Category: Britain

Second Time Around

We spent a chilly evening warmed by a blazing grate and a bottle of red romantically reminiscing about our civil partnership ceremony in 2008. It was a splendid festival of family and friends in the Sky Lounge at the City Inn Hotel, Westminster. We tied the knot silhouetted against a picture postcard backdrop of the Palace and Abbey. With the simple words “The relationship between you is now recognised in Law” ringing in our ears, we embraced to an ocean of beaming smiles, rapturous applause and a chorus of cheers. Blighty has come a long way since the awful Thatcher years.

A champagne reception was followed by an old routemaster red bus tour of London Town from the Abbey to St Paul’s. We crossed Old Father Thames by London Bridge onwards through Borough towards ‘Horse’ in Waterloo, the gastropub venue for our reception and evening knees up. Tables were dressed French bistro style with crisp white linen and porcelain contrasted with a single stem tulip of vivid red. We dined at a top table for two. Speeches were informal and unrehearsed. There were flowers for the seniors, toys for the juniors and posh chocolates and bubbly for significant others.

Liam said it all with a song called ‘Second Time Around’ which he composed covertly over many weeks. Vocals were supplied by Sally Rivers, a top-notch singer of enormous depth and experience with a rich, soulful voice. Fortified by a vat of Dutch courage, Liam nervously accompanied Sally’s recording live on the piano. I listened intently from a distance. It made me thankful he chose me. It was a sweet triumph without a drunken bum note that brought the crowd to its feet and had us sobbing in the aisles.

If you fancy a listen, click here.

The evening shindig brought in a bigger audience. I pre-mixed the music with old favourites, dance classics and pop standards – No ‘YMCA,’ ‘Agadoo’ or ‘the Birdie Song.’ The evening jolly was joyously punctuated by a big screen showing of a camp compilation of cleverly cut snippets from famous musicals synchronised to a soundtrack of  ‘I Just Wanna Dance.’

See how many musicals you can name but if you are offended by the word f*****g then you’d best not play it!

The evening was brought to a close by Petula Clark’s ‘The Show is Over Now,’ a fitting end to a momentous day.

Tomorrow’s post – The Honeymoon

Grey Britain?

Peering out of the damp windows provides a timely and salutary reminder of one of the reasons we left Britain. The sea and sky are united in an unbroken dirty greyness disguising the horizon and cloaking the Greek islands in the far distance. We are confined by the persistent drizzle. There are many things I miss about London but the weather isn’t one of them though I was surprised to stumble across Interesting European Weather Facts that suggests that my home town has one of the most benign climates of the major European cities. It must be true. I read it on internet. Whatever the facts I’m glad of our regular city fix that enables us to have the best of both. Despite our warm and forgiving hosts, London is a place where we can genuinely breathe free. I can’t see us becoming diehard Blighty bashers unlike so many of our compatriots.

Everyone has a tale to tell and tell it they do. Many of the stories are depressingly similar – running away from something or someone and seeking renewal. It’s hard to fathom why poor old Blighty is so often blamed for their plight. Do people really think a faraway land offers a sure fire panacea for the demons who lie within? Liam and I have chosen to embrace our new life, not as a rejection of what had gone before, but as validation of our future. We are under no illusion that we can simply deposit our unwanted pasts at left luggage.

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.

Thank the Madonna for Virgin

We foolishly mislaid our Turkish mobile phone a few weeks ago and replaced it with a little second hand number. It looked quite nice in the display cabinet but this turned out to be just an illusion. The bloody thing started to fall apart the minute we got it home, and after a few days it became impossible to see the screen after dark. Like the rest of the World, Turks have begun an enduring love affair with mobile telephony though it’s difficult to imagine how most people can afford it since even a modest phone costs the average weekly wage. There are three main phone operators in Turkey – Turkcell (by far the biggest), AVEA and good old British Vodafone. I thought it quite reasonable to expect a little healthy competition. Not a bit of it. As far as I can see the whole market works as a cartel. So, during his mercy dash to Blighty, Liam bought a new phone. It cost a fiver. Thank the Madonna for Virgin.

It turns out you can’t just buy a phone willy-nilly and swap the SIM card over. Oh, no. All phones must be registered with the State. Apparently it’s an anti-terrorist measure. It probably facilitates phone tapping which I read is surprisingly commonplace. Off we trotted to the main Turkcell shop in Bodrum to discharge our legal obligations. We were processed by a cheery young woman with forearms hairier than Liam’s. She sorted us out in no time with a registration form in triplicate with two official stamps on each copy and countless photocopies of Liam’s passport and residency permit. There are now enough copies of his official identity in circulation to supply the Israeli Secret Service for years.

