A Word or Two in British

George Benard ShawEnglish is a funny old foreign language. Turkey Street is littered with British cultural and geographical references, slang, idioms and place names that may fly over the heads of our cousins from across the seven seas. Cue Jack’s tongue-ever-so-slightly-in-cheek guide to Brit talk.

Am I bovvered? – The catchphrase of Lauren Cooper, a chav caricature from the BBC’s Catherine Tate Show. Unlike Vicky Pollard (see below), Lauren used a chavvy persona to disguise her intelligence.

Archers (The) – A long running soap on BBC Radio 4 about a dull farming community. Popular with those who prefer their beer warm and their neighbours white.

Argos – One of the largest high street retailers in Britain where customers flick through a fat catalogue, write their order on a little slip, pay at a till point and queue up at a warehouse counter to obtain their purchases. Weird.

Beak (The) – Judge or magistrate, so called because of the primitive gas masks stuffed with herbs and spices that medieval judges wore on the bench to ward off the plague. Little good it did them.

Betting shop biro – A half size ball point pen supplied free to punters who like a flutter on the horses. Millions of them end up in the bottom of handbags and manbags.

Bint – Bitch, originally a racist term (and still hardly complimentary) derived from the Arabic word for daughter and used by British soldiers in the Great War.

Bigwig – An Eighteenth Century VIP, the bigger the wig, the more important the person.

Blackpool – A trashy British seaside resort in northwest England famous for fish ‘n’ chips, kiss-me-quick hats, loose morals, brash illuminations and even brasher bottle blonds.

Blimey – An exclamation of surprise and an abbreviation of gorblimey, ‘God blind me.’ Blimey, who knew?

BNP – The British National Party and a nasty bunch of neo-Nazi nutters they are too.

Bruce Forsythe – Britain’s favourite all-round entertainer and a man older than the dinosaurs. Brucie is famous for his soft-shoe shuffle, catch phrases, dodgy wig, lantern jaw and marrying women young enough to be his granddaughter.

Bung – Bribe, not to be confused with the abbreviation for bung hole.

Cheesy Wotsits – A brand of ‘cheese’ flavoured corn puffs that stick to the teeth for days.

Chelsea Tractors – The large 4×4 vehicles that clog up the streets of rush hour London while Camilla drops little Hugo off at his private prep school.

Cherry Bakewell – A tart of short crust pastry with a layer of jam, ground almond sponge, topped with fondant and crowned with a glacé cherry. The very thought of it hardens the arteries.

Children of the Damned – A 1964 science fiction film about a group of evil children with psychic powers and the strapline ‘Beware the eyes that paralyse!’

Chips – French fries. What the Yanks call chips, Brits call crisps.

Clap Clinic – An STD clinic, from the Old French word clapoir, meaning a venereal bubo – an enlarged gland in the groin associated with sexually transmitted diseases. Ouch.

Clare Balding – A TV sports presenter with short hair and big bones.

Cottage – A public toilet visited by men seeking men, from Polari, a slang language used in Britain by sinners on the social margins – actors (when acting was considered no better than whoring), circus and fairground showmen, criminals, prostitutes, and, up to the early Seventies, gay people.

Council Tax – A property tax that helps pay for local services. It’s never been popular but then Brits are reluctant to pay for anything that isn’t related to booze, fags, the gee-gees and the footie (that’s liquor, cigarettes, horse betting and soccer).

Craic (pronounced crack) – An Irish term for fun, conversation and entertainment. The word is a Gaelicised version of the Middle English word crak meaning ‘loud conversation.’

Croydon – A soulless south London suburb famous for its high rise centre and Sixties shopping mall. Also one of the chaviest places on Earth (see Vicky Pollard below).

Cumberland Sausage – A delicious pork sausage shaped like a dog turd originating in the historic county of Cumberland. Cumberland is in the English Lake District (where it rains 364 days a year).

Delia – Delia Smith, the matriarch of British celebrity cooks and, just like nanny, not a woman to meddle with.

Dip his wick – Now come on, what else could it mean?

Dosh – Money, derived from God knows what.

Earls Court – A district of West London and the Capital’s gay village back in the day (no more than a couple of shabby dive bars and a seedy club: no match for Amsterdam or San Francisco).

