Category: Christmas & New Year

Tales of the City

Clive and partner Angus, invited us for dinner; a civilised and sophisticated affair, attended by some of our other long-term London life friends, Debbie, Ian and his partner, Matt. Clive is my oldest friend, more like a brother really. We attended the same school and have travelled down the years together, not always agreeing, sometimes quarrelling but always caring.

Debbie is a voluptuous head buyer for Fenwick’s who travels between the fashion capitals of the world seeking the latest accessories. She is Miss Mortgage Free of Kingston-upon-Thames so the girl from The Valleys has done good.

Ian is the manager of a Soho porn store, though he prefers to call it a ‘lifestyle’ shop, principally for his mother’s benefit. When pressed, he readily admits that R rated DVDs and poppers are the biggest draws. Apparently, regardless of the brand, poppers (or ‘room odorisers’ to give them their proper retail name) are all made by a man called Colin in his shed in Carshalton. Ian is particularly proud of his Christmas windows this year with little bottles of lube and condoms sitting prettily in sparkly trees between a pair of overpriced designer knickers and the new Armistead Maupin novel. “Beat that John Lewis!” he proudly exclaimed. Matt is a banker and has recently moved to a new position where the dealers know what wine to drink. He tells me this is the only qualification required of a banker these days. They are the archetypal urban gay couple with a penthouse flat in Bow and a mortgage the size of the Irish bailout.

The evening frolicked along handsomely. I miss the intelligent banter and repartee. It’s not something we get much of in Yalıkavak where espousing the malevolence of the Daily Mail is the usual stuff of debate.

Sex, Drugs and Sausage Rolls

London is a rare winter wonderland, gripped by a vicious Siberian front. Nevertheless, we slipped the leash of social and family commitments for a self-indulgent Sunday sojourn to a Vauxhall crush bar. We took drugs, stripped off our tops to display our newly acquired slimline torsos, flirted a little and reconnected with our subculture as the snow fell roundabout. We looked utterly ridiculous but we had a ball. You can take the boy out of London but you can’t take London out of the boy.

Check out the book

Loft Living London Style

The Blizzard

We observed the blanket blizzard from the safety and comfort of our loft musing how we might manage the social merry-go-round that is  to come. Still, we were content in the knowledge that the house was warm, snug, leakless and the power uninterrupted. Perchance, I may experience my very first white Christmas.

The Emigrey Express

We flew home on the emigrey express. To our fore was a banquet of bleached, bottle-blonds whose tinted tresses disguised a sea of solar haggard, sour facades. Obviously a peroxide barnet is a VOMIT prerequisite.

To the aft lay a sallow, loud-mouthed, drunken imitation of Archie Moon cuddling an empty bottle of Bells. He’d spent his time in the departure lounge downing the duty free and popping frequently to the tuvalet for an illicit fag. He dozed through most of the flight but awoke ten minutes before touchdown and casually lit a cigarette which was rapidly dispatched by the horrified staff. Meanwhile, Liam munched his way through two packets of chewy caramel, soft nougat and crispy chocolate balls that cost more than the airfare. We landed just before Gatwick was closed for the winter.

Blighty life pal, Karen, is housing us during our trip to the mother country, storing us in her delux en-suite loft. She is blessed with a wonderful home – chic and bohemian at the same time. She is a classy, off the wall lady of taste, charm and substance and fancies herself as a Mrs Madrigal type. The cap really fits. Karen’s husband, Peter, died of cancer a couple of years ago. His decline had been indecently swift, and she is slowly emerging from the disabling pain of grief: a hard slog that I know only too well.

The First Noel

We’re Blighty-bound for Christmas and, in some ways, I wish we weren’t. It would be splendid to spend our first yuletide in our newly adopted home, chuck up a tree, decorate it with the cheap baubles we expensively air-freighted, wrap it up in twinkling lights and top it off with a fairy flourish.

Before our festive exit from Asia, we decided on a social double date. We had a light luncheon with Vetpats Chuck and Susan who have brought forward their new year’s resolutions by regular gym visits to replenish their health. It seems to be doing the trick, particularly for Chuck who’s dropped a few pounds, perked up his pecs and brought a new glow to his fading porn star frontage. Their tranquil existence is being rudely disturbed by noisy neighbours. Susan’s polite intervention has had little lasting effect. If Chuck had a gun he’d shoot them. This is the American way.

