My Letter to Özgecan

Maybe, just maybe, something positive will emerge from this.

Jane Gundogan's avatarjaneyinmersin

I never had the pleasure of meeting you Özgecan.  I never had the chance to hear you laugh with your friends or sing along to your favorite tune.  No I did not know you at all but I know you now.  Your name will forever be etched into my heart and into the hearts of millions of others here in Turkey and around the world who woke on Valentine’s Day, the day of romance, to the sickening news of your death at the hands of a monster.  We are shocked beyond words hearing of your suffering and of knowing that the simple task of stepping on a bus is no longer safe here in Mersin.

Aslan

What happened to you happens to other women every day, all over the world.  Whether it is in New Delhi or Melbourne monsters can be found everywhere.  But with your death comes the news that tens of thousands…

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Whinging Brits

According to the Legal Ombudsman, the average Brit moans about something going awry 71 times per week but less than 1 in 5 of us are prepared to do anything about it. It’s well known that us Brits have raised whinging to an art form. Unlike many of my compatriots, I have a relatively positive demeanour. Apparently, I even whistle when I walk (irritating, I know), a practice I inherited from my mother. But even I want to throw rotten eggs at the screen every time I see that fake man of the people (and former investment banker) Nigel Farage (leader of the far right UK Independence Party) and his nauseating blokey face grinning back at me on TV.

I know from bitter experience that the classic moaning minnie has a colonial cousin, stoking up the home fires overseas. Yes, the Bigot Abroad, someone who hates the country they’ve moved to and hates the country they’ve moved from. There’s no pleasing some twats. I crashed into one or two of ’em propping up the bars of Turkey, I can tell you. Nigel’s swivel-eyed fans are alive and thriving in expatland. If only we could deport Nig to join them.

nigel farageFeel free to throw a rotten egg at this image.

 

Turkey for Christmas

After several lean years, it seems that we Brits may be falling in love with Turkey all over again. You know things are on the up when the London Evening Standard Property Supplement runs a feature on the Bodrum Peninsula with our old cruising ground, Yalıkavak, and its fancy new marina, getting a special mention. This how I described our first glimpse of the whitewashed town in my first book, Perking the Pansies, Jack and Liam move to Turkey

As we breached the brow of the hill, we caught our first picture postcard glimpse of Yalıkavak shimmering at the end of a lush valley below like randomly scattered sugar cubes on an overgrown lawn.

Chapter 3, Back to the Future

These days the sugar cubes are tumbling over every hill and, at the top end of the market, this is what you can get:

Yalikavak

It’s the kind of dream home that costs a whole lot more than the misleading £75,000 quoted in the ad. Also, what the agents don’t tell you (and why would they?) is that if you keep all your doors and windows open after sunset, you’ll get eaten alive by mozzies. Just so you know.

The World Through Expat Eyes

InterNations

Hot of the press from the splendid people at InterNations is Expat Insider 2014, one of the largest global surveys of everyday life and personal happiness in the expat forest. As Turkey features in the top twenty destinations, it gets its own country profile. As well as the usual reasons for settling in Turkey (climate, low crime rate, family friendly environment, blah, blah), 13% of survey respondents moved there for love. Here we go again, all those Shirley Valentines being laid at low tide. It’s a bit of pet subject here at Pansy HQ and, unsurprisingly, is a recurrent theme in my new book, Turkey Street. Just in case you think it’s just me being smug as usual, fear not, I get my comeuppance and there’s a glimmer of redemption at the end.

Plucked, banged then blown out when the cash dried up, the orchestra of ladies kept on coming anyway, scouting Turkey’s resorts for love and orgasms.

Chapter 3 – Home Alone

‘Look, when your boat’s holed beneath the waterline, head for dry land. It’s no use bobbing about in the water like flotsam just because the sea is warm…’

Chapter 8 – The Sisterhood

As we supped our cocktails and nibbled the cheesy balls, the tragedy of Deborah’s tale was concluded in all its tawdry detail. With her husband scattered over the playing fields of Eton, Deborah sold the bistro, moved to Turkey and drowned her sorrows by jumping on top of any would-be gigolo who sailed past her patio. The boys got younger as she got older and she clung to the VOMIT lifeboat until her nails bled.