Eton Wick – A village in England close to the college town of Eton which is the home to the famous private school the alma mater to a political class that has absolutely no idea about the price of a pint or a line of coke.

Fag – Cigarette (not a derogatory term for homosexual as it is in Yankee). Gives a whole new meaning to the phrase ‘sucking on a fag.’

Harry Judd – The dangerously horny drummer for the boy band McFly. Women (and some men) across the land wet their panties at the very thought of him.

Hi-De-Hi – The title and catchphrase of the strangely entertaining Eighties’ BBC TV sitcom set in a fictional holiday camp featuring hammy acting, corny plots and slapstick humour.

Hobnob – A popular and very moreish biscuit made from oats. A minute on the lips, a lifetime on the hips, especially when covered in thick milk chocolate.

Home Counties – The shires that ring London, often characterised as prosperous, middle class and terminally boring.

Isle of Wight – A diamond-shaped green and pleasant island off the south coast of England. It’s where people go to die and where Jack first had sex (but not with a pensioner).

Jammy Dodgers – A round shortbread biscuit with a raspberry-flavoured jam filling, popular with children. To badly paraphrase the Jesuits, ‘Give me the boy until he is seven and I will give you the obese man with heart disease, high cholesterol and Type 2 diabetes.’

Kerfuffle – Fuss or commotion. Derived from carfuffle, from the Scots English word car (probably from Scottish Gaelic cearr wrong, awkward) and fuffle, to become dishevelled. Fancy that.

Khazi – A toilet, possibly derived from the Swahili word m’khazi meaning a latrine.

Kirk – A church in Scots and similar to words all over northern Europe – kirkja, kyrka, kyrkje, kirke, kirche, kerk, tsjerke, kirik, kirkko. I blame the Vikings.

Knacker’s Yard – A place where old animals not for human consumption are taken to be slaughtered. Aka an old people’s home.

Knocked Off – Stolen or fake, like most of the goods sold in the East End markets of London and pazars all over Turkey.

Knocking Shop – A venue to meet people for casual sex (for consumption on or off the premises). What was your name again?

Lancashire – A historic county in northwest England which has the dubious privilege of counting Blackpool among its treasures. Also home to Lancashire Hot Pot, a dull and tasteless lamb stew that requires little skill and no imagination to prepare.

Last Knockings – See Knocking Shop above. The last men standing at the end of a hard night.

Loo – Toilet, possibly from the cry gardyloo (from the French regardez l’eau ‘watch out for the water’), which was shouted by medieval servants as they emptied chamber pots from upstairs windows into the street.

Looker – Someone nice to look at. Like me when I was younger. Much younger.

Louie Spence – A very, very camp British choreographer and TV personality, grandma’s favourite and a man who is way beyond gay.

Malarkey – Nonsense. There’s a lot of it in the book.

Marge Proops – Once Britain’s most famous and trusted agony aunt. No oil painting but a wise old bird. She fell off her perch in 1996.

Marks and Spencer – A clothes and food retailer, the cornerstone of the high street and as British as the Queen (except Her Maj is German and most M&S products are imported).

Marmite – A sticky dark brown food paste made from yeast extract with a distinctive and powerful flavour. It is truly disgusting and quite rightly banned in Canada on health grounds.

Midnight Flit – To leave secretly. Popular with people trying to avoid the rent.

Midsomer – The fictitious county featured in the long-running whodunit TV series. It’s depicted as the epitome of tight-arsed Middle England and, judging by the murder rate, a more dangerous place to live than Baghdad.

Milk Tray – One of Britain’s favourite boxes of chocolates. Targeted at desperate women who think that stuffing their mouths with cheap confectionary will send a James Bond lookalikie swinging through their bedroom window on a rope (or so the ad implies). Dream on, ladies.

Miss Blobby – A variation on Mr Blobby, a character on an old Saturday night variety TV show, a ridiculous fat pink monstrosity covered with yellow pox spots.

Mother’s Ruin – Gin, so-called because of its popularity with Eighteenth Century washer women trying to blot out their wretched lives with home brew.

Mucker – Best friend in Ulster English. Also a farm hand who shovels shit.

