Trolling on the Net

Fellow blogger, Yankee Garrett at A Change of Underwear commented on my post about expat forums and some of the strange people that lurk within. He tells me that the word trolling is now used to describe the mean business of writing nasty online comments. Funny, in my day trolling meant something completely different – cruising (in the picking up loose men sense, not mucking about on silly boats sense). This was part of a whole lexicon of slang words that formed something called Polari (from the Italian palare – to talk). Polari was used in Britain by sinners on the social margins – actors (when acting was considered little better than whoring), circus and fairground showmen, criminals, prostitutes, and, up to the early seventies, gay people. We deviants have always kept the best company. Back when you couldn’t get a word out of the love that dares not speak its name because of the threat of a stiff prison sentence, Polari slang was a safe and secret form of communication. It has a delicious vocabulary of wonderfully ripe terms. Here are a few of the ones I just love:

Basket (a man’s bulge through clothes); bibi (bisexual); bona (good); bona nochy (a good night); bungery (pub); buvare (a drink); camp (effeminate); carts (willy); chicken (young man); cottage (a public loo used for jollies); dilly boy (rent boy); dish (bum); eek (face); handbag (money); jubes (tits); khazi (loo); lallies (legs); mince (walk); naff (nasty); national handbag (dole); omi (man) omi-palone (camp queen); plate (blow job); palone (woman); palone-omi (lesbian); remould (sex change); riah (hair) rough trade (working class sex); slap (makeup); todd (alone); tootsie trade (sex between two passive partners); trade (sex); troll (to walk about looking for trade): vada (see).

The use of Polari began to wane when society loosened up and male gay sex was de-criminalised in 1967 (interestingly, lesbianism was never a crime). However, before it was finally consigned to the social history books, Polari had one last glorious hurrah. Round the Horne was a popular BBC radio show from 1965 to 1968 and featured short sketches called Julian and Sandy. The high camp comedy was liberally sprinkled with Polari and wicked double entendre, ultra risqué for those buttoned up days. Julian was played by Kenneth Williams and Sandy by Hugh Paddick. The back story here is that the supremely talented Kenneth always struggled with his sexuality and lived an embittered almost monastic existence, whereas jobbing thespian Hugh lived a happy homosexual life with his partner for thirty years. Sadly, both Kenneth and Hugh are now in bona heaven.

A few Polari words such as naff, camp and slap have entered modern parlance. If by chance I walk past you and remark, ‘vada the bona dish’, take it as a complement. And I absolutely love the thought of right wing ranters trolling the internet. I hope they use a wipe-down webcam; forgive them, they know not what they do. The word Polari itself lives on at the Polari Literary Salon launched by Paul Burston (Gay Editor of Time Out London), a brilliant showcase for new gay and lesbian writers.

Penny for the Guy

After an excessive Guy Fawkes Night with a wheelbarrow bonfire, fireworks to blow your hands off and the drunken Gümbet Gals Chorus (ladies, you know who you are), I’m suffering from mental paralysis. I have neither the inclination nor the energy to write anything remotely interesting, amusing or informative. It’s just as well that it’s Kurban Bayram across the entire Moslem world, a time where men are men and sheep are nervous. To celebrate the occasion, I am releasing a tiny snippet from Perking the Pansies the Book which tells of our first bloody encounter with the Feast of Sacrifice.

Liam answered a knock at the door. It was Tariq’s daughter. Selma was a pretty little thing, a fourteen year old girl with fathomless dark eyes and long brown hair, perfectly parted at the middle. Our contact had been minimal but we had exchanged half smiles and several hundred empty wine bottles: she occasionally helped Tariq with the rubbish disposal.  Selma handed Liam a bag of bloodied bones.

‘For you,’ she said. ‘Iyi bayramlar.’

‘Why… thank you. Teşekkürler.’

Selma smiled nervously and wandered off into the night. Sheep’s blood dripped through the bag and splashed onto Liam’s feet.

‘What the fuck?’

‘Who was at the door?’

‘Selma and a bag of blood.’

‘Fantastic. Anyone for spare ribs?’

‘You’re excited by a bag of bones?’

It was Kurban Bayram, The Feast of Sacrifice commemorating an Old Testament myth. God rather unreasonably commanded Abraham to sacrifice his son. Thankfully, Abraham proved his devotion and God provided a sacrificial ram instead. I had never read the book but had seen the Hollywood movie several times.

Liam was unmoved. ‘So hapless sheep across the entire Moslem World are being butchered as we speak? Revolting.’

‘And the flesh is distributed among family, friends and the deserving poor.’

‘So we only get the bones. What does that make us?’

‘Accepted.’

