Are You Up For It?

Now that the season is in full swing we’re receiving messages from across the World through Gaydar. Gaydar is a rare British internet success story – a social networking site with global reach. The site is banned here in Turkey but, of course, there are easy ways to circumvent this. We’re asked about Bodrum life with the occasional implied offers of comfort. I’m flattered that some people out there still think there’s life in these old dogs. However, I’m mightily relieved that I’ve locked away my stall. I’m happy at home.

I have prepared a stock response which I cut and paste into a reply. It goes:

Hi there,

There aren’t any gay bars as such at the moment. It hardly matters as Bodrum is a laid back, gay friendly kind of place, and you will be made to feel welcome wherever you go. We live in the heart of town and I assume the people around us have got our number. We never get any bad attitude. So enjoy.

We rarely hear from the enquirers again.

Stand Up and Be Counted

I’m going a bit off message to share a touching video that my friend David stumbled on and posted on his Facebook page. It brought a small tear to my eye, something which is quite hard to do in this cynical old goat these days. Makes me proud to be (half) Irish. I think this should be shown in all schools. Any teachers out there? Check out the Stand Up – In Schools campaign.

Alas, Hell will probably freeze over before this ever happens in Turkey.

You might also like:

Jamey Roddemeyer, RIP

The Dorothy Dollar and Pink Pound

Dream Girls, the Nightmare

We were hauled off to see a drag show in Gümbet. ‘You’ll love it,’ we were told. We didn’t. If every sequin tells a story then this was a Greek tragedy. We survived the show – just. It was truly dreadful and I’ve seen some dreadful drag acts in my time. We endured tired old routines that I first saw in the Green Room at the Wheatsheaf, Shepherds Bush circa 1977.  We’re not talking about the superb Lily Savage or the sublime Dame Edna or even the multi-talented Dame Edna Experience (resident Sunday afternoon cabaret at the Vauxhall Tavern in South London). It was about as funny as toothache. This may have had ‘em rolling in the aisles on Seaside Special but that was forty years ago. It was no surprise that the act was a couple of rough old queens from Blackpool. Still, the (almost exclusively straight) punters lapped it up. We ate chicken in a basket.

Golden Girls

My two favourite TV Blanches died within a few months of each other. The first was Maggie Jones from Corrie (Coronation Street – Blighty’s longest running soap) who died in 2009. I thought she was magnificent. She had all the best lines, one of the finest being (when she suspected her son-in-law Ken Barlow was having an affair with an old male school friend):

‘I have nothing against the gays, Kenneth. It’s just I don’t want my daughter married to one. I’m old fashioned that way.’ Priceless.

My second Blanche was Rue Mclanahan, my favourite character from the Golden Girls. Now only the fragrant Betty White remains from the cast. ‘And then there was one,’ Liam sighed at the time. We spent a commemorative evening reliving a few of Rue’s golden moments from the golden years of the Golden Girls, especially poignant now that we have reached our own golden age.

Top Cat

Street dogs are less prevalent in Bodrum than in Yalıkavak. The few canines wandering the streets are vastly outnumbered by the litters of feral cats that bother al fresco diners and rummage through the bins. After our neighbours moved in they encouraged a tabby cat to take up residence in our shared garden by feeding her kitchen scraps. We called her Tabitha. We assume she’ll be handy for keeping rapacious rodents at bay.

By day Tabitha spends the time basking in the warming morning sunshine and only stirs when the sun is at its height to resume her cat nap under the dappled shade of an old olive tree. By night it’s breeding season and the queen wakes from her idle slumber for a bit of the other. We’re serenaded by a cat’s chorus of ear-splitting decibels loud enough to wake the dead as our feline neighbours indulge in orgies of Roman proportions. I assume Tabitha is the local bike being ridden by every Tom, Dick and Harry. No doubt she’ll soon present us with a litter of multi-coloured kittens.

Vipers in Paradise

We heard glad tidings. The Vipers and their dreadful old colonial ways have returned to Blighty. Thankfully, the British Raj is no more and neither are they. Bossy Chrissy intends to return now again to torment the natives. Even better news is that I’ve managed to persuade mother, sister, brother-in-law and their large brood over for my bi-centenary in October. It’s expected to be the best party since the fall of Constantinople.

