We’ve been watching a lot more British TV these dark and damp evenings. We became a bit bored with Patsy Kensit’s woodentop acting on a continuous loop courtesy of Auntie Beeb’s international offering. This was one reason for dumping Digiturk (that, and buggering off back to Blighty). We recently caught Dancing on Ice, ITV’s trashy and less cool answer to the BBC’s Strictly Come Dancing. The friends of Dorothy have always loomed large on the entertainment payroll but none so obviously as Louie Spence, the campy Gatling gun judge and leading dancing queen. Louie lispily declared to one of the Z-list contestants attempting to revive their dead-as-a-dodo careers:
“You made a short but perfectly formed homosexual very happy.”
Remember, this is prime-time terrestrial TV with the little-uns watching. While I generally find Louie a bit too much of a stereotype, this short but perfectly formed homosexual loved the fact that nobody battered a moral eyelid. Larry Grayson must be turning in his grave.
All medieval Gothic cathedrals look the same to me – all those lofty arches, graceful buttresses, elegant cloisters, grimacing gargoyles and more effigies of martyred saints than I could shake a stick at. Thank you to everyone who entered the spot the Goth competition. Some were stumped and plumped for Chichester, Durham, Oxford and second favourite, Salisbury. All fine buildings, but nil points to you lot. Yes, the next exciting whistle-stop on our pansy trail is the fair city of Norwich, the handsome capital of East Anglia and former home to the quiz of the week with Nicholas Parsons.
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We decided to alter the competition rules a little (we can do that) and pick a couple of winners at random instead of just the one. Liam selected one and I chose the other. Congratulations to Niki Fowler and Paul Hard. A pristine copy of Perking the Pansies will be with you very soon, signed, sealed and delivered. We hope you enjoy it. And if you do, tell your family, your friends, strangers in the street, shout it from the rooftops and maybe add a review to Amazon. As they say at Tesco’s, every little helps.
Off to Norwich we shall plod and that’s where I’ll write the sequel. Emigreys beware. Just when you thought it was safe to dip your toes in the Ege, I’ll be tying up the loose ends of our extraordinary time in old Bodrum Town and moving the story along to its bitter end. I’ll also keep on blogging, reporting on the Motherland and our foster home through my veracious, liberal eyes. The uncensored safety of Blighty will allow me to write more honestly.
Have a look at No Going Back on Going Back for all the competition entries (those not published elsewhere). It’s my most commented on post.
I’ve started a little shop to add a few coppers to our coffers. It takes me back to the distant days of my misspent youth when I was a store boy on Chelsea’s trendy King’s Road. Days on the tills and nights on the tiles were the best probation for a young gay boy about town. My shop is stocked with a few hand-picked items that you never knew you couldn’t do without. Naturally, my book takes centre stage in the window display. So, if you’re looking for great deals on hotels, flights, books or anything on Amazon then visit Jack’s shop. It costs you nothing and I need the money. No pressure.
I’m incensed, really pissed off. The parliament of St Petersburg, Russia’s cultural capital and second largest city, has just passed a law making it a crime to write, speak, discuss or meet about anything ‘gay’ (and I don’t mean happy). Offenders face a fine of up to $16,700. Is this the action of a sophisticated, civilised, European nation? I hardly think so. And some people think Muslim nations are backward. I can’t see this nasty little law ever being proposed in Turkey.
Take a look at the clever video below from the people at All Out. I hope it persuades you to lend your support. There is a chance that the Governor of St Petersburg will veto the bill. Please do what you can to convince him that this stupid law damages the international reputation of this great city, a city that I visited when I was 14 years old.
Barring a few meteorological mishaps and last-minute mayhem from Mother Nature, I think spring has sprung. We’re not leaving until the summer, so we intend to make the most of what we have left. We’ve washed down the patio furniture and shampooed the cushions, wiped the windows and showered the courtyard. Patio doors have been flung open to freshen the musk and murder the mould. We were regaled by the call to prayer at full volume and the first row of the season between our Turkish neighbours. It was a corker of a commotion with Beril’s throat at full throttle. Welcome to Bodrum reborn.
I’ve suffered a premature exclamation. Since I wrote this we’ve had that meteorological mishap. An instant cold snap has slapped us about the face like an icy flannel. We lunched with the Belles today at a modest promenade eaterie. Over the pide (Turkish pizza), Jessica gazed up at the uniform blanket of light grey and remarked ‘I think it’ll snow today.’ And lo and behold, it did. It was just a weak little flurry of flakes and was over in a jiffy, but it was a bona fide blizzard. Our first and probably our last.
We’re busy planning our repatriation to Blighty. We’re not actually leaving until June but it pays to start early. As my project guru, Liam has drawn up a long list of ‘must do’s’. Top of the agenda? Ditching our account with Digiturk, the national satellite TV broadcaster. We won’t miss it, not because it’s a bad service per se, but because more often than not we watch British TV through our VPN.