Knots Landing

Michael Fish's Blooper

I was diverted from my solitude by gale force winds. The magnificent bougainvillea that graces the front of the house, still bald from the last meteorological onslaught, lashed about like a cat o’ nine tails. The winter-weary palm finally surrendered to the elements and laden terracotta pots slow-danced across the terrace like cheap plastic fakes. Apparently, the wind gusted to 55 knots. I may be slightly familiar with knots vis-a-vis bondage but have no clue what this means maritime-wise. Since I was nearly blown off the patio trying to have a fag, I can claim with some confidence that 55 knots is very windy indeed.

It reminded me of the great storm of 1987, the worst since 1703, that hit southern England on the early morning of my birthday. It was the vicious tempest that killed 18 people, felled half the trees in the Home Counties and transformed Sevenoaks into Oneoak. I lived in Windsor at the time. I lay in my bed listening to the sound of Welsh slates sliding off my roof and smashing onto my neighbour’s BMW. Serves him right for parking outside my house.

Yalikavak Skies

We relax at home to revel in our continued good fortune with G&Ts, ice and a slice on the terrace. We sit in silent awe as the sun descends into the sea releasing a final flourish of soft red, peach and orange light into the evening sky. Spectacular but short lived, the riot of delicate hues is displaced by the chilled black night studded with a thousand stars. Now you don’t get that in Walthamstow.

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Thank you to Clive, Greg and Sam for some of the images.

Huddled Masses

Misir

We watched the drama unfold in Egypt on BBC World. The dictator was finally toppled by the “…huddled masses yearning to breathe free…” to misquote the inscription on a bronze plaque mounted inside of the Statue of Liberty. History demonstrates that authoritarian regimes, whether left, right or theocratic that rule by fear eventually collapse under the weight of their own oppression. Egypt, the most ancient of nations, has no experience of democracy and I sincerely hope that the experiment will be real and lasting. Let’s wish for a pluralist, secular state that respects individual rights and not for a ‘one man, one vote, once’ process that might cast Egypt back to the Middle Ages and would make the Middle East an infinitely more dangerous place. That would be scary for everyone and Egyptians deserve better.

I also sense my foster land may be sliding imperceptibly backwards. The first sign of compulsory head-scarfs will see us booking the first available Easyjet flight back to flawed but free Blighty.

“Power tends to corrupt and absolute power corrupts absolutely.” Lord Acton (1834-1902)

Houston, We Have a Problem

Whore’s Drawers

The unreliability of our ADSL is becoming a major irritant. It’s been up and down like whore’s drawers of late and even when it’s up it’s like a slow foxtrot. TTNET blamed it on the quality of our telephone line. They have a point. All we get is lots of crackling. It’s astonishing just how completely reliant we now are on the internet not just for my irrelevant irreverent dispatches but more importantly for banking and fund watching to dodge insolvency. Not to mention keeping in touch with loved ones in Blighty via email and Skype. It’s our small but vital window on the World. We ordered in a swarthy Turk with ample tools to fiddle with our wires in exchange for cash. He sorted us out. For now.

Crisis? What Crisis?

It’s Cold Outside

Clement popped by for tea to meet Clive. Alluding to the ceaseless storm clouds of recession that just refuse to budge, his provocative first words were “I’m so sorry, things must be so awful for you in England” barely concealing his ill-judged glee with fake concern. Predictably, Clive’s hackles rose like an angry porcupine and a prickly exchange of political, social and economic views ensued. I’m afraid it became rather heated. Clive gave firm assurances that he wasn’t queuing up at the local Sally Army soup kitchen just yet.

After an indecently brief stopover, my cherished Clive departed with happy promises to return. He left us sad and melancholy.

My Drag Days Are Over!

Clive in Costume

Word has reached our storm lashed shores that principled vegetarian Clive has won the lead in the latest Hollywood blockbuster Mcdonald’s, The Advert. ‘It’s a meaty role’ he gushed. ‘And after years treading the boards in am-dram productions of dubious quality, my sad, drab drag days are over.’ Clive deservedly won the role after impressing the director with his haunting performances as the bi-polar Pepper Grinder in A Man for All Seasonings and as shot-putting Brunhilda, the pre-op East German transsexual in a post modern production of Wagner’s infamous Ring. We sent a congratulatory Moonpig card and an online voucher for a free Whopper.

We will be hearing more of his breakthrough starring role when he visits next week as our maiden caller from Blighty.