Valentine’s Day took an unusual twist this year. Chrissy invited us to her place for a romantic dinner for four. We were instructed to wear something red or pink for the occasion. Obviously, as gay men our wardrobe is dominated by different shades of pink. We feebly complied for a quiet life. The table setting was a glittering display of fussy pink and lilac chintz, hearts and flowers and enough tea lights to power a small city. The food was great. Bernard is a good cook. However, the happy couple bickered loudly in the kitchen between courses. Cupid had taken the night off.
Category: LGBT
The Only Gay in the Village
We fancied a singalong fright night in the village and headed down to a local beachfront steakhouse. Popular with the hardy resident emigreys, it’s owned by bubbly, brassy bottle-blond Berni Belfast and her Turkish husband, Deniz, who cooks the best steak on the peninsula. Berni lays on the usual winter fare of fixed price menus, quiz nights and karaoke to coax the emigreys out from under their duvets. I like unpretentious Berni. She is the real deal, calls a spade a shovel and is a bracing breath of fresh air on a brisk night.
Proletarian Berni has a high-octave accent delivered like a sub-machine gun. As my Mother is from that part of the world I can catch the conversation. Alas, poor Liam understands hardly a word and just nods and smiles politely like the Queen at a Commonwealth jamboree.
Berni regaled us with tales of the bar wars. Allegedly, following months of clandestine subterfuge, her former front of house left without warning to launch his own restaurant taking with him their head chef and photocopies of their menus. I sense industrial espionage is rife in the catering trade here but to set up a new establishment dishing up identical fare for the same audience only a few hundred metres along the pretty promenade does seem a touch provocative. The bilious bad blood bubbles just beneath the surface.
Blackpool Bobbi was our camp karaoke compere for the evening’s random entertainment. Unforgettable veteran resident Bobbi fosters a unique, instantly recognisable look. Uncompromisingly clad top to tail in Persil whiteness from his back-combed highlights to his shiny patent leather loafers, he belts out a passable interpretation of ‘My Way’ between the vodka shots. I admire his pluck. Truly, Bobbi is the only gay in the village.
Sex and the Sitesi
Vivacious vetpat Charlotte and naughty but nice Nancy are compulsive Sex and the City groupies. So when they heard that my butch scaffolder nephew gave me a DVD of ‘Sex and the City 2’ for Christmas they started foaming at the mouth. I have a perceptive family who know what I like though I suspect the strapping lad asked his girlfriend to buy it for him to avoid being ridiculed at the till in HMV.
Charlotte and Nancy descended on us for a camp night at the movies dragging Charlotte’s dapper hubby, Alan, behind them. ‘Sex and the City’ really is a gay and girlie thing. Straight men just don’t get it. As with SATC1, the sequel is less edgy and sexually incisive than the broads with balls TV shows but is diverting enough with a thin storyline cleverly disguised by a grand pageant of fab frocks, fuck me heels and glam handbags. The rapid fire costume changes left our girlie guests gasping doubling the dimensions of their bounteous baps. Meanwhile, bored Alan dropped off in the corner.
The soaring triumph of the film is a remarkably nimble performance by premier league gay icon, Liza with a ‘Zee’ Minnelli, who I thought had long since checked into a waxwork museum. Draped in a little black mini dress displaying an amazing set of pins many decades her junior and a fixed nip and tuck expression, Ms Minnelli delivered a delightfully feisty rendition of Beyoncé’s ‘Single Ladies (Put a Ring on it)’. The agile, aging diva bopped boldly about the boards like the game old bird that she is. I feared she might fall and break a hip. And, while I have no wish to impugn Ms Minnelli’s undoubted talents or profound ability to hold back the years, I suspected CGI.
Much-troubled Ms Garland’s much-troubled progeny appeared as the surprise star turn at a gay ‘wedding’ at the top of the film. Alas, it put our tastefully understated French bistro-themed civil partnership reception at a gastro-pub in Waterloo firmly in the shade. That’s Hollywood for you.