Chapter 15 – Happy Birthday Uncle Sam

‘Anyway, I’ve got a bone to pick with you, Jack Scott. About the VOMIT thing on your blog. You’ve got us wrong. We’re not all victims or washed up old slappers. And we don’t all chase pretty boys and drop our drawers at the first smile.’

And finally…

‘The Sisterhood, Jack?’ asked Doc.

‘Ex-VOMITs. Ladies who learn.’

‘That works for me.’

Chapter 31 – The Ringing of the Belles

I’m relieved to write that Turkey Street has finally gone off to my publisher for knocking into shape. Expect an early 2015 release. Life just gets in the way.

Catch of the Day

Gumusluk2

My tuppence-worth contribution to Roving Jay’s latest travel book, The Gümüslük Travel Guide, the first of an in-depth series about the Bodrum Peninsula from a lady in the know:

One sultry autumn afternoon, Liam and I rode the dolly to Gümüslük, a pretty picture-postcard village set among the ruins of the ancient Carian city of Myndos. This was a well-trodden excursion for us, a frequent and welcome distraction from bustling Bodrum Town. As a protected archaeological site, Gümüslük had mercifully been saved from the rampant over-development that afflicted much of Bodrum Peninsula.

As we bussed along the meandering heat-cracked road, I imagined how different the scenery must have been before the mad march of little white boxes up hill and down dale. Stunning, I was sure. Nevertheless, the hinterland surrounding Gümüslük still managed to impress; snapshot glimpses of pine-smothered hills and Tiffany blue waters cast a beguiling spell. We arrived at the small otogar perched above the village and meandered down the hill to the rows of craft stalls peddling multi-coloured knick-knacks, eclectic artwork and small pieces of fine silverware. Liam liked to potter, umming and ahhing at each stall and chatting to the hawkers. Sometimes he even bought a trinket or two. Just ahead of us, the glassy harbour gleamed beyond the quay and drew us to the water’s edge. The sheltered anchorage has been a sailors’ safe haven for millennia. This is where Julius Caesar’s chief assassins, Brutus and Cassius, moored their galleys during the ensuing punch-up with Mark Antony, something that even gets a mention in the famous Shakespearian tragedy.

Gumsuluk Travel Guide1A late lunch was on the menu. We’d long since learned to avoid the overpriced identikit fish restaurants with their press-ganging waiters reeling in the catch of the day. As emigreys on a fixed income, we left the fishy eateries that lined the bay to unsuspecting tourists and well-heeled Istanbulers who equated price with quality. Our destination was our favourite low-cost lokanta, a ramshackle kind of place with mismatched furniture and wipe-down table cloths. Dalgiç Restaurant was set off the main drag and served our favourite fast food – freshly prepared gözleme – delicious savoury rolled pastries laced with a tasty selection of meat, cheese or vegetable fillings. Our effervescent patron attended to our needs out front while his pantaloon’d missus rolled, chopped and griddled out back. The flat-bread feast was washed down with a ripe bottle of red, a cut above the ancient Myndoan plonk that was reputably mixed with sea water and caused unending flatulence. Sated, replenished and wine-mellowed, we wandered down to the headland and waded across the partially sunken causeway (submerged by a long forgotten earthquake) to Rabbit Island. Here, as was our tradition, we tumbled over antique stones*, bunny spotted and settled down on a grassy ledge to witness one of the most sublime sunsets the Aegean has on offer.

*Sadly for visitors,  Rabbit Island is off limits to waders due to renewed archaeological interest. Don’t let this put you off. The sunsets are gorgeous from every angle in Gümüslük.

