Absolutely Fabulous

It doesn’t usually do to go back, to try and relive a moment. Invariably, it leads to bitter disappointment and anti-depressants. Sometimes though, there’s some old magic left in a tired old formula. Such was the Absolutely Fabulous Olympic Special shown tonight on Auntie Beeb. I loved every witty word, every caustic comment, every grotesque caricature and the sound of every sacred cow being slaughtered. Watching deliciously unreconstructed, post-menopausal Patsy light her fag from the Olympic flame was worthy of a sackful of gold medals. Perhaps I am being carried away by Olympic fever but Ab Fab was absolutely fabulous.

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Let the Games Begin

The Voice Hits Pontin’s

Back at base camp, we donned our glad rags and pirouetted down to the Stardust Cabaret Bar (think swirly carpets and swirly ceilings) to watch the permanently smiling bluecoats strut their amateur stuff. We were greeted by pissed-up pensioners and sprightly sprogs. As far as we could tell, we were the only wooly-woofters in wonderland (apart from a light fairy dusting from one or two of the bluecoats, obviously). We’d arrived at the tail end of a line dancing hour and sat back to marvel at a small company of wrinklies giving their pacemakers a welcome workout. The dosey doe harmonies were supplied by one woman and her magnificent organ. I ordered a couple of drinks from a barmaid called Richard. She’d mislaid her badge, apparently. Taking a table next to a couple of senior citizens, we nodded a polite (if slightly nervous) hello. We needn’t have bothered. Mr Senior had already nodded off into his half-pint of ‘mild’. Mrs Senior made no attempt to check for a pulse so we guessed he hadn’t yet expired. “That’ll be us in twenty years,” whispered. Liam. “You’re kidding,” I replied. “That’s us now.”

The headline act was local lass Toni Warne, a finalist from the BBC show The Voice. Liam could hardly contain his excitement. As he shivered in anticipation, the dressing room door inexplicably blew open to reveal a startled MC sucking on an illicit fag. Once recomposed, the camp compere minced out onto the floor to introduce the star turn. “Please give it up for Toni Ward.” Ms Warne didn’t let his faux pas get her down and belted out a string of old standards and modern classics from Doris Day and Barbra Streisand to Adele and Jessie J, all bang in tune. Mrs Senior turned down her hearing aid I suspect she and the rest of the audience would have preferred a spot of Vera Lynn. Liam thought Ms Warne had a great voice for musical theatre. I felt rather sorry for her. I thought aspiring stars gigged at Pontin’s before making it big, not after.

Despite the so-so weather and jaded Seventies social club ambience, we rather enjoyed our windswept blast from the past. Thank you, Pontin’s. You perked up these weary travelling pansies and provided a quiet place to rest and write.

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Pontin’s Happy Campers

Windy City

We’re All Immigrants Really

I recently tuned in to a debate on BBC Radio Norwich. It was about immigration, something of a national obsession in Britain.  Some of the comments were intelligent and thoughtful, others were plain stupid. It made me think. How is it that, in general, relatively rich people from the West who move abroad are described as ‘expats’ whereas relatively poor people settling in the West are classed as ‘immigrants’?  Perhaps this is because ‘immigrant’ is a dirty word these days, laced with nasty undertones of freeloading and coloured by thinly veiled racism. The threat of the UK or anywhere else being swamped with lazy foreign devils sponging off the state and plotting a new world order is a tad exaggerated in my experience. Where would the National Health Service or the care sector be without imported labour? It’s also worth bearing in mind the United Nations of young people who greet the commuting worker bees of London at the Pret a Manger* counter each morning are there because they’re eager, committed and willing – not a scrounger among them. This is an attitude that some British youths would do well to emulate.

The smug, self-congratulatory term ‘expat’ does have more than a hint of the British Raj about it (or any colonial raj come to that) – people who move away for a sea-view room or a tax-free dream job but who maintain their cultural and language separateness in various expat ghettos across the globe. The word also suggests a sense of impermanence. Interestingly though, many foreign nationals I know in Turkey have no intention of moving back to their home countries. Some have even acquired Turkish citizenship (though I suspect few have relinquished their original passports. It pays to have a plan B, just in case). If expat life is transitory does this mean that immigration is permanent? This doesn’t explain the huge influx of Poles who moved to Britain in the 90’s looking for work, many of whom have since moved back to Poland because the work dried up. They are called immigrants (and less savoury words by some). Clearly, quite a few have no wish to stay longer than necessary. Perhaps it really is all to do with the filthy lucre.

It’s certainly true that expats tend to be more financially self-sufficient than those who move in search of a better economic life, but nothing is that simple. In Turkey, plunging interest rates in recent years have presented quite a fiscal challenge to those trying to maintain a hedonistic lifestyle on dwindling assets. I wonder how many will survive? In the end, some may have to head home anyway, kicking and screaming. Expat? Immigrant? You say tomayto, I say tomarto.

*Pret is very successful British coffee and sandwich chain. I recommend their breakfast baguette – delish!

