Category: Britain

The Bow Belles

The Bow Belles

Hot on the heels of Clive’s double came Ian’s extended fun fest. The function room of a posh gastropub overlooking Victoria Park in East London was the host for the opening episode. Squally showers did nothing to dampen our spirits as we partied the afternoon away entertained by faces old and new. Drinks were plentiful and complementary and the bash bounced along to the naff sounds of Eurovision. The annual song-fest is a huge but harmless addiction for Ian and his partner, Matt. At the close of play it was back to their Bow penthouse for more liquid refreshment and more Eurovision. They wisely invested in their top storey pad just after London won the Olympics and their balcony directly overlooks the grand stadium. Since it is easier to win the lottery than secure a seat at the opening ceremony, I know where we’ll be on opening night.

2012 Olympic stadium

Our Euro adventure ended with a final flourish in a French farmhouse a few miles outside Bordeaux. Ian rented a four bedroom pile that oozed rustic Gallic charm and invited along his nearest and dearest to sample his hospitality and clear out his wine cellar. The weather was kind and we had two boozy days of wit and repartee around the bracing pool. Ian and Matt played the gracious hosts with the most with understated panache and saintly patience. Our glasses were never empty as we sank the Bordeaux in Bordeaux and the table was always set for endless fine French fare. The final night’s jollity had Clive and Angus dancing a rumba in the kitchen and me doing something rather obscene with a banana. When Clive makes it as a full-time thespian he’ll be the odds on favourite to win Strictly Come Dancing. ‘Not with my arthritis,’ he yelled from the wings. I’m sure the Bow Belles were glad to see the back of us when we departed, if only to get some rest. I was carrying my liver home in a jiffy bag.

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Fifty Years in the Business

Fifty Years in the Business

Apart from celebrating our niece’s nuptials and spending quality time with our folks, the main purpose of our extended excursion to Blighty and beyond was to rejoice in the half centuries of my two oldest friends, Clive and Ian. Their birthdays are a day apart and they decided to revel in style, each with a two centre commemoration.

Clive’s was up first with a posh meal in a posh eatery in posh Islington attended by a select group of friends and family, including his consort and civil partner, Angus. The superior banter was lubricated with bountiful booze and nourished by top notch nosh. Clive’s second soiree was at Duckie, the legendary avant-garde club night for those seeking something a little bit different from the usual Saturday night set menu (hard house and South American waiters with chest implants and spaced out expressions).

Coincidentally, it was Duckie’s 16th birthday bash, so they too celebrated in style by hiring the ballroom at the Royal Festival Hall for the evening. The compere dished up a hit and miss medley of arty-farty cabaret which I must confess was more miss than hit, a bit like watching someone’s end of year drama college project. The evening had a British tribal theme – punks, mods, new romantics, blokes in bowlers, housewives, Greenham Common wimin – you get the idea. We went as seventies clones – check shirts, tight stone washed 501s, coloured hankies and joke shop handlebar tashes – more Frisco than disco. We danced the night away to period pop courtesy of the resident DJs, the Readers Wives. I pogoed to God Save the Queen by the Sex Pistols, which seemed appropriate given the venue. My cheap fake tash dropped off in the process.

As the evening drew to a close, we tottered across Hungerford Bridge to the Strand and boarded our night bus home. Of course, we sat on the top deck like a couple of tourists. The passenger list was like London life in miniature. Two young men sat canoodling at the front on the bus, nothing pornographic you understand, just a fine romance. A mixed-race straight couple sat in the seat behind in animated exploratory conversation. He’d obviously just picked her up (or vice versa). Two gangsta-looking types in chunky chains sat behind us talking not of drug deals but of share swaps. A gaggle of girls giggled at the back. The good-humoured Clapham omnibus led me down memory lane through the south London streets of my salad days. We arrived home safe, sated and sozzled.