Our second date was with Marie from Twickenham. Marie owns a large and imposing stone house near Gümsülük, the wintertime approach to which requires a transfer by Challenger tank since the surrounding roads resemble trenches of the Great War. She used to be big in IT and has just launched a Blighty-based internet business to off-set plunged interest rates. It’s called Snazzy Specs and sells chic reading glasses for discerning myopians. Also invited was Ellen from Ulster, a pretty blond with a harmonious demeanour and an unreserved ‘I love Turkey’ message which I found refreshing. Marie dished up hearty winter fare accompanied by a warming, roaring fire and serenaded with Sezen Aksu, the Queen of Turkopop. We all imbibed a little more than was good for us as we chatted into the small hours. The next day we had wine flu.

My Name is Jack, I am a Chocoholic

We are readying ourselves for our ‘holiday’ to London for the festive period. It feels strange, doing things in reverse for the first time. Most of the practical stuff here has been sorted, registering our stress index at zero. Chrissy seems amazed at how easy it has been for us, all due to her intervention, of course. We thought we’d already paid our dues in cash and kind, but it seems our gratitude is expected to be everlasting.

We’ve both lost weight despite our best efforts to nurture a cheap drink problem. Mind you, substituting convenience foods saturated with salt and sugar and stuffed with E numbers with freshly prepared meals just might have something to do with it. However, we absolutely dread the thought of early onset emigrey arms so are developing an addiction to chocolate to compensate.

Where the Pansies Never Fade

We are busy surveying the estate for storm damage. The bougainvillea has been rudely stripped of its leaves leaving a twisted wreck of intertwined twigs and the torn palm has been uprooted and casually tossed aside. Whilst we make repairs and mangle the sodden towels, I thought I’d share a sister pansy website from a distant country cousin from across the pond who writes of a perfect pansy paradise where we will never grow old.

Life Between the Buns – Where the Pansies Never Fade

Don your best red shoes and follow the yellow brick road to Shangri La.

Beggar Thy Neighbour

Susan and Chuck invited us to their pre-Christmas shindig. They live in Gökcebel, a sprawling village in the foothills above Yalıkavak, in a charming detached house surrounded by a pretty well-manicured walled garden.  As we arrived Susan presented us with a Manhattan. She mixes a mean cocktail and it nearly blew my head off. The usual suspects were in attendance with a few out of town extras to add to the vetpat mix. After a short while of mingling and polite conversation, we became trapped in the kitchen with merry widow Maureen from Windsor. She thought us very entertaining because she so loves the ‘gays’. She didn’t exactly endear herself by comparing us to Colin and Justin, the two queeny Scottish daytime TV interior ‘designers’ who devastate the homes of the unsuspecting with cheap and nasty kitsch. Realising she is incurably stupid rather than malicious, I let it pass.

Susan laid on a sumptuous festive spread. As we tucked into the sausage rolls, Liam chatted to naked capitalist Francis from Weybridge, who lives near Gümüslük with his wife Dotty, who apparently is. He retired from property speculation a few years ago and is a great admirer of Margaret Thatcher. He made his first fortune by buying and selling discounted, state subsidised council houses. Christ, even the Iron Lady hadn’t intended that to happen.

Having escaped the clutches of merry Maureen and fat cat Francis, we retreated to a bitter but discreet and sheltered corner of the garden for a furtive fag where we soon attracted the attention of Patricia from Bitez. She told us that she also owns a house in Wandsworth, south London, so she’s worth a bob or two. I engaged in a little small talk about the area, since I grew up there. The main advantage of living in Wandsworth, she said, is the low council tax. Mind you, she doesn’t think she should pay anything as she lives permanently in Turkey. “Do you know why your council tax is low?” I enquired. She didn’t. “Well, never be old, never be young, never be disabled or the parents of a disabled child” I explained. Patricia pondered a while, playfully twisting her hair and caressing the vulgar bauble welded to her finger. “Oh, I don’t care about people like that” she sniffed. I hope she never ends up in a wheelchair.