Nicker – From nick, to steal. The verb is also slang for being arrested and the noun is slang for a prison cell – crime, apprehension and punishment all wrapped up in the same word. Has a poetic ring, don’t you think?

No.6 – Cheap brand of Seventies cigarettes that first got Jack addicted to the dreaded weed.

Nookie – An abbreviation of Nook and cranny, cockney rhyming slang for sex. Cranny rhymes with fanny which in British is a lady’s front bottom (not her booty as in Yankee).

Norfolk – England’s breadbasket and most easterly county, a place where the gene pool has been badly damaged by centuries of in-breeding.

Norwich – The county town of Norfolk and a city with more medieval churches than any other north of the Alps. Most have been boarded up or converted into coffee shops.

O Levels – An end of year subject-based examination taken by 16 year old across all parts of the United Kingdom except Scotland. In the Eighties it was scrapped and replaced by the GCSE – dumbed down and much easier to cheat in.

Page Three – The Sun ‘Newspaper’ once Britain’s undisputed champion red top which features images of topless busty babes on page three. It’s all good clean fun and not intended to objectify women in the slightest.

Portobello Road – A poncy (i.e. showy or affected) street in the Notting Hill district of West London with a pretentious street market and shops selling over-priced ‘antiques’ to gullible tourists.

Primarni – An oxymoronic amalgamation of Primark (the British chain famous for cheap disposable fashion) and Armani (where shopping requires a second mortgage). A term used to describe those with champagne tastes but beer bottle pockets. That’ll be Jack and Liam then.

Putney – A smug little suburb in southwest London famous for the annual Oxford and Cambridge Boat Race and where Jack misspent his youth relying on the kindness of strangers along its moonlit towpath.

Quid – Slang for a British pound, possibly derived from the Latin ‘quid pro quo,’ – to exchange something for something else.

Ragamuffin – A dirty, shabbily-clothed street child straight out of Dickens.

Reet (Right) little earner – Brummie (the accent of Birmingham) for something that pays well, like fixing the LIBOR Rate or laundering money through a Caribbean tax haven.

Saga – A company that specialises in servicing the over fifties. Libel laws prevent further comment.

Saveloy – A sausage with no discernable natural ingredients, hence the bright red colour. The genuine article glows in the dark.

Samantha Janus (now Womack) – Represented the UK at the 1991 Eurovision Song Contest. She sang so flat, ears bled and dogs howled. Samantha now plays the unhinged Ronnie Mitchell in EastEnders, Britain’s most depressing soap.

Scallies – A term derived from ‘scallywags’ to describe a UK subculture of working class youths of uncertain parentage who have adopted street fashion as their uniforms. And no, they’re not all muggers from broken homes.

Séverine – She won the 1971 Eurovision Song Contest for Monaco with a belting ballad entitled ‘Un Banc Un Arbre Une Rue’ (A Tree, A Bench, A Street). Great tune, ridiculous lyrics. That’s the French for you.

Shagging – Sexual intercourse. One of those wonderful words that does what it says on the tin but is less offensive than the F word.

Sink Estates – Grim and poor quality social housing schemes from the Sixties and Seventies that have remained in public ownership because you couldn’t give them away. Generally used to corral those at the bottom of the social heap.

Sitges – An elegant seaside resort near Barcelona in Spain popular with the gays, particularly those who like to wear tight pants for a night on the tiles then drop them on the beach at 4am.

Slag/Slapper/Slut – A person of generous disposition who drops them at the first smile, like the young Jack.

Slough – Ugly sister to Windsor and Eton. ‘Come friendly bombs and fall on Slough!’ wrote former Poet Laureate, Sir John Betjeman. Says it all.

Sparky – An electrician. Obviously.

Strongbow – A brand of cheap cider that helped Jack onto the slippery slope of alcohol dependency and cirrhosis of the liver.

Sussex – The beautiful historic county on the south coast of England roughly equivalent to the Anglo-Saxon kingdom of the South Saxons and now split into West and East Sussex and which sits on top of vast reserves of gas ripe for the fracking. Also home the Rude Man of Cerne, a well-hung giant cut into the chalk down with the morning manhood of a porn star.

Swan Vesta – The brand name for the most popular kind of ‘strike-anywhere’ matches in the UK. Especially popular with arsonists.