Murder, She Wrote

Murder on the Orient ExpressAfter I survived the surgeon’s knife, I was told to put my feet up and let nature do the healing so I’ve been doing the bare minimum to keep the wheels on the bus of Jack Scott enterprises. I must admit, my lolling about on the sofa has involved a fair amount of daytime TV – a thin diet of magazine programmes, flashy quiz shows, racy gossip, silly soaps, mindless vox pop, meagre news and convoluted whodunnits. It’s all been quite soporific and great for helping me catch up on my sleep. This healing lark is so exhausting.

Occasionally though, a classic grabs my attention and holds it for the duration. Such is the 1974 film version of Agatha Christie’s Murder on the Orient Express with a stellar ensemble headed by Albert Finney in the role of Hercule Poirot, Ms Christie’s fey and fussy Belgian detective. I’ve seen the movie loads of times. It’s hugely OTT and I can only assume that the cast laid down bets during the first read-through on who could ham it up the most. My vote goes to Wendy Hiller as the ageing Russian princess, all lacy widow’s weaves and truly dreadful Romanov accent. She would have given the Bolshies a run for their money. Sadly, along with Dame Wendy, most of the players are now dearly departed – Anthony Perkins, Ingrid Bergman, Rachel Roberts, Denis Quilley, Colin Blakely, John Gielgud and, of course, the fabulous Lauren Bacall who popped her clogs just last month.

It’s rumoured that Agatha Christie wrote at least some of her famous book when she stayed at the Pera Palace Hotel in Istanbul back in its glory days, the digs of choice for princes and presidents visiting the Ottoman capital. I’ve lodged there myself a couple of times during its more recent rundown years. Or as I put it in the new book (cue the plug):

“The Pera Palace was once the opulent end of the line for the Orient Express but had fallen on hard times, a piece of Istanbul’s neglected family silver in dire need of a good buffing.”

Chapter Eight, The Best of Times, the Worst of Times

It was Liam’s first visit to old Constantinople and we endured four seasons in three days – driving snow, bitter winds, low grey clouds and sparkling sunshine under blue skies. Our room at the Pera Palace was so cold, we were forced to share the huge antique bathtub to keep warm. It wasn’t too much of an imposition. Since then the hotel has been buffed to buggery with a multi-million lira facelift. Even the prolific and profitable Ms Christie might now baulk at the rack rate (if she were still alive, that is).

A Word or Two in British

George Benard ShawEnglish is a funny old foreign language. Turkey Street is littered with British cultural and geographical references, slang, idioms and place names that may fly over the heads of our cousins from across the seven seas. Cue Jack’s tongue-ever-so-slightly-in-cheek guide to Brit talk.

Am I bovvered? – The catchphrase of Lauren Cooper, a chav caricature from the BBC’s Catherine Tate Show. Unlike Vicky Pollard (see below), Lauren used a chavvy persona to disguise her intelligence.

Archers (The) – A long running soap on BBC Radio 4 about a dull farming community. Popular with those who prefer their beer warm and their neighbours white.

Argos – One of the largest high street retailers in Britain where customers flick through a fat catalogue, write their order on a little slip, pay at a till point and queue up at a warehouse counter to obtain their purchases. Weird.

Beak (The) – Judge or magistrate, so called because of the primitive gas masks stuffed with herbs and spices that medieval judges wore on the bench to ward off the plague. Little good it did them.

Betting shop biro – A half size ball point pen supplied free to punters who like a flutter on the horses. Millions of them end up in the bottom of handbags and manbags.

Bint – Bitch, originally a racist term (and still hardly complimentary) derived from the Arabic word for daughter and used by British soldiers in the Great War.

Bigwig – An Eighteenth Century VIP, the bigger the wig, the more important the person.

Blackpool – A trashy British seaside resort in northwest England famous for fish ‘n’ chips, kiss-me-quick hats, loose morals, brash illuminations and even brasher bottle blonds.

Blimey – An exclamation of surprise and an abbreviation of gorblimey, ‘God blind me.’ Blimey, who knew?

BNP – The British National Party and a nasty bunch of neo-Nazi nutters they are too.

