Clement has fled to the hills to his village bungalow. I must confess to a slight sense of ambiguity by his exodus. In many ways he’s been a gracious and kindly neighbour but his quaintly old-fashioned views are way out of kilter with the modern world, a bit like an eccentric maiden aunt. I shall not to miss his angry evening discourses – how dear old England has lost its moral compass and is going to Hell in a handcart. He is emotionally and spiritually drawn to the warmth of traditional Turkish family values. It reminds him of the Blighty of his youth where everyone knew their place and were happy with their lot. Those were the halcyon days of consumption, grinding poverty and backstreet abortions where the love that dares not speak its name would result in persecution and a stiff prison sentence. I wish him the best but fear for the worst.
Category: LGBT
Handbags and Gladrags
Chrissy invited the ‘Come Dine with Me’ set to a local restaurant in Torba on the occasion of her birthday. The restaurant is run by a slightly fey man called Emir who rides a motorcycle but keeps his helmet hidden in the pannier to avoid getting it dirty. The gang assembled preened, pressed and powdered with breasts out on display despite the nipple-hardening chill.
Recently engaged Emir joined Liam and I at the bar. He suggested that when the weather improved we might like to join him for a skinny dip on Dodo Beach, an isolated spot where we can bathe unmolested. I suspect he had molestation of his own in mind.
The soiree was as cold as the weather. I was asked to judge a handbag competition because, as a gay man, I obviously know all about women’s handbags. I was presented with a ghastly array of (presumably fake), Gucci, D&G, Burberry and the like. I awarded first prize to the ugliest bag, big enough to transport paint from B&Q. The event became increasingly ill tempered. Bernard, a petty, humourless man of many hidden shallows, complained loudly that Chrissy no longer “puts out” as he delicately phrased it, preferring instead to take Jeffrey Archer to bed. We are growing weary of the relentless rivalry and trivial keeping up with the Jones’ village mentality. The crème is starting to curdle.
Fire and Brimstone
Forums provide an invaluable service to people living in a foreign land. Why re-invent the wheel when the ‘been there, done that’ brigade can help? The TLF is the largest and most active of all the forums in Turkey and long may it thrive. I usually read in passive amusement at the cut and thrust debate on the latest hot topic. Combatants engage in a war of attrition from the trenches lobbing their opinions, dressed up as fact, into no man’s land in the hope of scoring the last point. It can get quite heated at times but that’s the joy of free speech. I confess that I rarely contribute as I like to keep my blood pressure under control and I prefer to converse around a dinner table with people I actually know.
Sometimes, though, forum debates can get out of hand as it did recently. What started as a reasonable argument about the fairness of the court judgement preventing a couple from fostering because of their biblical views of homosexuality degenerated into an unseemly slanging match. It’s just the excuse some people need to emerge from their closets to vent their reactionary prejudices. Where were the moderators?
I don’t have a fixed view about the topic. I don’t know the full facts and, unless those who commented were in court that day, I suspect they don’t either. What depressed me was that some people would prefer to place an already damaged child with fundamentalist Christians rather than a middle class, liberal lesbian couple from Islington. Homosexuality isn’t catching, religion is. Gay people don’t kill for their cause, religious zealots do. Gay people campaign for equal rights, religions demand to be above the Law. Enough said.
Tree Huggers Unite
We honeymooned in Kaş on the Turkuaz Coast. I was by then a seasoned Turkey traveller but Liam was an excitable novice. Kaş is a beguiling Bohemian jewel, surrounded by a pristine hinterland that has been mercifully spared the worst excesses of mass tourism. No expense was spared and we took a suite at the Deniz Feneri Lighthouse Hotel through Exclusive Escapes, an altogether superior hotel by an altogether superior travel company. No one star Gümbet with no star Thomas Cook for me on my first and final honeymoon. We bathed in the sparkling blue waters, strolled along the relaxed hassle-free promenade, feasted by candle-light and danced the night away with the locals in Bar Red Point, the best watering hole in town. I promised Liam the genuine Turkish shave experience and we got a lot more than just something for the weekend from the predatory married barbers on the pull. It put Liam off for life.
We hired a car and explored some of surrounding must sees in old Lycia. The area is stuffed with them. We lunched in pretty but twee Kalkan, meandered through the grand ruins of Patara, relaxing awhile on the adjacent beach – a stunning 18km protected stretch of soft white sand – and bathed in its shallow waters. We stumbled across the intimate ruins of the cult sanctuary of Letoon and watched turtles play in the warm pools. Letoon seduced us with its intimacy while nearby Xanthos, one-time capital of Lycia, awed us with its monumental scale and picture postcard aspect.