Tea Leaf – Cockney rhyming slang for ‘thief.’ Theft is the preferred occupation of those living in the East End of London along with dressing up as pearly monarchs, eating jellied eels and brawling on a Saturday night.

Tenko – An early Eighties BBC series chronicling the fate of a mixed collection of imperious women interned by the Japanese after the fall of Singapore in World War Two. Appalling living conditions, malnutrition, disease, violence and even death failed to dent the superiority of some of the dames of the Empire. Comes from the Japanese for ‘roll-call’.

The Only Gay in the Village – The proud lament of Daffyd Thomas, the Welsh character from the BBC comedy sketch show Little Britain. Like all the gays of Harlech, he minces round a mining town in PVC and rubber fetish wear.

The Smoke – London, so-called because the huge metropolis was once afflicted by smog, a thick and deadly carpet of coal smoke and fog that once killed people by the thousand. The title has now passed on to a choking Beijing.

Tic-Tac Man – An on-course bookmaker who uses a traditional method of signing the odds on certain horses. It looks like someone’s having a fit.

Tiffin – A slang term for a light meal originating in India during the good old days of the British Raj (before the Brits lost an empire and miserably failed to become good Europeans).

Toff – Upper class, rich and often stupid, possibly derived from the Anglo-Saxon ‘toforan’ (superiority) or ‘toffee-nosed’ from the toffee-like nasal mucus that leaked from the snouts of Nineteenth Century snuff-sniffers. Yuk.

Tooting – A suburb of South London, shabby no chic.

Twat – An idiot. Yes an idiot. What else could it mean?

Vicky Pollard – A character from the BBC comedy sketch show Little Britain and the epitome of the British female chav – poor white trash in fake designer-wear, usually up the duff (i.e. pregnant) by the age of thirteen.

Wads – Bundles of banknotes, often illegally obtained.

Walnut Whip – A cone of hollow thick milk chocolate filled with vanilla fondant and topped with a walnut. Impossible to eat without looking like a cheap slut.

William Morris – A Nineteenth Century English textile designer, poet, novelist, translator, and revolutionary socialist with a very long beard. As a designer, he loved floral designs, just like the village ladies of Turkey.

Willy-nilly – Haphazardly. From the Old English ‘wile hē, nyle hē,’ literally: ‘will he or will he not?’

Wonga – Money, possibly from the Romany for ‘coal’ and now the name of a pay day loan company that lends to the feckless at stratospheric interest rates.

Turkey StreetTo find out more about Turkey Street, Jack and Liam move to Bodrum here.

Turkey Street

The sequel to Perking the Pansies is the story of our lives weaved in between those around us. For a good few months, act two of our emigrey tales had the working title of The Sisterhood. Why? Well, the overwhelming majority of our big hitting cast, emigrey and Turkish alike, were women trying to steer their own course in a man’s world – some sailed off into the sunset while others floundered on the rocks. From the start, the title seemed a fitting choice. The sisters were the main event while we were the spectators. But, as the book went from story board to page, it became increasingly clear that we weren’t mere voyeurs and the story wasn’t just about the Bodrum Belles we lived among. The bigger picture was about change and moving on – for them, for us, for Turkey. So now there is a new working title:

Turkey Street,

Jack and Liam move to Bodrum

Lady in Bodrum

Six months into their Turkish affair, Jack and Liam, a gay couple from London, took lodgings in the oldest ward of Bodrum Town. If they wanted to shy away from the curtain-twitchers, they couldn’t have chosen a worse position. Their terrace overlooked Turkey Street like the balcony of Buckingham Palace and the middle-aged infidels stuck out like a couple of drunks at a temperance meeting. Against all the odds, the boys from the Smoke were welcomed into the fold by a feisty mix of eccentric locals and a select group of trailblazing expats, irresistible ladies with racy pasts and plucky presents. Hop aboard Jack’s rainbow gulet as he navigates the choppy waters of a town on the march and a national resurgence not seen since Suleiman the Magnificent was at the gates of Vienna. Grab your deckchair for a whirlwind tour of love and duty, passion and betrayal, broken hearts and broken bones, dirty politics and the dawn of a new Ottoman era.