Thanks to Paul Hard for the post title. Sorry Paul, there’s no money in it!
Las Vegas-on-Sea
After a hearty brunch, Nick decided to initiate us into the ancient Ionian ritual of bush bashing to bring down the olive crop, a technique that has remained unaltered for countless millennia. Liam took to thrashing a cane with great gusto donning a fetching floral headscarf for the occasion. I withdrew to the foliage to keep Vinnie company. Vinnie was distinctly nonplussed by all the fuss and took refuge in a sunny spot.
Next on the packed agenda was a whistle-stop tour of the dubious daytime delights of Kuşadası, the Aegean gateway to the splendours of some of Asia Minor’s best preserved historical sites. Having read the ‘Rough Guide’ which uncompromisingly describes the resort as “a brash, mercenary and unpleasant Las Vegas-on-Sea…” my expectations were rock bottom. In fact, I thought the epitaph more than a little harsh. The town is a touch rough around some of its sprawling edges and not as classically attractive as Bodrum, but it does convey a vital urban buzz which I found appealing. I was unpredictably impressed by the busy throng of real people, the boulevards of real shops and the sprinkling of smart bistros. And Kuşadası does provide one important facility that sets it above the rest – a proper, bone fide gay bar that entices an eclectic mix of trannies, dancing queens, sugar daddies, gays for pay, hairy marys and the odd bemused bi-curious northerner in search of furtive titillation.
We stopped off for coffee at a trendy café along the neat promenade and watched the sun set over the marina. We contemplated the stark contrast to our cute but comatosed little town of Yalıkavak where nights are spent holding hands and contacting the living. Where’s Doris Stokes when you need her?
Karyn dished up a gastronomic triumph for the evening’s victuals, serving duck terrine which she fretted over all week according to ‘The Competitive World of Expat Cooking‘. She needn’t have worried. The reclaimed brick had done the trick, and the terrine was superb. Karyn invited a few old fairy friends along for the slicing ceremony. We were particularly amused by senior citizen, Peter, a dedicated Friend of Dorothy and philanderer extraordinaire who is an accomplished, competitive cook and keeps a Turk in the basement for afters.
The next day we took homespun kahvaltı in the local soba-warmed lokanta, escaping the crisp mountain air. Popular with both the Chelsea tractor brigade and villagers alike, the rustic eatery served up a plentiful plate of traditional fare. We hit the road after breakfast, waving farewell to our generous comperes and their tender menagerie. I had utterly enjoyed sparring with an intellectual thoroughbred. We shall return.
Come Dine with Me
For better or for worse we have become part-time curios on the crème de la crème dinner party circuit adding exotic seasoning to various pretentious repasts. It’s all very Come Dine with Me and the competition is frightfully fierce. We attended a meal at Chrissy and Bernard’s imposing pile in Torba.
Around the fussily arranged table, we met vetpat Viv from Dereköy. Impeccably turned out, fifty something Viv is elegantly statuesque but struggles to raise her slender forearms due to the weight of clanging bangles. In bygone days she owned a Battersea bistro with her ex-husband until the day she found him in flagrante with the pastry delivery boy. She never suspected that her ex batted on both sides of the net though his treasured collection of classic Judy Garland vinyls was a bit of a clue.
Viv has since carved out a prolific career as a serial VOMIT hopping on top of one Anatolian after another. The boys get younger as she gets older. Despite the predictable pattern of broken heart and emptied purse, she remains irrepressibly upbeat about her lot. We make attentive listeners to assorted emigrey tales. The complement is rarely reciprocated. Do I have agony aunt tattooed across my forehead?
At the close of play Viv gave us a lift home taking the back road to evade the Jandarma. Naturally, we small-talked about the evening along the way. I commented how appetising the food had been. ‘The rice was cold’ came Viv’s withering verdict. We are not confident cooks and have no intention of being subjected to microscopic scrutiny from the affected. The most anyone can expect from us is a bottomless cellar and a few savoury nibbles.
