X Factor Ads

It’s Sod’s Law. Just as I posted about gorgeous autumn weather in Bodrum it started to rain. And, Christ, did it rain. We’ve spent a couple of drizzly evenings watching the first two live episodes of the X Factor (that’s the British version of American Idol to those across the pond) through the internet using a VPN (virtual private network). I know, I know, it’s shallow, exploitative nonsense but it is entertaining. We plugged the laptop into the TV. It’s not the greatest picture but beggars as they say. We hear unconfirmed rumours that VPNs/proxy servers will be illegal when the Turkish Government eventually introduces its new internet controls and we’re beaten down by the heavy hand of the censorious State. If this is the case they’ll be no more British TV for us. And they’ll be no more British adverts either.

I’ve often thought that commercials are more entertaining than the programmes they rudely interrupt. Yeo Valley, purveyors of all things dairy have commissioned a costly class act for the X Factor. It’s bubble gum fun. The men aren’t bad either.

It’s not a new idea, of course. I remember the 70s Coca Cola ad that spawned the worldwide hit single I’d Like to Teach the World to Sing for the squeaky clean New Seekers (not a patch on the old Seekers).

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Bodrum, Nice and Slow

The tyranny of summer is behind us and a blesséd autumn waits impatiently out to sea. The mugging muggy days have given way to bright warmth and cooler, cuddly nights. Having outlived the big heat, we reoccupied the upper floor of the house for the first time in two months. I was glad to become re-acquainted with our superior sprung marital mattress.

Bodrum’s hysterical nightlife has slowed to a thin trickle. The hordes are back in Istanbul and the whores are back in Kiev, replaced by Teutonic types in fishing hats and sandals with socks. The hassle boys along bar street are out in force to squeeze one last pushy sale and itinerant workers are heading home to their winter pastures to marry their cousins. Fink, the exemplar rich bitch bar has gone into hibernation and its huge swaying red chandelier, the most photographed light fitting this side of Versailles, will soon be dismantled and packed away. This is Bodrum at its best. Snap it up while you can.

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Jack the Hack

Now that Rupert Murdoch and his progeny have hit the skids (and not before time), I’ve decided to become the next big thing in the newspaper business. I now publish my very own daily online newspaper called Jack the Hack. Now, before you start thinking that I’m turning in to a megalomaniac media mogul, spending all day at the keyboard and denying Liam his conjugal rights, I don’t actually do a thing. I found a snappy little app called paper.li that automatically garners articles from Twitter by combining my tweets with lists I follow and keywords I’ve specified. Ok, I know it’s all a bit random but it’s fun and it’s so easy. I don’t intend to go the way of Maxwell, Black, Murdoch and co, but I do see a gap in the market now the News of the Screws has kicked the bucket.

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Steve Jobs, RIP

Apple technology is not the best or always the most innovative but it is undeniably iconic with real feel appeal. Steve Jones was a genius but also a philosopher. ‘Nobody wants to die,’ he said. ‘Even those who want to go to Heaven, don’t want to die to get there.’ He knew better than most that death is the final destination for all of us. ‘Never settle,’ he said. That’s why Liam and I are in Turkey.

The Dorothy Dollar and Pink Pound

When I was in negotiation with my publisher, Jo Parfitt, she asked me if Perking the Pansies, the book, would attract a wider audience beyond a gay niche. It’s a question I had asked of myself. It’s not a bad niche to be stuck in. By some accounts, the pink pound is worth about £6 billion in the UK and the US equivalent (the dorothy dollar) is reckoned to be worth a staggering $640 billion. Even if this is an exaggeration in these recessionary times it’s still big bucks.

The more I thought about it the more I realised that neither the book nor the blog are actually about gay life in Turkey, rather they are about a gay couple living in Turkey. This is an important distinction. I did a little digging about my blog readership. It turned out that my pansy fans are overwhelmingly British, female (about 70%) and over 45 (around 80%). Even though the blog is occasionally a little naughty and  gay boy about town, this hasn’t put off the straight reader. This may be because gay culture is much more mainstream in Britain than elsewhere. The gay scene has emerged from the dark ghetto on the wrong side of the tracks and gone very high street (or Main Street as they say on the other side of the pond), the Daily Mail has stopped being routinely beastly and the tea-time TV choices for British women of a certain age are Graham Norton and Paul O’Grady (neither of whom hide their flashing pink light under a bushel).

What do you think?

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Ghost Post II

I apologise for my second ghost post of the season. It’s been a long, hot summer and my brains are fried.

Swearing in Turkish

When I was on holiday and soliciting for guest posts, Dina, a Bodrum Belle of class and distinction, sent me two articles. The first, Siren Inflation was published last month, but I received her second piece too late in the day to include among the  holiday crop. I’m unsurprised it was a little delayed as Dina and her partner Dave run a successful gulet charter business here in old Bodrum Town called South Cross Blue Cruising. It’s been a busy season.

Here is Dina’s second guest post.

Swearing in Turkish is an acquired art.  The wrong word at a dinner party will guarantee a permanent ban, whereas a well-timed curse can open doors, and little is as satisfying as swearing profusely while driving in Turkey.

I once lived 20 meters up on a one way street from the main road in downtown Bodrum. This meant either driving up the one way street the wrong way in order to get into my private parking space, or circumventing the entire perimeter of Bodrum in order to arrive at the house 15 minutes and 2 liters of petrol later on the correct, one way route.