The Oldest Gays in the Village

rory's boysAside from late starters, rent-a-womb celebrities and the yogurt pot and turkey-baster brigade, most people of a queer bent don’t have any children. The social revolution that enabled many of us to step out of the closet and skip hand-in-hand through the pansies also robbed us of a safety net. Where are the kids to protect us in our dotage?  The irony is not lost on me. Our various nephews and nieces may well be fond of their limp-wristed old uncles but I don’t expect any of them to give up a spare room or change our nappies during our dribbling years.

Care of the old is a hot topic right now and Channel 4 News has been doing its bit to highlight the fate of the oldest gays in the village. I don’t know where Liam and I might end our days but we certainly won’t be stepping back into the closet for the convenience of a born-again carer, whatever the religious persuasion. So what to do?

I’m reading Alan Clark’s ‘Rory’s Boys’ for a bit of a steer (that’s Alan Clark, travel journalist and former mad man, not the late Alan Clark, former philanderer and right-wing diarist). Rory’s Boys is a fictional tale about  Britain’s first retirement home for gay men; a private establishment for the well-endowed. We’re not talking a state-underfunded shit-hole where the inmates are ignored or worse by under-trained, couldn’t-care-less carers on zero-hour contracts. In care homes, as in life, you get what you pay for and it’s all our own fault. Society simply isn’t willing to stump up and pay for the old to shuffle off this mortal coil with their dignity intact. I certainly don’t think the municipal pension coming my way will stretch to private care; maybe assisted suicide will be the answer in the end.

Alan Clark and I have something in common (apart from the shirt lifting thang). Our books were both nominated for the 2012 Polari First Book Prize, made it to the top ten then fell at the last fence. I’m only a few pages into the book but, as the title suggests, I’m guessing Rory’s brave new world of cute orderlies with cut lunches and the Sound of Music on a loop, won’t include any of our lesbian sisters. It’s a sad fact of life that gay men and lesbians often struggle to get along. Activism and the marching season may bring us together now and again but  generally, that’s it.  When sex, romance and parenting are removed from the equation, men really are from Mars and women really are from Venus.

Happy Birthday, Uncle Sam

Turkey StreetThere’s a tense stand off in the Scott-Brennan household. The air has cleared of gun smoke leaving a wreckage of words scattered round the cutting room floor. It happened last time for my first book and it’s happening again for the sequel. Just when I thought I’d got the bloody thing done and dusted, Liam slashes it with his big red pen. It’s all to the good in the end but the tortuous journey is littered with out-takes that have cut me to the core.

My post before last was about our good fortune with neighbours in recent years. I deliberately left out Clement, our first neighbour in Turkey because, well, we were rather pleased to see the back of him. Now poor Clement has been left out of the book too. Still, nothing gets wasted. It just gets recycled, like most of my rubbish these days. So Ladies and gents, as it’s American Independence Day, here’s the neighbour’s tale, a painful cut from Turkey Street, Chapter 13, Happy Birthday, Uncle Sam.

Clement's Tale

 

 

 

 

Neighbourly Relations

Albert Cooper

Albert John Cooper the third was born to Albert and Alice Cooper of 48 William Street, Norwich on the 16th of June 1933. Like all new born babies for those first few moments in his new world he started turning blue, until rushes of air cleared Albert’s throat for the first time in many, however, the blues had remained.

From Albert Cooper, A Chronicle of Norwich’s King of the Blues

So began the long and eventful life of Albert Cooper, Norwich’s very own Man in Black who’s been singing the blues since 1942. Albert lives below us in the old Co-op warehouse. He’s a Norwich original with a tale or ten to tell, is still gigging at the age of 81 and remains in fine voice. Long may he continue.

Orford_Cellar_2Norwich has a rich musical heritage to suit all tastes from high brow to arty-farty,  symphonic to solo, electric to unplugged and everything in between. Albert is a wonderful part of this tradition and if you happen to be in town tomorrow evening, pop along to the Rumsey Wells Pub in St Andrews Street to catch the local legend and his blues and boogie band.

