Category: Armed Forces

Those Magnificent Men in Their Flying Machines

To rescue me from a life of drudgery and chores, delicious vetpat Vicky invited me to brunch at Musto’s Restaurant, our favourite Bodrum eatery. We were joined by a retired thespian and impresario (who shall remain nameless to save his blushes) and his Turkish partner. They’d jetted down from Istanbul for the weekend. We took our ringside seats to watch the spills and thrills of the Turkish Air Force Aerobatics Team – the Turkish Stars – who performed their madcap supersonic routine above our heads. The low-rise, high-octane precision performance was loud and fabulous. The ear-splitting gig wasn’t entirely a surprise since the boys with their toys had spent a few days practising beforehand – clipping mobile phone masts and setting off car alarms. Catching a snap proved difficult as the magnificent men in their flying machines criss-crossed the firmament. The romantic finale was a hazy heart etched into the sky, a fitting tribute to the Istanbul lovers. After feasting on a delicious Turkish breakfast banquet that just kept on coming, we spent the sunny afternoon chatting and drinking in the magical stories of a thesp’s days treading the boards. Perfect.

Pictures courtesy of the Bodrum Bulletin

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What Maketh the Man?

The call came and I’m home alone once more. Liam dashed back to Blighty strapped to a Sleazyjet plane. My mother-in-law’s not well and the family is rallying round to provide the kind of TLC that this kindly lady needs and deserves. His departure was heralded by an impromptu and ear-splitting display by (presumably) the Turkish Air Force Aerobatic Team who flew ultra-low to strafe the unsuspecting town. The vibration set off car alarms. Boys with their toys.

While I’m home alone, I’ve got plenty to occupy myself, including preparations for our own homecoming in June. I’ll be clearing out my mucky drawers and chucking out the chintz. Besides, the weather’s on the up; I’m sure our select group of Bodrum Belles and Gümbet Gals will keep me from crying into the bottom of my glass. Liam went without hesitation or resentment and he went with my blessing. Liam’s love and loyalty is second to none. That’s what maketh the man.

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Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell

Auntie Beeb recently ran an article about gays in the military – not in America this time – but in our foster home. It makes comical reading. For young gay Turks to receive their pink exemption slip (I prefer lilac myself) they have to prove their perversion with photographic evidence. Got a few holiday snaps of you being bummed on the beach in Bodrum? Now, young man, it only counts if you’re Martha not Arthur. The next best thing is to see you in a frock and slingbacks*. Anything floral by Laura Ashley will do. You couldn’t make it up.

For all those wasted years of navel gazing by the horrified higher echelons of the British armed forces, gay and lesbian Britons are now allowed to serve their country. People who know a great deal more than I do about these things say this has had absolutely no detrimental effect on the operational efficiency of Her Maj’s army, air force or navy (well, it’s always been rum and bum in the navy anyway). Military failure is reserved for our hapless politicians who send our brave boys (and girls) out to fight wars they can’t win.

Let’s face it, when it came to periods of genuine national emergency (like a world war), no one cared less where you put it. We were all cannon fodder back then (unless you were Quentin Crisp, of course).

Thank you to Pansyfan Paul who sent me the article.

*A cock in a shock frock reminds me of my encounter with transsexual prostitutes on my very first trip to Istanbul in 2003, but that’s another story.

Perking the Pansies Book Tour

For generations, book tours have been a vital part of promoting the published word. The famous get to hop from country to country. The not-so-famous get to hop from town to town. Nobodies like me don’t get to hop at all. Then someone came up with a marvellous idea – the virtual tour. No hopping involved. Just sit back and let other people promote your work courtesy of the blogosphere (in the best tradition of I scratch your back, you scratch mine). Ladies and gentlemen, please hop across to the wonderfully rustic Archers of Okçular for the first stop in my stimulating, simulated tour. Enjoy!

All I Want for Christmas

I’m taking a festive break from this blogging lark. I’m knackered. Normal services will be resumed in the New Year (unless there’s a book crisis). Peace and goodwill to all pansy fans whoever and wherever you are. Revel in your drunken parties, one night stands, quality time with lovers, partners, family and friends or just have fun shutting the wicked world out to curl up on a sofa with a good book, a good bottle or a good DVD. Whatever Christmas means to you, enjoy.

Meanwhile, somewhere on the high seas, the crew of the HMS Ocean found out they would all be home for Christmas after 214 days at sea. They just had to celebrate, sometimes shirtless.

Cue the festive video from our brave jolly Jack Tars. There’s a couple of jolly Jackies too (though not topless, obviously).

Check out my book

Gaddafi’s Last Stand

I awoke to the news that mad Gaddafi is dead. I would have preferred him to stand trial (a fair trial that is) but I understand why they put the old dog down. I went right off him when cocktails with the captain on board HMS Cumberland were called off at the last minute because the ship was diverted from Bodrum to Libya to evacuate foreign nationals. There was no rum punch or frigging in the rigging for us. It was enough to make me want to topple a dictator. As the Arab spring rolls into winter will Assad be next? I hope so. But, what of the medieval monarchs and mad mullahs in the rest of the Middle East? Their iron grip is likely to hold a while yet.

I wish all Libyans, Tunisians and Eqyptians genuine democracy, pluralism, secularism and respect for individual rights. Will I be holding my breath? Probably not.

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Rum, Bum and the Navy

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Have You Been?

I was acquainted with a squat toilet from a very early age. As an army brat I lived some of my childhood in Malaysia and our house came with an extension for the Chinese maid. We weren’t posh, Dad was a regimental sergeant major, and every family had a maid courtesy of Her Majesty, even lowly squaddies. It was time before the rise of the Asian Tigers and the reawakening of the Middle Kingdom when Britain still had a blue water fleet. The maid’s quarters were equipped with a squat toilet whereas our family convenience was of the pedestal variety. She used her facility and we used ours. ‘East is east and west is west and never the twain shall meet’ as Rudyard Kipling wrote.

Caught Short

We were wandering through Gümüslük Bay, a beguiling little harbour set among the meagre ruins of ancient Mindos. As a protected archaeological site, the bay has been saved from the relentless march of little white boxes that afflicts that part of the Bodrum peninsula. Unfortunately I got caught short. I darted into the public convenience for relief. I gazed in utter horror at the flush ceramic pan. Oh shit, how does it work? My mother trained me to sit not to squat. How do I hover precariously over the hole with my drawers round my ankles without tipping over? I gingerly and carefully pulled my jeans and Calvins over my trainers, first one leg then the other, contorting my body to avoid contact with the wet floor. I almost fell onto my backside in a vain attempt to maintain my dignity. It was like a game of twister but with only one player. The moral of the story? Go before you leave.

According to Wikipedia an alternative name for a squat WC is an Alaturca from the Italian Alla Turca – as the Turks do. Fancy that!

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.

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.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mEszTzdUMcY