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Birthday Beaus

It’s been a double celebration of our birthdays. We were feted in style by a succession of festivities sponsored by a select sample of the Bodrum Belles and Gumbet Gals, and topped off by a birthday bombshell. Blighty-life friend and part-time thesp, Clive, flew in for the occasion on a surprise visit. Liam was suitably startled and unusually speechless. Our days were awash with lavish fizz and food, calorific cakes with candles, and generous bountiful gifts.

Dear Clive is a flimsy sleeper and needs total sensory deprivation. He couldn’t quite fit the isolation tank into his hand luggage so had to make do with a Virgin Atlantic mask and earplugs the size of suppositories. Thankfully, Clive managed to get his beauty sleep (despite the dogs, traffic, call to prayer and a plague of flies) and awoke each day rested and raring to go. Liam and I drank the house dry while a sober Clive looked on with amiable amusement. When the white was spent, I resorted to sucking out brandy from the fruit cake Clive had lovingly baked and slipped into his luggage.

After a solid week of liquor decadence and wringing our livers out in the sink, the show is now over. These two ageing queens are resting their drunken bones. Until next year.

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Mad Dogs and Englishmen

Living in the centre of busy, bustling Bodrum means compromise. Hubbub abounds. It comes with the territory. It’s part of the charm. We filter out the mad traffic, high-pitched horns and loud rows. We’re from the Smoke and old London Town is not so different. It’s the price worth paying for the short skip to the marina inns and eateries that serve to remind us that we’re sophisticated boys about town (or so we think). Calm country living in the middle of a muddy field is not our style. But, (here comes the but) we are wrestling with the double whammy of ferocious, veracious miniscule flies and barking mad, howling hounds. The midget midges circle us like we’re rotting corpses. The mozzie net has been re-erected above our bed as our only line of defence.

The flies will die but there’s no easy solution for the dogs. As all emigreys know, most Turks have an entirely different relationship with man’s best friend. Here in Bodrum you will see some dogs on leads but they tend to be the toy variety attached to the over-dressed well-to-do. Most mutts hereabouts perform the traditional guard and protect function, chained up outside. For our considerable sins we’re surrounded by four of them. Passage down our busy thoroughfare, even in the small hours, is constant. So too is the barking. We’re serenaded by quadrophonic yapping 24 hours a day. Have people not heard of house alarms?

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Life’s Good

The phone rang while I was taking an afternoon nap this afternoon. Liam went to take the call but our land-line phone only works when it feels like it and today it wasn’t feeling like it. Goods sold in Turkey seem to come with built-in obsolescence as standard, pre-programmed to break down/fall apart/blow up just as the warranty expires. It’s as if the world’s major manufacturers dump all their rejects here. We’ve been through five corkscrews so far, though I concede this may have something to do with the volume of wine we guzzle; I’ll be pulling the corks out with my teeth at this rate. More troubling is the latest problem with our expensive LG surround sound DVD player. It’s decided to reject DVDs at random, just for the hell of it. A new corkscrew is one thing but a £400 home entertainment system is something entirely different. Life’s Good? Only when it works.

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The Shepherdess of Dreams

Linda

The talented Linda A Janssens at Adventures in Expatland asked me to participate in a virtual blog tour. I jumped at the chance. I love this new-fangled virtual excursion lark. You can promote a masterwork without changing out of your jimjams. The book is an anthology called Turning Points: 25 Inspiring Stories from Women Entrepreneurs Who Have Turned Their Lives Around. It does exactly what it says on the tin. It’s inspirational.

I’d like to start by thanking Jack for welcoming me back to Perking the Pansies as part of my ‘virtual book tour’ for Turning Points. It’s a collection of stories from women from all over the world, all working in various jobs and professions and living very different lives. Yet each experiences a pivotal moment or series of events that drives home the need to make significant changes in her life.

The book is edited by Kate Cobb, a women’s business and executive coach (www.movingforwardyourway.com). As with Jack and I, Kate is an expatriate making her home in a country other than where she was born and grew up. In Kate’s case she’s a Brit now residing in France; I’m an American living in The Netherlands.

When Kate asked me to contribute my story to the Turning Points project, I will admit that I was thrilled, flattered and absolutely terrified. I had only an inkling of what it took to publish a book, and I worried and fretted about what lay in store. The entire process is a long one, and has taken the better part of a year. In many ways it has seemed surreal, as if it’s happening to someone else.

That is, until yesterday.

Launch Day.

I have to say the response has been both overwhelming and humbling. I am not exaggerating when I say that it is a dream come true.

When I first started putting together my blog tour, the first person I thought of was Jack. Not merely because he has been such a great supporter (although he has) or because Perking the Pansies is such a great site (which it certainly is).

