Category: Waiters

Blissful Bodrum

It was a magnificent day, so we ventured out to Bodrum for a light lunch and a beer on the beach. The town was in jolly mood and filled with laid back holidaying Turks strolling along the promenade. The sweaty bother of the summer months has been displaced by a more agreeable autumnal tone. We settled at a modest watering hole opposite the town beach which proudly displays a rainbow flag alongside the usual pennants.  The bar has been a constant during our many holidays to Bodrum as the prices are reasonable and the easy on the eye staff are attentive without being fawning.  The clientele has completely changed from tattooed tourist to Turk and is much the better for it. We watched the sun set over the castle and were reminded, as if a reminder was needed, why we are here.

The Pretty Stripping Barman

My prophesy that the vicious storm heralded the abrupt end of our Indian Summer was a tad premature. The weather has reverted to its usual generosity. We decided to take full advantage by spending the evening in the village. Yalıkavak is deafeningly quiet as most of the tourists have left. We patronised our little semi-gay bar with the pretty barman who strips off when the booze kicks in. As usual we were minding our own business when we were descended upon by Kay and Barry from Burnley. For some reason Kay took a real shine to me and Barry got on swimmingly with Liam. I said I’d never been to Burnley. Kay said she’d never been to London. Hardly a fair contest, I thought. Barry chirped on about his self-confessed homophobia but thought we were alright. Our gratitude knew no bounds.

Also in their company were an elderly woman and her new Turkish munchkin husband who was thirty years her junior. Clearly, it had been her Elizabeth Taylor looks that first attracted him. He was very, very small and made me look positively statuesque. The wife told me she has a gay son who just can’t find love – probably ugly then.

We all left together at the end of the evening. I gave Barry a big sloppy kiss right on the lips which he drunkenly reciprocated confirming the rumour that the difference between a gay man and a straight man is about 5 pints. As we left, the pretty stripping barman whispered provocatively to Liam that we should return later for extras. We didn’t.

The Glasgow Kisser

As respite from home making, we popped into Yalıkavak for a drink or three. The village is shutting up shop, but we found a few watering holes still open for trade. Unfortunately, we found ourselves in the company of Scots Max, who moved to Turkey from South London. Max is a sinewy, embittered, youngish man with an obvious drink problem. He told us he absconded from England because of all the “political correctness” to coin an over-worn tabloid phrase. He said that he was now free to call a Paki and Paki, not that he’s racist, of course. “Anyway”, he continued, “Britain is overrun with foreigners”, totally oblivious to the irony of this statement. He was fascinated and probably repulsed by us, and couldn’t understand why “you lot are always banging on about your rights”. I pointed out that, since I have always paid my taxes (and at a higher rate in recent years), I did not think it unreasonable to expect to enjoy the same rights as everyone else with the same protection under the Law. The argument flew over his low IQ head, and I didn’t push the point for fear of a Glasgow kiss.

We decided upon a strategic withdrawal. As we toured the village inns, we passed a little place on the high street which seemed more promising. The promise delivered. As the Turkopop became more frenetic the barman peeled off his t-shirt revealing a rather enticing hairy chest, and I was dragged up to dance by an amorous older Turk, who got very touchy-feely. There were a number of likely lads about the place and the ambience was full of clandestine possibilities. After a little innocent flirtatious fun, we meandered home in the wee small hours.