Jack, the Versatile Blogger

I didn’t win the Cosmo Blog Awards. Frankly my dear, I don’t give a damn. Who wants recognition from a glossy magazine with a worldwide audience and enormous circulation? Not me. I don’t need it because I’ve just received the Versatile Blogger Award.

A big thank you to Kate at UKate for nominating me. I humbly accept. Yankee Kate writes about being clueless in Blighty, trying to get to grips with all things British. God, help her. We’re a funny lot. Curiously, Kate only seems to live in places beginning with the letter T, moving from Texas to Toronto to Trowbridge (where next, Timbuktu?). Kate’s moved to the Sceptred Isle for love. Aah, bless! I congratulate her on her forthcoming nuptials.

The award comes with conditions. Recipients must formally accept the award with a post featuring the award’s image, reveal seven quirky things about themselves and pass the baton onto 5-15 other bloggers to do the same.

I’m really quirky because:

  • I used to have long curly hair and looked like Marc Bolan. People always assumed it was a perm. It wasn’t.
  • I got scarred for life in the Far East. I caught my thigh on the wheel of an out of control home-made go cart as it careered into a monsoon drain. See, I was a proper rough boy.
  • I’ve never slept with a member of the fairer sex. I got as far as heavy petting with Sheila B (not the Sheila B) and realised the whole thing wasn’t for me. Thank you, Sheila. You changed my life.
  • I have size five feet. You know what small feet mean don’t you? Small shoes.
  • At seventeen, I had a 26 inch waist, wore luminous green loon pants and 5 inch platform shoes. The seventies really was the decade that fashion forgot.
  • At 10, I was the junior champion diver of both Hounslow and Wandsworth in London (we moved in between) and came eighth in the Surrey Diving Championship. I used to be a contender until I discovered hormones and Playgirl.
  • I am a serial monogamist. For the last 32 years I have been partner-less for only 18 months. Who says gay men can’t manage a second date? Either I’m a really good catch or just terrified of being alone (or both).
  • A snotty sales assistant at Harrods tried to get my parents to kit me out in an oversized blazer for my snotty school because he thought they were too poor to buy me a new one each year. Bloody cheek!

Now to my victims. Drawn across three continents, the roll of dishonour is (in no particular order):

I know there are 16 blogs listed but, like a typical Libran, I couldn’t make up my mind and they’re all a good read. Anyway, I’ve been breaking the rules since dropping out of the womb singing I am what I am.

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Say What You See

Dear Old Blighty

The Faithful Retainer

We enjoyed mezes and drinks in Sofiye’s lush garden and we were in joyful, mellow mood. Towards the end of the evening Sofiye’s maid emerged from the kitchen having washed up and wiped down. She joined us at the table to eat a modest meal of pasta and salad. She asked Sofiye about Liam and me and Safiye asked us how she should reply. ‘Honestly,’ we said. We studied the maid’s mystified expression as she grappled for several minutes to make sense of the information. We thought it cruel to persevere so we settled on cousins, and she seemed calmed by the clarification since village people like to keep it in the family.

The teetotal maid became quite intoxicated by the laid back charm of the evening and, with reckless abandon and without warning, whipped off her head scarf to reveal dark, silky hair fashioned into a single squaw-like platted ponytail which she draped across her left shoulder. Excited but anxious, she looked to the assembly for approval. We gave her an ovation. Sadly, it was but a brief moment of sovereignty. She replaced the head scarf as we left to totter home down the lane.

 

 

 

Imitation is the Sincerest Form of Flattery

Turkey is the land of the genuine fake. It can be a fun experience bartering with the ruddy bovver boys down the pazar to get a couple of lira knocked off the knock off. Sadly, much of what’s dropped off the back of a tractor isn’t made in Turkey. We’re talking cheap counterfeits from the Far East, particularly China. No one expects the goods to last, no guarantee given, no refund offered. It’s all part of the cut and thrust of travelling market life.

As cooler nights approach, attention turns to winter wear and keeping the tootsies snug and warm. I hear Ugg boots are all the rage these days. I’m not sure why. They look like something my granny used to wear (actually that’s not true, my grandmother was only ever seen in court shoes – she was poor but stylish, but I digress). Genuine Ugg boots are made by a reputable manufacturer Down Under using sheepskin that is humanely produced and a pair can cost up to £200 a throw. As a carnivorous leather wearer (shoes and belts, not chaps and thongs) I can hardly complain about the use of animals in the rag and shoe trade. Times are hard and because of the cost, many people may be tempted by cheaper fakes that are flooding the markets in Turkey, Blighty and elsewhere. Please don’t. Allegedly, some of the imitations are made from Chinese racoon dogs that are skinned alive for their pelts. Yes, you read right – skinned alive. This gives a whole new meaning to the phrase cheap and nasty.

Don’t believe me? Check out this article (be warned the images are graphic)

Want to do more? Sign the petition

Thanks to Jeanette for this.

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Sleeping Beauty

In Support of Turkey’s Earthquake Victims

The tragic news emerging from eastern Turkey is becoming grimmer by the hour. The frantic efforts to find survivors continues and countless people are sleeping out in the open in sub-zero temperatures. There are ways to help. Please check out Turkeywithstuffin’s Blog for details.