Down the years, we’ve been remarkably blessed with engaging, generous, fascinating and wacky neighbours. Until recently we shared a Weaver’s Cottage with the modest and unassuming Anjali Joseph who has written two internationally acclaimed novels and lectured in English Literature at the Sorbonne. And there was dear old Colin with his signature horn-rimmed glasses who bought my house and all its contents in Walthamstow, lock, stock and barrel. His kindness eased our passage to paradise and when we got there, we found ourselves sharing a garden with Beril and Vadim…

Turkey Street…a maverick and unwed Turkish couple who had escaped the conformity of Ankara to take possession of Stone House No. 1 and join us in the garden of sin. Vadim was a retired rock and roller, a portly, rosy-cheeked percussionist in his late fifties, obsessed with drums and wedded to his collection of Turkish darbukas. Beril was a good decade younger than her rhythm and blues man and bore more than a passing resemblance to Kate Bush in her Home Counties years. She tolerated Vadim’s banging with good grace but preferred the gloomy Gallic romanticism of Charles Aznavour to the guitar riffs of Eric Clapton.

From Turkey Street, Jack and Liam move to Bodrum, Chapter One

Gumusluk Travel Guide

Roll, roll up for your free Kindle copy of the meticulously researched Gümüşlük Travel Guide: Bodrum’s Silver Lining by the incomparable Roving Jay. This one-time offer is available for two days only – the 7th and 8th of June – so grab it while you can.

The book in Roving Jay’s own words:

Gumsuluk Travel Guide1Whether you visit Gümüşlük for the day; make it your holiday destination; or plan on visiting long-term, the “Gümüşlük Travel Guide: Bodrum’s Silver Lining” provides you with all the information you need to discover this Turkish location for yourself.

I’ve thrown myself wholeheartedly into the process of writing this guidebook, and as well as gathering information, I’ve accumulated a collection of memorable moments along the way.

This is the start of your very own journey down the historical and well-trodden path to Gümüşlük and I trust my travel guide will help to create some unforgettable memories of your own.

Start creating those memories. Get the Gümüşlük Travel Guide at Amazon.co.uk | Amazon.com and all Amazon stores worldwide.

Oh, and I’m in it by the way, but don’t let that put you off.

 

IDAHOT Day 2014

IDAHOTTo help promote and support today’s IDAHOT Day 2014, the marvellous people behind OUT140 invite you to write your own coming out story in 140 characters or less.  Simply tweet your tale to @OUT140, or use the hashtag #OUT140. You never know, it could end up on stage.

You can also follow OUT140 on Faceache, and check out their website here.

This is something I prepared earlier….

OUT140_text_mediumThe Little Book of Coming Out Stories

Jay Talking

The incomparable Roving Jay recently blew into town for a few bevvies, a bite and a chin wag. She was on a pilgrimage to the Norfolk flatlands of her birth and catching up with her folks. Luckily for me, she detoured to Norwich to pick up where we left off last time we met and this time, Liam joined us for a boozy threesome. First stop was a couple of bottles in the Lamb Inn, a lively little watering hole where the ridiculously low ceiling makes everyone look tall. Even me. Hair gel was being applied like Dulux emulsion. Next up, gourmet grub at Cinema City’s swanky Dining Rooms, a bar-restaurant with an old vaulted ceiling, a medieval courtyard and a mini multiplex in the east wing. Last time, the rural hit-and-miss bus schedule conspired against us and Jay flew away prematurely. This time, she threw caution to the wind, stayed for a natter and jumped into a Hackney cab at the end of the night.

BPTG 3D right Cropped

Those who are familiar with Jay will know that she is a devoted Turkophile and a holiday resident of glorious Gümüslük. In 2013, she realised a long-held ambition and published a fabulous guidebook about the Bodrum area. Jay is a bit of a magpie and the Bodrum Peninsula Travel Guide is a meticulously researched, first-hand account of the little corner of Turkey we called home for a while. The e-book is doing well, very well. That’s because it’s good, very good. Summer’s just round the bend so if you’re heading Bodrum-way this year you’d be mad not to pick up a copy. For more information about Jay’s must-have guide, click here.

Jay’s next big thing is a more detailed guide to Gümüslük and it will include offerings from others in the know; she was even mad enough to ask me for my tuppence-worth, but don’t let that put you off. The Gümüslük guide will be the first in an exciting series of in-depth guides of towns on the Peninsula. To find out where Jay the magpie’s at with all of this, do check out her website.

