I’ve been working on a website for our friend Angela. A vetpat of distinction, Angela is like a delicious transatlantic cocktail – a Fulham girl with a Yankee twist. She provides a one stop shop for all of your needs in the Bodrum area. We have first-hand experience of Angela’s great service – fast, efficient, friendly and cost effective. Take a look at Ask Angela and if you need any help, give her a call.
PS I don’t get a penny!
The unsavoury meal with Chrissy and Bernard was a momentous milestone in our Turkish escapade. We have resolved to disengage from the emigrey soap opera by rejecting the gang mentality and dumping the monstrous middle England miseries. We will decamp to bustling Bodrum where we hope the ambience will be less corrosive. Co-incidentally (or perhaps not), the ‘Come Dine with Me’ club has also fractured into acrimony, finally collapsing under the weight of its own pretensions.
In honour of Karen’s visit we decided to throw a bit of a do, our very first. We were a tad anxious. We didn’t want to transgress the unwritten social rules that must be obeyed. We sought the advice of catering Guru Chrissy on the food situation. She assured us that nibbles and a cold platter would be acceptable for a cocktail party. Guests will know to eat beforehand.
Our début soiree was well graced. Liam and Karen prepared a delightful spread of cold meats, cheeses, mezes, breads and objects on sticks. Karen mingled amiably with la crème dispensing easy urbane charm. We had our first delicious taste of Charlotte’s mother, Lucia, a seasoned older lady with a twinkle in the eye and a racy past. The more Lucia imbibed, the more her carefully cultivated middle class Donegal brogue degenerated into Bogside. Towards the end of the evening, we showed a DVD of our civil partnership ceremony – a calculated risk but one that went down a storm. Eyes welled, even those of macho Chuck.
Bernard got incredibly pissed very quickly and fell into the car at the end of the evening. He wasn’t fit to drive but managed to arrive home without running down any street dogs or wrapping his flash BCSD car around the trunk of an olive tree. Drink driving by emigreys is depressingly commonplace. Chrissy telephoned the next day and explained why Bernard had got so drunk – he didn’t eat because there wasn’t any hot food. ‘If it had been my party,’ she loftily pronounced, ‘I would have served a lasagne.‘ What a bloody cheek.
Jane Atakay, Fethiye correspondent for the South Monday Supplement of the Hurriyet Daily News contacted me recently. Would I mind if she included me in a feature she was writing on English language bloggers in Turkey? Mind? I nearly bit her hand off. We had a long chat on the phone and Jane came across as a top drawer vetpat of distinction and depth, rare qualities in these parts.
Jane has cleverly inter-woven the views of five different bloggers, each with their own unique perspective on expat life. The article was published this morning and it’s a ripping yarn. You can find it here.
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.
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!
Expatriates, like everyone else, come in all shapes and sizes – the mean and the mannered, the classless and the classy, the awful and the joyful. The abbreviated epithet ‘expat’ simply doesn’t adequately express the myriad folk who have chosen to live here In Turkey. To add a little descriptive colour to my posts, I’ve devised some new words to depict the numerous variants of the species.
These terms are not mutually exclusive. It’s perfectly possible for an emigrey to also be a vetpat VOMIT and a fully paid up member of the ignoble ignorati.
I have received several suggestions from readers to add to the ex-pat lexicon. Thank you to Greg for ‘emigays‘ to describe well to do old queens spending up their savings because you can’t take it with you. Thank you also to Tom for the deliciously naughty ‘cowpats‘ to describe those I really can’t abide and would flee to the next town to avoid.
More please…
Charismatic Vetpat and ex-biker babe, Kirazli Karyn, has fashioned a unique Anatolian Arcadia at the beating heart of old Ionia. Authentic thick stone walls embrace chic but unpretentious modern living within a neo-biblical eco-setting. The enchanting private courtyard garden comes with a pretty plunge pool and a handy vaulted roof extension for flexible hire. Karyn began her bold and ambitious build with her late husband, Phil. Tragically, Phil died before the dream was realised though his signature is inscribed on every stone. Karyn’s heartbreak adds to the poignant poetry of their beguiling labour of love.
Karyn and instantly likeable, soulful Nick were warm and liberal hosts. I sensed wise young owls of depth and sincerity. Unlike the Bodrum ‘Come Dine with Me‘ set, Karyn’s scrumptious spreads require no fuss or fanfare to big them up. We effortlessly nattered for endless hours as if we were rediscovered old friends lamenting lost years. I completely forgot about my cunning stunt to sabotage my superior rival. I was far too busy gassing and guzzling.
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.
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.
Perking the Pansies 