Punishing Percy

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.

Check out the Facebook Page.

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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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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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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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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