The Dawn Chorus

The battles between our neighbours are becoming louder, longer and more frequent. They seem completely uninhibited by our close proximity. It is all the more frustrating since we don’t know what the rows are about. Late night fights inevitably end with Vadim sleeping al fresco on their balcony to escape the heat. His cacophonous snoring adds to the dawn chorus of canines, cocks, cars and the call to prayer.

Stop and Search

Fellow jobbing blogger Deborah writes Bitten by Spain, an amusing narrative of living on the Iberian rural edge. Deborah commented on my recent post about the Turkish Government’s attempt to curb suicidal driving. Deborah wrote:

‘We have an absurd situation here at the moment whereby the Spanish police are stopping to fine all extranjeros for driving in sandals without heel straps, or not having the dog belted into the back seat. During this operation a moped can be passing unsanctioned bearing two adults with a child sandwiched between them and a goat in the front basket. And none of them will be wearing helmets.’

It made me think of our own experiences of the local Jandarma. Road blocks are common, particularly at night. Drivers are routinely stopped and their particulars checked. The authorities are looking for drunk drivers and uninsured or un-roadworthy vehicles, all too common offences hereabouts. It’s the Law in Turkey to carry ID at all times. We often forget. Being Brits we’re just not used to it. We’ve been stopped a number of times by a youth in an ill-fitting uniform. On each occasion we smiled sweetly, spoke politely in English and were waved on. We assumed the spotty conscript just didn’t think it was worth the hassle. Or maybe we were just lucky.

Jack the Mascot

I have just reconnected with a long lost Blighty pal. His name is Andy and, nowadays, he’s someone awfully important in local government. We first became acquainted many moons ago at a drunken trivial pursuit work shindig. We were on opposing teams. I was the captain of my team which I called Kings and Queen. His team was called Gail Tisley’s Chin. The chin won by a nose. We got chatting afterwards over a tankard or two and thereafter became pals. Andy is a Barnsley lad with thick accent to match and a call a spade a spade Yorkshire charm.  I was a cynical old pro and he was the new kid on the block at the tender of just 21.

Corrie Gail

Andy is irrepressibly heterosexual and so secure in his sexuality he isn’t fazed by mine in the slightest.  I dragged him around the gay fleshpots of Soho. He didn’t flinch from the lecherous shenanigans. He assumed the role of my bodyguard protecting me from the wanted attentions of the dive bar boys, much to my distress. He used to drink in Earls Court, a gay mecca in those far off days. He isn’t bi-curious. It was the only place to get an after hours drink back then.

Andy decided to get hitched and held his stag do in Blackpool. A bit of a cliché but great fun nonetheless. It was thirty straight lads and me. I was the little gay mascot. I got chatting to one of his unsuspecting northern mates. ‘I hear a poof’s come along for the ride,’ he said. ‘That’ll be me,’ I replied. Despite the macho bravado from the boisterous boys I was the only one who actually got a ride that weekend.

Eventually Andy moved on to a better job and we lost touch. It’s an all too common problem for the transient workers of London. He’s still married to pretty little Jill and a proud father of two boys. They’ll grow up happy and well-balanced. Andy will make sure of it. I’m looking for a trip down memory lane when I’m next back in Blighty.

The Turkish Election Result

The results of the Turkish jury are in and the outcome is as widely predicted. The incumbent AKP government won by a landslide with an overwhelming majority of parliamentary seats (though not votes) that British political parties can only fantasise about. However, the AK Party failed to achieve the two thirds majority in Parliament required to change the Turkish Constitution without the need to hold a referendum. Crucially, they are also about four seats short of the number required to be able to devise amendments without parliamentary consultation. Expect some lively debates. What is also interesting is the polarised distribution of seats across the country with the main opposition CH Party dominating the Aegean coastal provinces and European Turkey outside Istanbul. Apart from the Kurdish regions, the rest of the country is bathed in yellow (the AKP colour). It begs the question is Turkey the crossroads of east and west or the fault line?

It’s a clear victory for the AKP and a mandate for change. The Government is now in a commanding position to do whatever it wants. The failure to win the required threshold of seats will only delay their ambitions. Liam is currently investigating how to build and maintain a still for the distillation of potcheen and scrumpy, and looking up the cost of renting in Spain. Only kidding, obviously.