Zenne Dancer

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.

The Mould Season

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.

Adele Cut Down at the Brits

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.

It Gets Better

I’m back on my soap box again. Think of me as resident ranter at Speaker’s Corner on a Sunday afternoon. I’m rapidly becoming a single issue bar-room bore. The mast I’ve nailed my colours to is homophobic bullying in schools. It’s not clever, it’s not on, it must stop. I’ve banged on about this tishoo ishoo a couple of times now – the tragic death of Jamey Roddemeyer and the inspirational Stand Up and be Counted video. Now I give you It Does Get Better by the L Project. The It Gets Better campaign began across the pond and has now invaded Blighty’s shores. The L Project (that’s L for Lesbian by the way) is a group of lovely lasses who’ve come together (forgive the pun) to highlight the plight of the young through the medium of music. They’re fabulous and so is their song. It’s become a hit. There aren’t many countries in the world where a track with such an overt message would catch the popular imagination. Watch it here and watch it right ‘til the end. You might even cry. And If you like it why not buy it?

The China Syndrome

Bodrum Belle, Jessica, nearly came a cropper in an attempt to keep body and soul snug in the wee small hours. She turned on her electric blanket a short while before retiring; when she returned to slip between the hot sheets, the room was thick with noxious fumes. The blanket had unhelpfully decided to switch from warm to slow burn. Nice. Jessica acted decisively; she cut the power and aired the room. When the smoke cleared, a large black hole was revealed – a large black hole that had burnt through the blanket, sheet, mattress and divan. As Jessica remarked at the time, her beautiful boudoir suddenly resembled the nuclear meltdown doomsday scenario from the China syndrome. Electric blanket devotees, beware.

Postcards from the Ege

I’ve got a limited number of signed copies of Perking the Pansies available for free shipping to Turkey. Amazon delivery charges are simply outrageous so this represents a bit of a bargain. Also, if you live in Blighty, a signed copy to any UK address comes with free delivery. So roll up, roll up to get your mitts on the best expat book to come out of Asia Minor since Alexander the Great’s Postcards from the Ege. You never know. It might be worth something one day. Buy one here!

Parlez-vous Polari?

As my regular pansy punters know, I’ve just done a gig for the Polari Literary Salon at London’s Royal Festival Hall. I was in the company of a fine cast of literati – Rebecca Idris Hugh Mulhall, Max Wallis, Catherine Hall and Tiffany Murray. The chorus line was made up of friends and regular pansy characters – Nancy, Murat, Clive, Ian, Matt and Philip. I calmed myself with a quick wine stiffener in the Green Room before I climbed the stage to perform against a sumptuous backdrop of The London Eye and Palace of Westminster. I’m not sure who was the more nervous, Liam or me. Despite the tummy terror, I didn’t fluff too many of my lines. I was well received by the enthusiastic audience and I’m eternally grateful to the wonderful and gifted Paul Burston who made it all possible.

Censorship Getting Madder

My ‘Welcome‘ page on the Facebook Perking the Pansies Book site is no longer available in Turkey. The page is supplied courtesy of a third party application called Pagemodo. Perhaps Pagemodo has just been added to the very, very long (and getting longer) list of sites blocked by lazy Turkish censors. First the lights went out on my blog, then my personal site, now a harmless promo page on Facebook. This is all getting a little tedious. How is an indecent boy meant to make a decent living round here?

Written in the Stars

The frosty flurry in old London Town soon turned to sloppy slurry. Sunday was our day of rest away from commitments. We decided to do what we rarely do these days – a West End jolly, just the two of us. It was a strangely alien experience. The Sunday evening stalwart – Jivin’ Julie’s karaoke night for the hairy marys down the Kings Arms (or Kings Arse, as it’s affectionately known) was a shadow of its former self. The fat crowd has thinned to just a few old fairy faithfuls. We ventured to Comptons, the pivot around which gay Soho revolves, to find it bereft of punters except for a few lonely tourists, northern fag hags in mountainous heels and Russell Grant. Sadly, cuddly Russ hasn’t managed to keep the weight off following his stint as housewive’s choice on Strictly Come Dancing. I bet he didn’t see that coming in the stars.

All the bars told a similar sad and sorry tale. Was it the long recession or the wind chill that kept the boys under the duvet? Perhaps it was neither. Restaurants were buzzing away to the sound of glasses clinking and tills cher-chinking. Perhaps the crowd has moved on to pastures new. Perhaps the pubs should lower their beer prices. We joined the throng at an eaterie and supped Rioja into the small hours.

Whitney Houston, RIP

RIP

Another prodigious talent wrecked by addiction. No doubt the internet is awash with tasteless jokes and serves-her-right statements. Whitney Houston’s slow descent into hell was a media circus that picked over the bones of her catastrophic life. Some people seem to take pleasure in it. According to Guinness World Records she was the most awarded female artist of all time.

Ms Houston once said:

“I finally faced the fact that it isn’t a crime not having friends. Being alone means you have fewer problems.”

I wasn’t a great fan though I really liked the ‘My Love is Your Love’ album and this is my favourite track.