Bruce Forsythe – Britain’s favourite all-round entertainer and a man older than the dinosaurs. Brucie is famous for his soft-shoe shuffle, catch phrases, dodgy wig, lantern jaw and marrying women young enough to be his granddaughter.

Bung – Bribe, not to be confused with the abbreviation for bung hole.

Cheesy Wotsits – A brand of ‘cheese’ flavoured corn puffs that stick to the teeth for days.

Chelsea Tractors – The large 4×4 vehicles that clog up the streets of rush hour London while Camilla drops little Hugo off at his private prep school.

Cherry Bakewell – A tart of short crust pastry with a layer of jam, ground almond sponge, topped with fondant and crowned with a glacé cherry. The very thought of it hardens the arteries.

Children of the Damned – A 1964 science fiction film about a group of evil children with psychic powers and the strapline ‘Beware the eyes that paralyse!’

Chips – French fries. What the Yanks call chips, Brits call crisps.

Clap Clinic – An STD clinic, from the Old French word clapoir, meaning a venereal bubo – an enlarged gland in the groin associated with sexually transmitted diseases. Ouch.

Clare Balding – A TV sports presenter with short hair and big bones.

Cottage – A public toilet visited by men seeking men, from Polari, a slang language used in Britain by sinners on the social margins – actors (when acting was considered no better than whoring), circus and fairground showmen, criminals, prostitutes, and, up to the early Seventies, gay people.

Council Tax – A property tax that helps pay for local services. It’s never been popular but then Brits are reluctant to pay for anything that isn’t related to booze, fags, the gee-gees and the footie (that’s liquor, cigarettes, horse betting and soccer).

Craic (pronounced crack) – An Irish term for fun, conversation and entertainment. The word is a Gaelicised version of the Middle English word crak meaning ‘loud conversation.’

Croydon – A soulless south London suburb famous for its high rise centre and Sixties shopping mall. Also one of the chaviest places on Earth (see Vicky Pollard below).

Cumberland Sausage – A delicious pork sausage shaped like a dog turd originating in the historic county of Cumberland. Cumberland is in the English Lake District (where it rains 364 days a year).

Delia – Delia Smith, the matriarch of British celebrity cooks and, just like nanny, not a woman to meddle with.

Dip his wick – Now come on, what else could it mean?

Dosh – Money, derived from God knows what.

Earls Court – A district of West London and the Capital’s gay village back in the day (no more than a couple of shabby dive bars and a seedy club: no match for Amsterdam or San Francisco).

Eton Wick – A village in England close to the college town of Eton which is the home to the famous private school the alma mater to a political class that has absolutely no idea about the price of a pint or a line of coke.

Fag – Cigarette (not a derogatory term for homosexual as it is in Yankee). Gives a whole new meaning to the phrase ‘sucking on a fag.’

Harry Judd – The dangerously horny drummer for the boy band McFly. Women (and some men) across the land wet their panties at the very thought of him.

Hi-De-Hi – The title and catchphrase of the strangely entertaining Eighties’ BBC TV sitcom set in a fictional holiday camp featuring hammy acting, corny plots and slapstick humour.

Hobnob – A popular and very moreish biscuit made from oats. A minute on the lips, a lifetime on the hips, especially when covered in thick milk chocolate.

Home Counties – The shires that ring London, often characterised as prosperous, middle class and terminally boring.

Isle of Wight – A diamond-shaped green and pleasant island off the south coast of England. It’s where people go to die and where Jack first had sex (but not with a pensioner).

Jammy Dodgers – A round shortbread biscuit with a raspberry-flavoured jam filling, popular with children. To badly paraphrase the Jesuits, ‘Give me the boy until he is seven and I will give you the obese man with heart disease, high cholesterol and Type 2 diabetes.’

Kerfuffle – Fuss or commotion. Derived from carfuffle, from the Scots English word car (probably from Scottish Gaelic cearr wrong, awkward) and fuffle, to become dishevelled. Fancy that.

Khazi – A toilet, possibly derived from the Swahili word m’khazi meaning a latrine.

