummet accordingly. Oh well, maybe my bacon will be saved by renewed interest from a wintering south plunged into darkness. So far, South America, southern Africa and Australasia have been immune to my pansy pulling power.

To lift my spirits I thought I’d celebrate my minor success with two pansy parables from America. In Blighty I was casually thumbing through the gaypers (the free gay publications distributed to pansy establishments). In between the relentless diet of pop, porn, prossies and pec pics I came across a more serious journalistic piece. Called ‘Distant Voices and Gay Lives’ the writer David McGilliveray profiled long forgotten pansy pioneers. The subject that most caught my eye was dashing William Haines who was a major box office star in the twenties and early thirties. One of his first talkies, ‘Way Out West’ (1930) included the immortal line “I’m the wildest pansy you’ll ever pick.” Obviously Billy never visited Bodrum.

Haines’ stubborn refusal to stay in the closet and play it straight eventually killed off his Hollywood career. He didn’t seem to mind and became an interior designer of some note. He met his partner Jimmie Shields in 1926 and they stayed together until William’s death in 1973. Three months later Jimmie killed himself because he found it “…impossible to go on alone and I’m much too lonely.” This is a tragic though strangely tender tale that belies the notion that gay men can’t sustain a relationship beyond a nanosecond. Joan Crawford called William and Jimmie the happiest married couple in Hollywood. I asked Liam if he would consider suicide if anything terrible happened to me. He said he was considering suicide because nothing terrible has happened to me.

From the delicious to the ridiculous, the second entertaining tale concerns my namesake and distant cousin Jack Scott, turkey trapper. Jack Scott’s affair with wild turkeys spans more than 30 years. Read all about Jack’s ever popular box and the legend of Bubba’s gobbler here.

And finally, spare a thought for the spring-loaded wannabe VOMIT who googled “im a woman wanting casual sex with a man in turkey where would i go” and returned Perking the Pansies. The lusty lass must have been devastated to find friends of Dorothy. Of course, the obvious answer is jump on the next plane for the ride of your life (or so the local boys think).

From London to Bodrum

Young Yankee Erin from BlogExpat.com contacted me recently to ask if I would be willing to take part in a series of interviews she was doing with a number of expats living in different countries across the world. How could I refuse especially as the fabulous Erin describes me as “…an excellent writer with fabulous English humor”? You can read what I had to say about living in Turkey here.

Erin is an expat herself – an American living in Berlin with her husband. They have their own blog called Back to Berlin and Beyond. It’s a fun read but there’s not much fun in trying to read it in Turkey without a proxy server as it’s caught up in the ridiculous blanket ban on Google-hosted blogs.

Apocalypse Now

I am availing myself of Karen’s five star facilities and superior broadband. I stumbled across another depressing tale of loopy American evangelical Christians who believe that the recent natural catastrophe in Japan portents the imminent End of Days. Their pastor predicts the apocalypse will commence on May 21st. He’s not sure what time exactly. Delusional disciples are travelling the length of continental USA in a camper van spreading the Word to the faithless. This may be just the harmless ramblings of those who’ve hit the altar wine and I don’t doubt the possibility that the world as we know it may well end in a cataclysmic event one day. Look at what happened to the dinosaurs.

What gets me is the supreme arrogance of these aberrant people who believe absolutely that come the Day of Judgement only those who believe in Jesus will be saved. The rest of us will suffer an agonising death and burn in Hell for eternity. Setting aside the gross insult to the innocent victims of the Japanese quake or the overwhelming majority of humanity who subscribe to an entirely different religious tradition (or like me, none at all), it all seems a bit unchristian. What about the remote people of the New Papua rain forest who’ve never heard of Jesus or the children too young to have the Truth revealed to them, to name just a few billion?

Superstitious nonsense, I say. Still, I’ve made a note of the date and will probably skip the flossing that morning just in case.

Hell and Damnation

I was sad yesterday when I heard that Elizabeth Taylor had died at the age of 79. Dame Liz retained her British nationality despite becoming the definitive all-American Hollywood star. Sensible girl. She wouldn’t have got the damehood without it.

I suppose she’ll be remembered more for the high drama of her personal life than her art. I will remember her for helping to raise over $100 million for the AIDS charity that she founded at a time when many thought that people with AIDS should be left to rot in the gutter.

I was mad today when I read that the congregation from Westboro Baptist Church intend to picket Dame Liz’s funeral. Margie Phelps, daughter of the hate group’s leader, Fred Phelps, tweeted “RIP Elizabeth Taylor is in hell as sure as you’re reading this and getting mad as a wet hen. She should’ve obeyed God. Too late!”  It’s nice to know the hell and damnation school of enlightened thought is alive and well.

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

Pansies Across the Seas

I’ve recently found a nifty little device that I’ve added to Perking the Pansies. It’s called ‘Revolver Maps’ which pin points the location of my visitors across the globe. I now stare at the screen for hours to watch the cities of the World light up and pulsate to the perking beat of the pansies. Unsurprisingly most of my punters come from Blighty, the Emerald Isle or the Turkish Riviera though the map of Europe is beginning to twinkle like a Eurovision Song Contest score board with nil point currently awarded to France. Perhaps they don’t like pansies in La Belle France though there was little evidence of it when I was last in Gay Paree.

Most unexpectedly are the pansy punters from more far-flung corners of the globe. I seem to have enthusiasts on both American seaboards but have attracted few fans in the vast lands in between where the bible-belters lurk. The Canadians like to perk (well the Mounties will do anything to keep warm in minus 20 degrees) and I have one or two camp followers in Latin America. The fragrant Far East is where the pansies never fade and I’m particularly delighted by our man in Borneo. Oz is a disappointing late starter though the ever cheerful Aussies do have  a biblical flood to contend with. I have high hopes for Africa and track the map from Cairo to Cape Town looking for signs of pansy flashers.

The South Pole is excluded from my pansy blog domination. Nothing grows down there anyway and I don’t want the egg-heads of Antarctica to be diverted from their vital work on global warming lest the pansies drown from rising sea levels.

Where the Pansies Never Fade

We are busy surveying the estate for storm damage. The bougainvillea has been rudely stripped of its leaves leaving a twisted wreck of intertwined twigs and the torn palm has been uprooted and casually tossed aside. Whilst we make repairs and mangle the sodden towels, I thought I’d share a sister pansy website from a distant country cousin from across the pond who writes of a perfect pansy paradise where we will never grow old.

Life Between the Buns – Where the Pansies Never Fade

Don your best red shoes and follow the yellow brick road to Shangri La.