Roving Jay

In the meantime, sit back and enjoy what all the fuss is about…

See more on Pinterest

Fairground Attraction

Fairground Attraction

Yesterday, I left Liam indoors slaving over the final pre-edits of the new book and tootled into town to catch the bank holiday vibe. The crowds were drawn to the Easter parade of stalls flogging fast food with an international flavour – German bratwurst competed with Cumberland sausages, French fromage with the Great British Cheese Company, savoury Indian street food with overflowing troughs of sweet treats. It was as if Borough Market had parachuted in for the day. Naturally, I was drawn to the stall selling Turkish delight, baklava, olives and mezes. The swarthy geezer with tombstone teeth behind the counter wasn’t bad either.

In nearby Chapelfield Gardens, a travelling fair rose up above the neat borders. As I drew closer, the fatty aroma of fried onions and cheap burgers mugged the senses and my arteries hardened with every nostril-full. Distant memories flew me right back to my adolescent stirrings for the tattooed oiks who spun the waltzers, the kind of randy highwaymen who would take you round the back of the ghost train and relieve you of your pocket money (or at least, that’s what I imagined at the time).

There was a time when I would jump on every attraction with gay abandon. Alas, I am Braveheart no more. Not since my nephews dared me to hop on the Detonator at Thorpe Park a few years back and I nearly lost my lunch. Risk aversion comes with age, I suppose. These days, the rickety rackety rides seem way too Heath Robinson for my liking. For me there’s little fun left at the fair. Still, the tattooed oiks still manage to get my loins stirring.

Can’t Wait to Read the Sequel

I can’t remember the last time I published a review of Perking the Pansies, Jack and Liam move to Turkey on this blog. Generally, I try to keep my book business and random ramblings quite separate (until the sequel, Turkey Street, comes out, that is). But when I was sent an out-of-the blue critique from a total stranger in a distant land, unconnected to me or Turkey, I was rather taken aback and felt compelled to share it. Not as a boast, you understand, but as a humble thank you.

Perking the Pansies2 (464 x 700)“I would like to buy Jack a drink or five. He and Liam present as the kind of people I would like to know. “Perking the Pansies” conveys personality right from the start. I was instantly interested in knowing and understanding the characters.

Jack doesn’t spare the truth. His descriptions of characters strip away all the pretentions and leave them exposed for who they really are instead of who they pretend to be. That is an uncomfortable feeling and yet I did not get the impression that he was being cruel or hateful. It is uncomfortable because the truth often is.

It is also funny as hell. The use of figurative language is superb. I had to stop and write down quite a few memorable lines just to make sure I don’t forget them. The line “…his distracting buns quivering like two piglets in a sack,” comes to mind. Then his little aside about trying to find “… something funny to say about faulty alarm cocks,” is another good example. I can imagine the frustration of writers block when such a marvelous circumstance presents itself. It was funny and it created a connection to the author.

The book’s greatest strength is the connection to the author. Reading it gives such an intimate look at the life and thoughts of the writer that you come out of it feeling like you know him. He becomes a real person. Obviously the book is written much like a journal, relaying a first person account of everything, but that is not the true source of the realism. It is honesty. The little details like Jack standing in the mirror making a face lift with his fingers are so true to life that you have to believe it. It doesn’t matter if everything written is literally true or not, the effect creates truth.

I found myself rooting for Jack and Liam not to give up. I wanted them to stay in Turkey and make a happy life. Sometimes their naïveté scared me. When Liam says that “We’re infidels and Hell-bound anyway so it hardly matters what we get up to,” I was afraid for them. Religious fundamentalists are not known for rational thinking. So many things could go wrong. When Uzgun was killed it highlighted the potential danger. I was vicariously proud of the courage and fortitude Jack and Liam showed by staying in Turkey.  The message is a good one. Things will only change if everyday people are brave enough to live everyday lives.

It was great. I can’t wait to read the sequel.”

Destin

Helpfully, Destin also posted a cut-down version of the review on Amazon.com. Good reviews do sell books and every little helps as they say at Tesco’s. This diminutive, myopic, ex-pretty boy with his best years behind him is chuffed to bits and eternally grateful to all you kind reviewers. Thank you.

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