Jack was my first thought because we share an editor in the savvy and experienced Jo Parfitt.

Jo (www.joparfitt.com) is an accomplished author of 28 books; she is also a journalist, speaker, writing instructor and long-time publisher. She runs Summertime Publishing, a niche publishing company that focuses on bringing to print fiction and non-fiction books written by expats, internationals, serial travelers and global wanderers such as ourselves.

When a writer opens up and shares their innermost thoughts and feelings, it is an intimidating thing. Jo has calmly and gently shepherded Kate and the rest of us along the editing and publishing path, explaining myriad steps and key details, and helping to demystify the process. Along the way, we’ve gained confidence in ourselves and our book.

Jack’s many followers know that he has finished his manuscript of his own book, Perking the Pansies, and sent it off to Jo’s capable hands. In just a few weeks, he will be preparing for his own launch day.

Before he knows it, he will be holding a copy of his book in his hands, stroking its cover and marveling that his dream has come to pass.

I came here today to tell Jack to enjoy the ride. He needn’t worry. He is in excellent hands with Jo, the Shepherdess of Dreams.

If you’re interested in learning more about our book, please take a look at the website   www.theturningpointsbook.com, or follow along on Facebook’s The Turning Points Book page or on Twitter @Turning_Points. A portion of all sales will benefit www.seedsfordevelopment.org.

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Jack the Pill Popper

I developed a minor gum infection around a wisdom tooth. Serves me right I suppose. When I had my teeth capped to produce my stunning Hollywood smile, I didn’t bother with the rear pearly greys – I figured nobody could see them without a dental mirror. I’m like a Georgian house. A fabulous stucco façade disguises a jerry-built wreck.

To avoid the cost of a trip to the dentist (which admittedly isn’t that expensive), I picked up some over-the-counter antibiotics at a local pharmacy. Turkish eczaneler have much more freedom to dispense hard drugs than is the case in Blighty. It worked a treat and the infection is no more. I now know where to go if I ever require open heart surgery.

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No Touching

According to loopy pastor Mark Driscoll, masturbation by men* is a homosexual act. (What, even when leering at a well-thumbed mucky girlie mag?) However, Mad Mark says it’s not a touch of lavender if there’s a woman in the room (even if she’s minding her own business and busy knitting in the corner, presumably). Mr Driscoll looks the very image of a modern Millie and I rather admire the precision of his immaculately pressed collar.

As I was reading his wacky words, memories of my misspent youth came flooding back. The teacher that taught RE (or Divinity as we called the subject at my traditional grammar school) told us emphatically that masturbation made you go blind. You can imagine the reaction from the post-pubescent boys. It nearly caused a mini riot. Despite the disbelieving groans from the self-abusing spotty adolescents, he was utterly unbending in his belief and warned us of the dire consequences of a quick furtive fumble under the sheets. If my fast fading memory serves me right, it was the only sex education I received at school. Mind you, since my glasses resemble jam jar bottoms, he may well have had a point.

* Mad Mark doesn’t seem to have anything to say about female masturbation. Presumably he thinks women are just non-sexual receptacles for male lust and so wouldn’t do that sort of thing. I’m thinking of popping a Sex in the City DVD in the post to enlighten him.

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Flying Low

I received an email from a friend waiting at Bodrum Airport for a flight back to Blighty. It made me smile so I thought I’d post it.

‘We’re now at the VIP lounge at Bodrum Airport wondering which cocktail to order from the menu and browsing the various free food bars to decide between Italian and Thai. Then we woke up. OMG it’s worse than usual here. Puts me in mind of childhood trips to the local cattle market, except the sheep and cows were docile and cute. There are more shell suits on show than in the early episodes of Eldorado and the Turkish staff have all been trained by Eva Braun. Still, we’ll soon be shown to our flat beds to sip chilled champagne and choose our film. Yer, right. It’ll be four hours of bending over our own crushed internal organs only to be disgorged at the other end like boat people from the South China Sea. This will be followed by a three mile trek to the arrivals hall and glares from bored customs officials like we’re serial criminals. Only then does the next great adventure begin – find the bloody car.’

Thank you Liz.

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Publish and Be Damned

It’s done and dusted. We’ve done our best to spice up the speech, vacuum the grammar and pep up the punctuation. We can do no more. Thank you to Liam. We didn’t row too much about the pace, pathos and plot. Thank you to Jessica who did a marvellous job of proof-reading. Thank you to the emigreys who handed me a story on a plate (or was it a poisoned chalice?). Perking the Pansies and Surviving the Expats in Turkey has gone off to the publisher by carrier pigeon (it’s quicker than the Turkish postal system) to be savaged by the editor. Booker prize here I come. As if.

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