Fast forward to the bustle of August with Istanbul ’34’ number plates dominating all of the one way highways and tight Bodrum alleys. I was trying to get home and did a quick glance up my one way street which appeared completely clear. I gassed the little Fiat Uno up the alley the wrong way to duck into my parking space.  From a parked position, a tired, late 70s model, avocado green, 34 plated Mercedes sedan crept out and met me at the entrance to my parking space, with just enough room to not let me into my garage.  I signalled right – he shook his head.  I signalled right again, as all he had to do is reverse one meter to allow me access. I made a face and pointed towards my alley.  His brassy haired, bouffanted wife gave me the Turkish equivalent of the finger above her gold bangles.A combination of strong hormones and heat rash thus persuaded me to intentionally stall my Uno.  Alas, two more 34 plates appeared behind the Benz, as did a neighbor’s 48 licensed Bodrum car behind me, with shortcut intentions similar to mine.

Salak kari! bellowed the fat, sweaty Benz driver through all three of his chins. (Stupid broad)

Lavuk!  I tossed back. (Imbecile)

Oruspu!  yelled the aging Istanbulite’s missus at me above her gyrating fist. (Prostitute)

Whore! I yelled back, trying to intimidate in English.

Manyak! screeched the red faced man, blowing on his horn at me. (Maniac)

Hiyar! I retorted out of my open window. (Cucumber)

The local market boys ran out to participate in the entertaining engagement. They first attempted to assuage the Mercedes, which, in the Turkish pecking order and its big city license plate, had potential clout which almost rivalled that of mine as a trusted and known neighbor.  Realizing the aggressiveness and possible languid VIP factor within the aging Benz, as well as not wanting me to switch mini market loyalties, the market boys rearranged cement flower pots for me to pull onto the curb and allow the MB to pass.  The Honda behind me continued the argument until the Honda became an ayi (bear) and the Benz became the son of a pimp of sodomy.  Having delivered the purported greater insult, the 48 licensed Bodrum Honda backed up to let the frustrated 34 Benz pass.

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To Sleep, Perchance to Dream

My Anatolian dreams are frequent and intense, bordering on the nightmarish at times. This was not the case in Blighty. I wonder why? Was it something put in the water or something left out? Or perhaps I used to be too tired to dream, preoccupied with kiss-my-arse bosses and keeping the wolves from the door. My sleep pattern has radically altered since our exodus. Before, I’d be lucky to catch six hours. Nowadays it’s closer to nine, occasionally supplemented by a catnap after playing hide the sausage. The chances are I used to suffer from long-term, low-level sleep deprivation. Now my cycle is longer and shallower, and my dreams are richer and more vivid. This seems to be a common phenomenon. Liam says the same. Most people forget their dreams soon after waking. I wrote mine down as soon as got up this morning. It went like this:

I was introduced to a young Danish1 woman who composed Christmas carols for a living. Lovely, I thought and did my usual exploratory banter to show a bit of interest. I mentioned that Liam had won a Christmas carol competition way back in the eighties and had appeared on local television2. I also mentioned that he’d written various pieces that were sung by well-known choirs in Wales. Our Danish visitor seemed utterly disinterested and completely dismissive. She told me she was a devout Catholic and that we would burn in Hell. I launched into an anti-religious rant telling her that she’d been conned by ancient fairy tales and followed a faith that practiced witchcraft and cannibalism every Sunday (well, how can else could you describe the Catholic rite of transubstantiation – the actual turning of bread and water into the blood and flesh of Christ?).

I woke up with a jolt. Jesus, what does it mean?

1Apart from Cnut, our ex-neighbour I’ve nothing against the Danes and spent a wonderful weekend in fabulous Copenhagen. I also know most Danes are Lutheran.

2Some of you Brits may remember the glory days when ITV was a regional network. Liam appeared on HTV Wales. Liam’s winning entry was called Bethlehem Star and you can listen to the jolly hymn  here. The recording is a bit ropey as it was transferred from an old tape recording.

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Blood on My Hands

A while ago, I bought a mandarin sapling in the Pazar and planted it in a large terracotta tub. I’m not noted for my green fingers, so googled growing mandarin trees in containers. I found that, just like me, they do well if fed and watered correctly. The trick to proper irrigation is to wait until the first 2 or 3 inches of the topsoil are completely dry, then soak until water pours out of the drainage holes. I‘ve been doing this religiously for a few weeks now. Yesterday, I stuck my index finger in the tub to check for dryness. It was time for a good drink and I duly dumped a whole load of water into the soil from my little plastic watering can. Seconds later, hundreds of small ants poured up through the inside wall of the pot, swarming hither and thither in utter panic. They were holding up their grubs with their forelegs. I could almost hear them scream,

‘Save the babies! We must save the babies!’

I felt like a serial killer.

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The Displaced Nation Trilogy – Part 3

During the height of the summer we were like camp vampires and only ventured out after dark. Earlier in the season, we found ourselves sweltering in 40 plus heat with no air conditioning. Because our little cottage has 18 inch thick stone and concrete walls, it took us weeks to find a technical solution. In the meantime, I received a host of suggestions to help us through the sleepless, sweaty nights. I’d like to share a few:

  • Wrap a gel-type freezer pack in a wet tea-towel and apply it to your hot bits (and watch them shrink)
  • Buy a floor-standing industrial fan (but nail everything down)
  • Bathe your feet in an ice bucket (and develop frostbite)
  • Take a cold shower before bedtime (except the cold water is hot at this time of year)
  • Sleep on a wet towel (and rot the mattress)
  • Decamp to the roof (and get eaten alive my mozzies)
  • Emigrate to Sweden

Thank you Pansy Fans for the suggestions. Any more? You can read the full Displaced Nation article here.

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