Tomorrow – The Bow Belles

For more on Clive and Ian you might like to read:

Tales of the City

It’ll Make You Go Blind

London Calling

The weather in Blighty has been challenging to say the least. Bright warmish sunshine has been rudely interrupted by frequent squally showers. In between the inclemency we enjoyed an all too brief sunny interlude that provided an opportunity for a congenial picnic along the side of the Mall in St James’ Park. It’s an annual indulgence and we were joined by a choice selection of our London life friends. The royal parks are the lungs of London and St James’ is arguably the prettiest. The imperial pile of Buckingham Palace was our al fresco backdrop. The Royal Standard wasn’t flying so Betty was out. We feasted on deliciously calorific M&S fare, washed down with Pinot Grigio Blush. Clive and his civil partner, Angus, presented us with an unexpected gift, a DVD of the second series of Glee. Liam’s eyes lit up like a bush baby on acid. He’d devoured the first series in two sittings and hungered for more. The riots seem a long time ago. Broken Britain? Not from where I’m sitting.

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Here Comes the Bride

Our first whistle stop was Bristol, to attend my niece’s wedding. It was a fun and emotional affair. The bride looked gorgeous, the groom dashing. Both looked ectastic. The only variance from the ceremonial norm was the string trio in the church – the viola player hadn’t bothered to turn up. I advised my brother to demand a 25% discount.

When my niece was 15, my first born brother thought it was high time that his daughter knew I was gay. ‘Oh Dad,’ she said. ‘I’ve known for years.’ She’s one cool niece.

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Ladies and Gents, Please Welcome…

By the time you read this Liam and I will be in Blighty enjoying a welcome respite from the soul sapping humidity. We’re having a two centre summer tour of the Motherland followed by a few days in Bordeaux to celebrate an old friend’s half century. Barbara from Turkish Muse contacted me and a number of other bloggers a while back. She and her husband were off on a romantic visit to Paris to celebrate their anniversary. She asked if we could guest post on her blog while she was being swept off her feet. What a fantastic idea, I thought. So I’m stealing Barbara’s concept.  I’ve invited a select group of jobbing bloggers and loyal pansy fans to write a piece for your delectation. I wrote:

Although my blog is mostly about my life in Turkey with Liam, I often stray onto other topics when the mood takes me. So, I really don’t mind what you write about. It can be about your life as an expat, a social comment or hot topic, your favourite recipe, what you like or dislike about expat life, what you miss/don’t miss about your former life, your favourite photo, your best/worst holiday, where you’d like to visit, even your grandmother’s secrets if you’re in the mood to be racy. Write whatever takes your fancy. It might be a good excuse to write about something new, away from your normal theme. I don’t even mind if it’s long or short. See how easy I am to please?

I’ve got a bumper crop lined up, interrupted by brief despatches of my own from Blighty. Enjoy.

PS. Those of you who know where we live, don’t even think about relieving us of our flatscreen TV and secret stash of mucky DVDs. Our neighbours are back and you know how nosey Turks can be.

Defiant Blighty

The nasty riots that raged across London and other cities seem to have thankfully abated. There’s been a lot of easy talk about Broken Britain and knee-jerk reactions from here today, gone tomorrow politicians with their silly sound-bites who play to the gallery. What’s broken can be fixed but it takes everyone to do their bit. The indomitable spirit of the overwhelming number of Brits of all hues will overcome those who trash their own.

This is an incredible amateur video of a brave woman who challenged the rioters. If you don’t like swearing then I suggest you don’t watch this clip.

Normal Pansyland service resumes tomorrow.