Kirk – A church in Scots and similar to words all over northern Europe – kirkja, kyrka, kyrkje, kirke, kirche, kerk, tsjerke, kirik, kirkko. I blame the Vikings.

Knacker’s Yard – A place where old animals not for human consumption are taken to be slaughtered. Aka an old people’s home.

Knocked Off – Stolen or fake, like most of the goods sold in the East End markets of London and pazars all over Turkey.

Knocking Shop – A venue to meet people for casual sex (for consumption on or off the premises). What was your name again?

Lancashire – A historic county in northwest England which has the dubious privilege of counting Blackpool among its treasures. Also home to Lancashire Hot Pot, a dull and tasteless lamb stew that requires little skill and no imagination to prepare.

Last Knockings – See Knocking Shop above. The last men standing at the end of a hard night.

Loo – Toilet, possibly from the cry gardyloo (from the French regardez l’eau ‘watch out for the water’), which was shouted by medieval servants as they emptied chamber pots from upstairs windows into the street.

Looker – Someone nice to look at. Like me when I was younger. Much younger.

Louie Spence – A very, very camp British choreographer and TV personality, grandma’s favourite and a man who is way beyond gay.

Malarkey – Nonsense. There’s a lot of it in the book.

Marge Proops – Once Britain’s most famous and trusted agony aunt. No oil painting but a wise old bird. She fell off her perch in 1996.

Marks and Spencer – A clothes and food retailer, the cornerstone of the high street and as British as the Queen (except Her Maj is German and most M&S products are imported).

Marmite – A sticky dark brown food paste made from yeast extract with a distinctive and powerful flavour. It is truly disgusting and quite rightly banned in Canada on health grounds.

Midnight Flit – To leave secretly. Popular with people trying to avoid the rent.

Midsomer – The fictitious county featured in the long-running whodunit TV series. It’s depicted as the epitome of tight-arsed Middle England and, judging by the murder rate, a more dangerous place to live than Baghdad.

Milk Tray – One of Britain’s favourite boxes of chocolates. Targeted at desperate women who think that stuffing their mouths with cheap confectionary will send a James Bond lookalikie swinging through their bedroom window on a rope (or so the ad implies). Dream on, ladies.

Miss Blobby – A variation on Mr Blobby, a character on an old Saturday night variety TV show, a ridiculous fat pink monstrosity covered with yellow pox spots.

Mother’s Ruin – Gin, so-called because of its popularity with Eighteenth Century washer women trying to blot out their wretched lives with home brew.

Mucker – Best friend in Ulster English. Also a farm hand who shovels shit.

Nicker – From nick, to steal. The verb is also slang for being arrested and the noun is slang for a prison cell – crime, apprehension and punishment all wrapped up in the same word. Has a poetic ring, don’t you think?

No.6 – Cheap brand of Seventies cigarettes that first got Jack addicted to the dreaded weed.

Nookie – An abbreviation of Nook and cranny, cockney rhyming slang for sex. Cranny rhymes with fanny which in British is a lady’s front bottom (not her booty as in Yankee).

Norfolk – England’s breadbasket and most easterly county, a place where the gene pool has been badly damaged by centuries of in-breeding.

Norwich – The county town of Norfolk and a city with more medieval churches than any other north of the Alps. Most have been boarded up or converted into coffee shops.

O Levels – An end of year subject-based examination taken by 16 year old across all parts of the United Kingdom except Scotland. In the Eighties it was scrapped and replaced by the GCSE – dumbed down and much easier to cheat in.

Page Three – The Sun ‘Newspaper’ once Britain’s undisputed champion red top which features images of topless busty babes on page three. It’s all good clean fun and not intended to objectify women in the slightest.

Portobello Road – A poncy (i.e. showy or affected) street in the Notting Hill district of West London with a pretentious street market and shops selling over-priced ‘antiques’ to gullible tourists.

Primarni – An oxymoronic amalgamation of Primark (the British chain famous for cheap disposable fashion) and Armani (where shopping requires a second mortgage). A term used to describe those with champagne tastes but beer bottle pockets. That’ll be Jack and Liam then.