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.
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Pooing on a Paddle
I received a delightfully distracting ‘how’s things?’ email from Jacqueline, an old comrade of wry wit and razor sharp intellect. She is a wonderfully undemanding friend who I may only see once a year. When we meet, we simply carry on where we left off, mixing lascivious gossip with incisive social and political comment (or so we think). She and her partner Angus have been sorely laid low of late with a nasty case of gastroenteritis. Naturally, Angus’ suffering is the greatest since he is a boy. Girls have a higher pain threshold apparently. It’s something to do with childbirth. If the Vicar of Christ knew from first-hand experience just how painful it was to have babies, I’m sure he would command priests to hand out condoms during communion; he could solve the African AIDS crisis and endemic Third World over-population with a single wave of his Holiness’ crook.
I know a little of food poisoning myself. Many, many years ago when I had cheek bones you could slice cheese with, I met a randy Yank in the Brief Encounter Bar in St Martin’s Lane (now long gone, but in times long past the place to briefly encounter). In the taxi back to his gaff, the Yank got a tad peckish so we stopped off for a takeaway kebab on the Caledonian Road. I took one small bite to be sociable. He wolfed the rest. The next day I ended up in The London Hospital with projectile vomit. The rapid diet had its attractions but pooing on a paddle for Environment Health was a distressing experience. I never saw the Yank again. I think he died.
Jacqueline has taken up patch working and quilting as a hobby. She’s clearly keeping a weather eye on the future: the imminent implosion of the public sector may well necessitate a dramatic career change.
Karyn the Old Pro
I have a new best friend in the blogosphere. Her name is Karyn and she writes a tasty piece on village life called ‘Being Koy’. It’s an erudite, juicy read full of mouth-watering morsels of wit and wisdom tinged with a little irony – a real mouse clicking screen turner. She’s an old pro at this blogging lark with more hits than Cliff Richard.
She doesn’t know this yet, but I have decided that we are to be married as soon as my divorce comes through. I’ve been meaning to lose my virginity since puberty, and she just might be the girl to turn me to the path of righteousness. Naturally, Liam is devastated, and has reserved his cell in an Irish nunnery and picked out a habit. He’s gone for navy blue hot pants to complement his eyes.
Karyn contacted me a while ago to congratulate me on my modest blog which she found purely by chance. It must have been a quiet night down in the koy if she was travelling that deep into cyberspace. Her effusion made me blush. Since then we have established a mutual appreciation society, an exclusive club with a select membership of just two. To further cement the bond between we jobbing bloggers Karyn graciously invited me be a guest writer on her hallowed site. I bit her hand off. As a mark of respect, I penned something a little less irreverent and bit more thoughtful called Good as You In Turkey. I’m going to scratch her back by returning the complement. I think she intends to do a little piece on being constantly accosted by swarthy men offering comfort every time she leaves the house. And the point is?
If you have a few minutes take a look at Karyn’s blog and my guest post – Good as You in Turkey.
Pimp and Circumstance
I received an exploratory email from an old work colleague in London whom I affectionately call Vera. Clearly contemplating the changing circumstances of his looming dotage and having stumbled across my sexpat post, he asked me about the going rate for securing the regular services of a young Turk. ‘Why do you want to know?’ I quizzed. He replied bluntly, ‘Fat, 55, single and desperate.’ What am I now, a pimp?
Clement’s Little Secret
Once again, we took tea with Clement. This has become a civilised feature of Tepe Houses life. Clement took the opportunity to caution us that, even though rough men (and the rougher the better) have been his preferred choice of playmate since the end of sugar rationing, he doesn’t like to be labelled as ‘gay’. We took this to mean that he frets that our neighbourly friendship and uninhibited demeanour will cast an unwelcome light on him. We agreed to keep his sexual identity secret, since we think it isn’t much of a secret to keep.
Perking the Pansies 