Liam rang Digiturk’s all singing, all dancing English Language call centre to cancel. The rude little runt on the end of the line was having none of it. Liam was given a cock and bull story about ‘applying’ to close our account by fax to Istanbul. We would need to provide another photocopy of my passport together with a notarised copy of my grandmother’s bra size. ‘You want to complain? Tough. My manager doesn’t speak English.’ Was the rude little runt having a bad day? Maybe he was fed up dealing with rude little emigreys. Liam rang a second time – different rude little runt, same rude little script. Digiturk’s tone deaf one-stop shop for expats seems to have developed two left feet. Liam kept his cool and thanked the brick wall for his help. There’s no point losing your rag with the hired help.
Eventually, we managed to close the account via an exchange of heated emails written in English and translated into Googled Turkish. Liam kept the message simple ‘I am moving to England. I am cancelling my service. You can’t stop me.’ It worked. Tick. Next?
‘In the beginning there was work and work was God. After 35 years in the business, the endless predictability made me question the Faith.’
I wrote those words on the 8th October 2010, the opening sentence of my debut post on a brand new blog about a couple of silly, cynical old queens who decided to jump the good ship Blighty and wade ashore to Asia Minor as gay semigreys (or is it semigays? No, that would be those who dip in and out). For a minority report, the blog’s done rather well. Now there’s a book. That’s done rather well too. Remarkable. Both crept up behind us without hint or herald. Maybe we should have listened to the early advice of our playground peers and kept our backs to the wall. Too late now.
We planned to stay in Turkey for a good few years, slowly descend into memory loss and erectile dysfunction disguised by a haze of alcohol, then paddle back to Blighty for the liver transplant and wait for the Grim Reaper’s call. Sadly, it’s not to be. I’d like to do author things and keep the pennies (and believe me I do mean pennies) rolling in. I can do neither in Turkey. There’s another reason. An important reason. There are pressing family issues that cannot be ducked or delayed. If you have read the book you will understand:
“One day, our Turkish adventure might be curtailed. We were prepared.” (Chapter 12)
That time has come.
Where will we be laying our hatboxes next? Well, there’s a clue in the picture below. Hint – it’s not in Soho.
Where is this?
Thank you Turkey for breaking the umbilical cord between wages and lifestyle. Thank you Turkey for giving me the time and space to write. Thank you Turkey for handing me a story on a plate. We hope one day to return. But, for now there’s no going back on going back.
The photo above is a picture of one of the great cathedrals of England but where is it? Answer correctly for the chance to win* a signed copy of Perking the Pansies, Jack and Liam move to Turkey. Submit your answer by commenting on this post.
*The winner will be chosen at random by Liam from correct entries submitted before 4th March 2012. Comments containing entries to the competition will not be published until after this date so no cheating. The book will be shipped free to the winner to any address in the UK or Turkey. Delivery elsewhere (Mongolia, the dark side of the Moon, etc) may incur charges depending on the cost. Those who already know the answer are banned (we know who you are).
A Bodrum Belle of our acquaintance recently saw Zenne Dancer, a ground breaking indie movie about a male belly dancer. The film, which has won major awards in Turkey, was inspired by the true story of a Kurdish student who was gunned down by his own father for being openly and unrepentantly gay. As our Turkish remains lamentably poor, we’ll have to wait for the subtitled version before we get to see it.
The film caused quite a stir in the Turkish press and among the chattering classes (us included) – not all of which has been negative. Some of the debate was reported in the Guardian in an article called From Homophobia to a Moving Apology in Turkey*. This demonstrates that Turkey is indeed a complex web of paradoxes and contradictions. This conflict is also illustrated in From Diyarbakir with love: Kurdish, gay and proud, a Pink News article that talks of the double struggle for ethnic and sexual identity among the Kurdish LGBT community in South-east Turkey. Two steps forward, one step back.
*Thank you to Johnny Hogue for sending me this article.
During the cold, mould season, a viral fungus spread like the Black Death in the dank corners of our stone house. I blame this year’s unseasonal cold snap. We relaxed our rigorous ventilation routine in a vain attempt to keep the frost bite at bay. The external wall of our shower room sweated like a shallow waterfall in slow motion and nasty black spores infested every nook and cranny, crack and crevice. Cutting edge building technology like the humble air brick has yet to catch on in Turkey. At this time of year most houses are transformed into damp bunkers. Liam hit back with domestos-scented water cannon. He also told me to stop breathing.
We watched the Brits. Naturally, Adele won best female artist and best album. She’s the most successful singer to emerge from Blighty in years. It’s a pity the show’s producers saw fit to interrupt her acceptance speech which was cut down to just a few hasty words. Now, I’m not into the Hollywood gush but a few rushed ‘thank yous’? Presumably the programme was over-running. So what? Let it overrun.
We’ve been watching a lot more British TV these dark and damp evenings. We became a bit bored with Patsy Kensit’s woodentop acting on a continuous loop courtesy of Auntie Beeb’s international offering. This was one reason for dumping Digiturk (that, and buggering off back to Blighty). We recently caught Dancing on Ice, ITV’s trashy and less cool answer to the BBC’s Strictly Come Dancing. The friends of Dorothy have always loomed large on the entertainment payroll but none so obviously as Louie Spence, the campy Gatling gun judge and leading dancing queen. Louie lispily declared to one of the Z-list contestants attempting to revive their dead-as-a-dodo careers:You might also like:
Perking the Pansies 