Putney – A smug little suburb in southwest London famous for the annual Oxford and Cambridge Boat Race and where Jack misspent his youth relying on the kindness of strangers along its moonlit towpath.

Quid – Slang for a British pound, possibly derived from the Latin ‘quid pro quo,’ – to exchange something for something else.

Ragamuffin – A dirty, shabbily-clothed street child straight out of Dickens.

Reet (Right) little earner – Brummie (the accent of Birmingham) for something that pays well, like fixing the LIBOR Rate or laundering money through a Caribbean tax haven.

Saga – A company that specialises in servicing the over fifties. Libel laws prevent further comment.

Saveloy – A sausage with no discernable natural ingredients, hence the bright red colour. The genuine article glows in the dark.

Samantha Janus (now Womack) – Represented the UK at the 1991 Eurovision Song Contest. She sang so flat, ears bled and dogs howled. Samantha now plays the unhinged Ronnie Mitchell in EastEnders, Britain’s most depressing soap.

Scallies – A term derived from ‘scallywags’ to describe a UK subculture of working class youths of uncertain parentage who have adopted street fashion as their uniforms. And no, they’re not all muggers from broken homes.

Séverine – She won the 1971 Eurovision Song Contest for Monaco with a belting ballad entitled ‘Un Banc Un Arbre Une Rue’ (A Tree, A Bench, A Street). Great tune, ridiculous lyrics. That’s the French for you.

Shagging – Sexual intercourse. One of those wonderful words that does what it says on the tin but is less offensive than the F word.

Sink Estates – Grim and poor quality social housing schemes from the Sixties and Seventies that have remained in public ownership because you couldn’t give them away. Generally used to corral those at the bottom of the social heap.

Sitges – An elegant seaside resort near Barcelona in Spain popular with the gays, particularly those who like to wear tight pants for a night on the tiles then drop them on the beach at 4am.

Slag/Slapper/Slut – A person of generous disposition who drops them at the first smile, like the young Jack.

Slough – Ugly sister to Windsor and Eton. ‘Come friendly bombs and fall on Slough!’ wrote former Poet Laureate, Sir John Betjeman. Says it all.

Sparky – An electrician. Obviously.

Strongbow – A brand of cheap cider that helped Jack onto the slippery slope of alcohol dependency and cirrhosis of the liver.

Sussex – The beautiful historic county on the south coast of England roughly equivalent to the Anglo-Saxon kingdom of the South Saxons and now split into West and East Sussex and which sits on top of vast reserves of gas ripe for the fracking. Also home the Rude Man of Cerne, a well-hung giant cut into the chalk down with the morning manhood of a porn star.

Swan Vesta – The brand name for the most popular kind of ‘strike-anywhere’ matches in the UK. Especially popular with arsonists.

Tea Leaf – Cockney rhyming slang for ‘thief.’ Theft is the preferred occupation of those living in the East End of London along with dressing up as pearly monarchs, eating jellied eels and brawling on a Saturday night.

Tenko – An early Eighties BBC series chronicling the fate of a mixed collection of imperious women interned by the Japanese after the fall of Singapore in World War Two. Appalling living conditions, malnutrition, disease, violence and even death failed to dent the superiority of some of the dames of the Empire. Comes from the Japanese for ‘roll-call’.

The Only Gay in the Village – The proud lament of Daffyd Thomas, the Welsh character from the BBC comedy sketch show Little Britain. Like all the gays of Harlech, he minces round a mining town in PVC and rubber fetish wear.

The Smoke – London, so-called because the huge metropolis was once afflicted by smog, a thick and deadly carpet of coal smoke and fog that once killed people by the thousand. The title has now passed on to a choking Beijing.

Tic-Tac Man – An on-course bookmaker who uses a traditional method of signing the odds on certain horses. It looks like someone’s having a fit.

Tiffin – A slang term for a light meal originating in India during the good old days of the British Raj (before the Brits lost an empire and miserably failed to become good Europeans).