My first visit to Kaş was ten years earlier and it had hardly changed a bit. It was then that I met a middle-aged Scottish emigrey couple. They were ex-publicans with money to burn. The lazy town had worked its magic and they instantly decided to buy a house – no research, no cooling off, no going back. Prices were cheap and they visited a cashpoint machine each day to gather the deposit. I wonder if the dream lived up to the reality.
It was in Kaş that the seeds of our own change were sown though germination took another year. As we sipped chilled wine by the glorious infinity pool, we idly speculated about dropping out of the rat race and finding our place in the sun. We dreamed of Kaş and the Turkuaz Coast as if our lives could be one long honeymoon. Common sense prevailed as it must. Kaş is what it is because of its glorious isolation, protected by a wilting three hour drive from the nearest international airport. I hear talk of a new gateway to open up the coast. I would gladly chain myself to a tree like Swampy or pitch a tent like a Greenham Common lesbian to prevent it.
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.
The Homecoming
Liam is back from Londra safe and sound but knackered after a six hour delay at Istanbul. Atatürk Airport is up there with the most tedious and expensive airports on the planet; rip off duty free and eight Euros for a cup of insipid burnt coffee. I warmed the house with a roaring fire framed by IKEA candles, decanted the red and cooked a hearty supper. When Liam crossed the threshold I held him for an age. He’d only been away for a few short days, yet I couldn’t help myself. I am a forty something, worldly wise old cynic behaving like a silly school boy with an adolescent crush.
Mother’s Ruin
I rode the dolly to a bar we know in Turgutreis. I was warmly welcomed by Mehmet, the jolly owner. As usual he was very much the worse for wear, indulging his infamous tendency to drink the profits. After initial reticence his new waiter started to give me the serious glad eye. Tall, slim and handsome, in a previous incarnation I might well have been tempted. These days I am a fine and faithful married man. In any case, I know through bitter experience that encounters with Turkish men are invariably complicated and often require recompense for services rendered. My advanced inebriation was such that I couldn’t tell if this young man’s favour was genuine or if he was just another member of the gay for pay brigade.
Discounting the waiter’s flirtation, I engaged Mehmet in drunken conversation. I was supping gin. He ordered one of the waiters to fetch the Bombay Sapphire from the store room and proceeded to lavish it upon me. My reputation as a drinker is legendary and Bombay Sapphire is my favourite tipple, but even I couldn’t handle the quantity of mother’s ruin he overpoured into my glass. I tipped much it on the floor when his back was turned. Sensing I had reached my limit, I paid my bill, made my excuses and staggered off to the taxi rank. The winsome waiter waved ruefully as he watched his bounty disappear into the night.
Gaygle It
Last December Perking the Pansies was permanently blocked by the Turkish internet police. I threw a hissy fit at the prospect of a firm hand on my door knob, a frisk by a frisky conscript and instant deportation. It all turned out to be a storm in a çay cup. My inconsequential contribution to the blogosphere was simply caught by lazy censorship that uses a scatter gun approach to punish the innocent and the guilty alike. Perking the Pansies became, as the Americans say, ‘collateral damage‘. I had to abandon my old site hosted by Google and move lock, stock and barrel to WordPress. A couple of days ago I noticed that the page hits on my new site overtook those of the old for the first time. Nowadays I need only the slightest excuse to make merry so I raised a glass in thanks.
I’m endlessly fascinated and bemused by the search terms that bring some surfers to my website. I’ve already mentioned ‘Yalikavak Sex’ and ‘Gay Hairy Turkish Men’ but there is also:
- Porn Torkish
- Gumbet porno
- Turk Gay Sitesi
- Thermal Bloomers
- Sex Sitesi
- Gay Calis Beach
- Middleaged Sexpats
- Gundogan Gay
- Lyrics to I’m as Gay as a Daisy
A definitive gay guide to Turkey for the curious traveller seeking a little relief in the sun is sorely needed. Sadly it would be a thin digest and probably banned.
Home Alone
Alas I am abandoned, albeit temporarily. Liam has dashed home to Londra on a mercy mission to look after his Mother while Liam Senior is in hospital having his arthritic knee repaired. My delicate and kindly Mother-in-Law is as Irish as a dainty shamrock. She and I gossip about the silly twists in Corrie and I make her giggle when I gently tease about her youthful antics when she used to climb over the convent wall to attend the local dance.
To distract me from my solitude I joined Greg and Sam on their weekly visit to a Pazar. They were in desperate need of soft fruit for the last batch of their winter preserves. After filling their shopping trolley with fruity seasonal goodies we ventured onwards for a bracing ramble across the desolate, windswept headland between Bodrum and Gümbet. We toured the tumble down windmills, now sadly derelict save for a solitary Turk we found self-abusing in one of them. Apparently, local men go there after dark. I wonder why.
Perking the Pansies 