Our electricity supply continued up and down like whore’s drawers. Strangely, the power seemed to mostly misbehave during daylight hours when our consumption was relatively light. The main circuit breaker tripped at random so there was no obvious explanation. Once again, our formidable landlady swung into action and sent her little pixie spark to re-check the fuse box. He fiddled with the fuses and re-knitted the wires like a lazy carpet weaver. Progress was slow but steady. He flicked the kitchen light switch. The electric heater fired up. He plugged in the kettle. The air-con beeped. He smiled a satisfied smile and returned to his fiddling. Finally, through a tortuous process of trial and error he concluded that the root of the problem was a power surge in a circuit running along one side of the house. To test his theory he plugged in our modem. Bang went the transformer. He plugged in the TV. Bang went the independent surge protector. He plugged in the bathroom water heater. Bang when the circuitry. As a flume of smoke filled the house, bang went our tempers and we threw the pixie out.
I’m really excited to announce that Paul Burston, award winning author, LGBT Editor of Time Out London and one of Blighty’s leading commentators on LGBT life, has invited me to speak at the Polari Literary Salon in February. Paul created Polari to showcase new gay and lesbian writers. Since its launch in 2007, Polari has established an enviable reputation as a centre of excellence for promoting new talent. I’ll be reading passages from the book and taking questions. I’m completely terrified. Paul assures me it’s a warm and easy crowd. I will have to dig deep into my past to resurrect the orator in me. I’ll be trolling down to Soho to ask the literati omis, palones and palone-omis to vada my bona book*. I hope this pansy will still be perking by the end of it. What shall I wear?
With Liam back in Blighty, I’m making do. Our Turkish neighbour, Bubbly Beril, knocked on the door and shoved a DVD in my hands.
Based loosely on a true story, Under the Tuscan Sun is the tale of an American woman whose marriage collapses around her. She emerges from deep despair and paralysing sense of failure by making a new life in Tuscany, all by chance. It’s a sentimental, sugar coated yarn of love lost and a life regained. Boo to the nasty man who dumped her and hurrah for the cast of colourful characters who pick her up, dust her down and help her start all over again. I cried like a child.
Of course, life isn’t really like a movie. Not everyone’s that nice. The female flotsam washing up on our shores seeking comfort in the arms of a Turk are mostly onto a hiding to nothing. It can work but the odds are stacked against it. For me, the most significant part of the film was that the Yankee expat first arrived in Italy on a Tuscan gay tour. Beril had picked up the subplot. She was saying, ‘I know and I don’t mind.’
Fellow blogger, Yankee Garrett at A Change of Underwearcommented 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.
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?’
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.
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?
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.
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.
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.
Our electricity supply continued up and down like whore’s drawers. Strangely, the power seemed to mostly misbehave during daylight hours when our consumption was relatively light. The main circuit breaker tripped at random so there was no obvious explanation. Once again, our formidable landlady swung into action and sent her little pixie spark to re-check the fuse box. He fiddled with the fuses and re-knitted the wires like a lazy carpet weaver. Progress was slow but steady. He flicked the kitchen light switch. The electric heater fired up. He plugged in the kettle. The air-con beeped. He smiled a satisfied smile and returned to his fiddling. Finally, through a tortuous process of trial and error he concluded that the root of the problem was a power surge in a circuit running along one side of the house. To test his theory he plugged in our modem. Bang went the transformer. He plugged in the TV. Bang went the independent surge protector. He plugged in the bathroom water heater. Bang when the circuitry. As a flume of smoke filled the house, bang went our tempers and we threw the pixie out.
Perking the Pansies 