Earthquake Devastates Turkey

Terrible news is emerging of a devastating earthquake that has hit eastern Turkey near Lake Van, one of the nation’s poorest regions. The quake, registering 7.2 on the Richter Scale, is the most powerful for more than a decade. At least seven aftershocks have rocked the region, hampering rescue efforts. Tragically, fatalities are likely to be high. For countless millennia, Turkey’s noble landscape has been wrought by Mother Nature at her most pissed off. We in Turkey live on top of the active Anatolian Tectonic Plate surrounded by constantly shifting fault lines. Tremors are common. It can happen anywhere. But for the grace of God and all that. The people of Van are in my thoughts.

If you need to know what do in the event of an earthquake please read the Earthquake Preparedness Guide at Being Koy.

You can help the victims by checking out Turkeywithstuffin’s Blog.

Strictly Come Dancing

We logged on to the VPN, plugged the laptop in to the widescreen and relaxed with tucker on trays for an unadulterated pleasure night of British TV. We’re making the most of it before the dull hand of the Turkish censor bans our innocent fun. Top of our bill was the class act that is Strictly Come Dancing live on Auntie.  A gay boy needs his fix of spectacle, salsa and sequins on a cool autumn evening. For us, Russell Grant, the frockless fat drag queen, was the astrological star of the show. Mystic Meg never predicted that.

Liam and I were fascinated by Lulu’s fabulous facelift, so much better than the trout pout sported by Felicity Kendall last year (to who, by the way, I used to sell light bulbs to in Habitat circa 1979). You really do get what you pay for.

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Strictly No Dancing

Wild About the Oscars

Gaddafi’s Last Stand

I awoke to the news that mad Gaddafi is dead. I would have preferred him to stand trial (a fair trial that is) but I understand why they put the old dog down. I went right off him when cocktails with the captain on board HMS Cumberland were called off at the last minute because the ship was diverted from Bodrum to Libya to evacuate foreign nationals. There was no rum punch or frigging in the rigging for us. It was enough to make me want to topple a dictator. As the Arab spring rolls into winter will Assad be next? I hope so. But, what of the medieval monarchs and mad mullahs in the rest of the Middle East? Their iron grip is likely to hold a while yet.

I wish all Libyans, Tunisians and Eqyptians genuine democracy, pluralism, secularism and respect for individual rights. Will I be holding my breath? Probably not.

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Rum, Bum and the Navy

Huddle Masses

Qué?

Liam and I were sitting in Kahve Dünyası, a superior coffee shop in Bodrum. We were with magnificent Murat, a handsome Brit of Turkish Cypriot extraction. Murat is blessed with a cheeky smile, dreadfully naughty eyes and buns you could bounce a penny off. Murat’s not gay, but healthily gay friendly and a diverting companion. A waiter approached to take our orders.

‘Sütlü americano lütfen,’ I said in my best Turkish (I realise only two of these words are actually Turkish). The waiter stared at me quizzically. Murat intervened. The conversation, in Turkish, went as follows:

‘What did he say?’

‘He asked for an americano with milk.’

‘I know.’

‘So what’s the problem?’

‘He’s got a foreign accent.’

‘Yeah. He’s foreign.’

‘What does he want then?’

‘You know what he wants.’

‘An americano with milk?’

‘Bullseye.’

‘So why didn’t he say that?’

‘He did say that.’

‘Huh! Bloody tourists.’

I don’t know why I bother. I should just shout loudly in English.

The serious point to this tale is that the British are more forgiving of people who speak bad English. Maybe we’re more accustomed to the weird pronunciations from first generation immigrants. Globalish, the reduced vocabulary version of our mother tongue, is prevalent at international conferences, on the streets and in many social situations. Of course, just to confuse people, the British have developed a countless number of regional British accents to baffle people everywhere.

Language can be such a barrier to communication.

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Swearing in Turkish

Freddie the Fat Fly

When you move to warmer climes, you expect to be bothered by bugs. There’s no Jack Frost to kill the critters off. Last night I was bothered by the fattest fly I have ever seen. Fat Freddie was the jumbo jet of flies and danced here and there but mostly danced around me. I’d always thought flies to be more of a nuisance than a menace until I looked up Wikipedia to discover that the humble house fly can carry over 100 pathogens. These include typhoid, cholera, salmonella, bacillary dysentery, tuberculosis, anthrax, ophthalmia, and parasitic worms. Well, fancy that. ‘Don’t mess with me, Freddie,’ I warned. ‘I’m fatter than you and I have WMDs.‘ Fat Freddie took no heed. Fearing terminal consumption and a bad case of the runs, I zapped the feckless fat fly with Raid. That was the end of Freddie.

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Sense and Insensitivity

Online forums are an essential part of life for both emigreys and those with holiday homes in a foreign land. At best they encourage a sense of community and provide invaluable guidance and advice. At worst they give a platform for nutters and ne’er do wells to vent their spleens. Sometimes the moderators have a tough job keeping the bile in check. You take the rough with the smooth, the classy with the crass. A thick skin and a sense of humour is a prerequisite. I recently come across a Turkish forum where the debate seems more measured and the discourse more civilised. It’s called Turkishlife Forums. Take a look and if you like it, why not join the club?

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Gone to the Dogs