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Riots in London

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Riots in London

London’s Burning

London’s burning and the rising anger felt by most about the three nights of viral riots that escalated across the Capital and other major British cities is understandable. It’s easy to take a lock ‘em up and throw away the key attitude to those stupid people binging on recreational looting and casual arson. Even a bleeding heart pinko liberal like me feels a sense of revulsion when witnessing inner city hoodies in designer trainers, wielding iron bars and Blackberries and rampaging through the streets. I’ve read calls for social networks like Twitter and Facebook to be closed down as if this was the problem. It isn’t. I’ve heard people ask ‘Where are the water cannons?’ There aren’t any. I’ve read calls for the army to clear the streets. I’ve even heard calls for the imposition of martial law. Britain isn’t Syria. However, Britain is France and these riots bear an uncanny resemblance to those that engulfed Paris and other French cities in 2005. Let’s try and keep a sense of proportion. Of course, law and order must be firmly restored but then we need to examine the why. Is this a case of sub-class, out of control feral kids with little care for their families or communities? Or is it a case of a lost-generation, disenfranchised youth with few prospects and a bleak future? Like most things the truth lies somewhere in between.

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Defiant Blighty

Gay Marriage in New York

I’ve been following the debate about civil unions across the pond with interest and bemusement. America was founded on the noble principle that all men are born equal (although, at the time this sentiment didn’t extend to slaves or women). The States is not called the Land of the Free for nothing. Last month New York State legalised same sex marriage, the most populous state ever to have done so. New York has now joined a small select group that includes Connecticut, Iowa, Massachusetts, New Hampshire and Vermont, as well as the District of Columbia. Because it’s New York, New York where Lady Liberty shines her torch the event has been widely reported across the globe. It’s even hit the media here in Turkey.

I assume I’m correct in thinking that a same sex union registered in New York has no legal standing in those states that do not recognise such relationships or have positively banned them. So it’s okay to be a child African bride, a forced Pakistani bride or a polygamous Arab but it’s not okay for two consenting adult Americans to decide who their significant other should be. What a strange situation. There will always be people who object to same sex relationships on moral or religious grounds. They are entitled to their views but are not entitled to force them on others. The wish of some to form a romantic bond with a member of the same sex is a personal issue. The legal recognition of it does not lead to anarchy and Armageddon.

What of my homeland? Civil partnerships were introduced in United Kingdom in 2004 which give same-sex couples rights and responsibilities identical to civil marriage. New Labour may well have put the country in hock for the next century but they did deliver a radical and comprehensive equal rights agenda. This was truly historic and I believe history will judge it so. About time too. I had become thoroughly fed up with a society that expected me to pay all my dues in return for second class citizenship and semi-rights. Liam and I married in 2008.

What of my fosterland? Homosexuality is not mentioned in the Turkish legal code and so gay people live in a kind of legal limbo neither protected nor persecuted, officially anyway. The Turkish Government has made it abundantly clear that it has no intention of introducing equal rights for lesbian and gay Turks. I have to add, our obvious union has never received a bad vibe from the Turks around us. If anything the reverse has been true. As infidels we’re Hell-bound anyway so it matters little what we do.

America is not perfect, no country is, but it is a beacon of freedom and hope for people from less blessed lands. Some people are gay. It’s just the way it is.

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Britain’s Got Talent

I’d like to introduce you to my namesake nephew, Jack. He’s fourteen and bursting with the energy and confidence that I never had at his age. If your ears can stand it watch his plucky performance in front of his peers at a school assembly. He’s got the look and the moves though sadly not the voice. He learns, he thinks and writes poetry. He’s good with a football and with a pen. He enjoys life and loves his family. He’s a young man of rounded ability. Let’s give it up for the much maligned state school system.

Bodrum Belles

We’ve become acquainted with a number of hard-core vetpats following our move to the sweaty city. I call them the Bodrum Belles, single ladies of a certain age, rollercoaster pasts and plucky presents. We have yet to bump into any Bodrum Beaus. Middle-aged male singletons are thin on the ground round here. Most of the belles live quiet and contented lives with a refreshing insight into their lot and a sense of humour. However, we did have the misfortune of wasting some time with a pompous middle England misery, a highly educated woman of depressing stupidity. She waxed imperiously about the educational shortcomings of British youth. As this dumb belle was born with a silver spoon up her arse I wondered what she could possible know about the state school system beyond what she’d read in the tainted pages of the Daily Mail.