Toff – Upper class, rich and often stupid, possibly derived from the Anglo-Saxon ‘toforan’ (superiority) or ‘toffee-nosed’ from the toffee-like nasal mucus that leaked from the snouts of Nineteenth Century snuff-sniffers. Yuk.

Tooting – A suburb of South London, shabby no chic.

Twat – An idiot. Yes an idiot. What else could it mean?

Vicky Pollard – A character from the BBC comedy sketch show Little Britain and the epitome of the British female chav – poor white trash in fake designer-wear, usually up the duff (i.e. pregnant) by the age of thirteen.

Wads – Bundles of banknotes, often illegally obtained.

Walnut Whip – A cone of hollow thick milk chocolate filled with vanilla fondant and topped with a walnut. Impossible to eat without looking like a cheap slut.

William Morris – A Nineteenth Century English textile designer, poet, novelist, translator, and revolutionary socialist with a very long beard. As a designer, he loved floral designs, just like the village ladies of Turkey.

Willy-nilly – Haphazardly. From the Old English ‘wile hē, nyle hē,’ literally: ‘will he or will he not?’

Wonga – Money, possibly from the Romany for ‘coal’ and now the name of a pay day loan company that lends to the feckless at stratospheric interest rates.

Turkey StreetTo find out more about Turkey Street, Jack and Liam move to Bodrum here.

The Barber’s Tale

Sweeny ToddAnother day, another painful nip and tuck to the manuscript of Turkey Street. ‘Nice story,’ Liam had said at the time. ‘Cut it.’ Naturally, I complied, unable to bear another hangdog look from my taskmaster. So, ladies and gents, I give you the barber’s tale, ripped from the heart of Turkey Street before it went off to the publishers – Sweeney Todd minus the music, the murder and the meat pies.

Barber's_Tale1Barbers_Tale_2

Say it Again, Sam

I’m like a stick of rock. No matter how much you nibble, you always find the word ‘London’ running through me. But, my love affair with the Old Smoke has cooled of late. Now I’m older, slower and stiffer, I’m less in the mood for the no-time-to-talk, coffee-on-the-go fast lane of many colours that is the great metropolis. These days I’m content to dip in and out as and when. And each time I do, London whacks me across the face to remind me not to neglect my ardour. Just like the time, during the Turkey years, we returned for Christmas and found ourselves surrounded by a gaggle of girls painting the town red and having a ball. We’d got so used the absence of women from our Turkish townscape, it felt totally liberating. Then there was the afternoon we emerged from Tottenham Court Tube Station to be swept along by a tsunami of people drawn from the four corners of the world demonstrating how truly international London has become. And just recently, I stood in the concourse of Victoria Station and noticed how young everyone was as they darted around me. I suddenly felt ancient. Norwich, by comparison, seems positively geriatric despite her two universities and student vibe. Wasn’t it Samuel Pepys who famously wrote, ‘when a man is tired of London, he is tired of life’? I may have slowed down a little but I hope I will never tire of either.

There is Turkey and Then There is Bodrum

A few weeks back, I entered another writing competition with the marvellous ‘I Must Be Off!’ travel site. The piece is about Bodrum (naturally) and was adapted from my 2013 e-book ‘Turkey, Surviving the Expats‘. Somehow, my entry has made it to the last seven. Will I fall at the final fence? The competition is stiff so we shall see. Bronze, silver and gold will be announced at the end of the month. I’ve got my fingers crossed for my place on the podium. In the meantime, there’s a Reader’s Choice Award up for grabs too, based on the number of hits and comments. This award is open until the 10th August. Can I trouble you for a hit and a comment on the article itself by clicking on the link below? I thank you.

PtP2 Kindle1Bodrum, Turkey’s San Tropez by Jack Scott

August 2014 Update: Yesterday, I received news that I’d come in first for the Reader’s Choice Award. A massive hand to anyone who took the trouble to visit and comment on the article. Thank you. I’m really chuffed!