Donna Summer’s Last Dance

Donna Summer, the original disco diva, died yesterday from cancer. She was only 63. I bopped to her tunes during the decadent days of my misspent youth. For me, she was much cooler than the likes of Diana Ross. “Love to Love You Baby” launched Donna Summer’s international career. It was a track designed to court controversy with lots of orgasmic moans and groans to get the knickers of the moral minority in a collective twist. The BBC refused to play it, a sure fire way to empty the shelves. After a string of massive worldwide hits, Donna Summer committed career suicide by allegedly claiming that AIDS was divine retribution, a faux pas of epic proportions given that dancing queens represented the bedrock of her fan base. At the time, AIDS stalked the gay community like the grim reaper. I was one of the lucky ones. Many of my contemporaries were not. It was no surprise that Donna Summer’s career nosedived. Her belated denial of the allegation did nothing to stem the tide and she withdrew from the spotlight to lick her wounds. After a couple of years waiting in the wings, all was forgiven and Miss Summer stepped back in the light with a successful comeback and some classy jingles.

Tenko

I recently received glad tidings from Blighty, a welcome email providing light relief from my solitary confinement. Old friend, Ian and his partner, Matt, intend to join our extended leaving bash at the end of May. Ian was once my regular escort as we tripped the light fantastic across the sweaty dance floors of Europe during our misspent youth. It was he who accompanied me on my first trip to Istanbul in 2003. Our eyes popped at the dark and illicit underbelly of Turkish life. Oh, happy days.

Last year, Ian and I were summer-supping in the Duke of Wellington (the Wellie), our favourite Soho watering hole and pick up joint. He asked me what expat life was really like. This was the conversation.

It’s like Tenko.
Come again?
A great social leveller. People who, in any other situation, would neither meet nor mix are chucked together like prisoners of war.
I see. A bit like this place, then?
Precisely.


*Tenko was a BBC TV series of the early Eighties which dramatised the experiences of British, Australian and Dutch women imprisoned by the Japanese after the Fall of Singapore in 1942. Think ‘Bad Girls‘ in the tropics.

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.

Telegraph Jack

I flung open the closet door in the same year that ‘Going Straight’ first aired on the BBC. It was a time when the age of consent for gay men was 21* and the number of gay bars in London could be counted on the fingers of one hand. The Fourth Estate – redtops and broadsheets alike – was routinely beastly to the down-trodden embryonic gay community and the police raided at will. It’s no surprise then, that my politics were a little leftish and I thought of myself as standing on the outside looking in. Now in my fifth decade, I find myself published in the Telegraph, that most ‘establishment’ of newspapers – only online, mind you. Read my Bumpy Rite of Passage. I’ve sold out for a sell-out.

*In fact it was only legal for two men to get down and dirty if they were alone in a private dwelling. Also, lesbianism was never a crime, presumably because most of the (male) public school lawmaking hypocrites not knocking off the boys on the side were rather turned on by the thought of their nannies at it.  

Singing For His Pension

Soft focus image courtesy of the BBC

Remarkably, wrinkly Engelbert (aka Arnold Dorsey) can still hold a note at 75. Mr Humperdinck will be singing for his pension at the 57th Eurovision Song Contest with a sweet little ditty called Love Will Set You Free. It’s actually not a bad ballad in a Lionel Bart musical kind of way. Come Eurovision night in May, the streets of Soho will be empty, the middle aged ladies of the Carpathians will be chucking their knickers at the screen and Caucasian grannies will be swooning in the aisles in Baku. But, can Engelbert win and bring glory back to Blighty after 15 luckless years? Not while the Baltic league and Balkan cartel are in the driving seat, methinks. What do you think?

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Eurovision Song Fest Fever

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Dancing on Ice

We’ve been watching a lot more British TV these dark and damp evenings. We became a bit bored with Patsy Kensit’s woodentop acting on a continuous loop courtesy of Auntie Beeb’s international offering. This was one reason for dumping Digiturk (that, and buggering off back to Blighty). We recently caught Dancing on Ice, ITV’s trashy and less cool answer to the BBC’s Strictly Come Dancing. The friends of Dorothy have always loomed large on the entertainment payroll but none so obviously as Louie Spence, the campy Gatling gun judge and leading dancing queen. Louie lispily declared to one of the Z-list contestants attempting to revive their dead-as-a-dodo careers:

“You made a short but perfectly formed homosexual very happy.”

Remember, this is prime-time terrestrial TV with the little-uns watching. While I generally find Louie a bit too much of a stereotype, this short but perfectly formed homosexual loved the fact that nobody battered a moral eyelid. Larry Grayson must be turning in his grave.

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Strictly Come Dancing

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Review of the Year, 2011

Happy New Year to pansy fans one and all from a stormy, rain-sodden Bodrum. In the best tradition of the New Year and all those cheap-to-make review and top ten TV compilations I give you:

Perking the Pansies Top Ten 2011

An eclectic mix of the mad, the glad, the sad and the bad, the old, the bold, the sold and the gold. It’s interesting how few of these posts are actually related to expats directly. The list represents around 20% of all hits to Perking the Pansies (out of about 500 posts). Fancy that.

  1. Amy Winehouse, RIP
  2. Now, That’s What I Call Old
  3. Are We Mad?
  4. Pussy Galore
  5. Gay Marriage in New York
  6. Expat Glossary
  7. Publish and Be Damned
  8. There’s Hope for Us All
  9. Happy Birthday Perking the Pansies
  10. Sisters Are Doing it for Themselves

I wonder what 2012 has in store?

This is in store right now.