Lonely Heart

We received a serious and more distressing message on Gaydar. It came from a young Turkish man and read in broken, but serviceable English:

‘heello guys ım living close to bodrum .in Milas.ım 23 yearsold.wannameet.talk conversation if u want.ı really need talk’

I glanced at his profile. There is no picture and he states that he’s from Barnstable in England. I doubt he’s even heard of Barnstable. He wrote in his personal description:

IM honest.married.ım an secret gay.has hairy body:)

Cry for help or just a come on? We didn’t know either. I lost sleep over it.

The Knickers Nicker

Apparently we’ve got a knickers nicker in the vicinity according to Funlife on the Turkish Living Forum (to nick is to steal in British English parlance). Someone has been skulking around the Türkuyusu area of old Bodrum Town pilfering from washing lines. Well, to be exact only one confirmed line has been plundered at this stage of the game. Who is the miscreant I wonder? Is it some impoverished itinerant worker who left his meagre belongings in a black bin liner on the bus as it sped off back east? Or perhaps it was some panties pinching perv who gets his kicks from wearing freshly laundered women’s undies. My preferred explanation is that some secret paramour was caught in the act with his knickers down, fled naked from the scene of his undoing and improvised with whatever he could find hanging around. There’s always someone’s washing flapping in the wind around here so he’d be spoilt for choice. Does my bum look big in this? Of course it does, you fool. Everyone’s bum looks big in baggy floral pantaloons. I’m keeping my Calvin Kleins under constant surveillance from now on – the genuine article, not the market-bought fakes that fall apart after a couple of cold rinses. He’s welcome to them.

That’s me in the picture, obviously.

So You Think You Can Dance?

We decided on a diverting night of fun and frolics in Bodrum to celebrate vetpat Charlotte’s birthday. Nancy was back in town, continuing the ebb and flow of her frequent sojourns and combining her twin roles as best friend and chief concubine. Leaving Alan convalescing at home, Charlotte and Nancy arrived dressed to impress, replete with f*ck me heels and bountiful bouncing breasts shimmering in the twilight like overripe waxed melons. As we promenaded along the marina, men of all ages fixed their gaze at cleavage level and jaws hit the newly renewed paving. We dined at Tango, an Argentine-themed steakhouse where meals are served on bloodied breadboards and the price of run of the mill French wine is stratospheric.

After the meal, Charlotte escorted us to a bar of her long acquaintance called Seyfi, famous for ethnic entertainment and décor of manufactured authenticity. Charlotte, Nancy and Liam danced the night away in true local style. I eyed up the talent. Liam’s dance technique, woefully inadequate to the hard beat of the Freemasons was strangely adept at indigenous rhythms.

Our girl’s night of carefree flirtation was cut short by the drunken arrival of Sultan Irfan, the philanderer. Charlotte had unwisely texted him our location and he’d come in search of Nancy, his troublesome and tempestuous paramour. Irfan bounced in a like a giant pinball, finally coming to rest at an adjacent table. Nancy faked outrage at his intrusion but grabbed Liam for a seductive boogie in a brazen attempt to incite his jealousy. I observed from the wings. It was a pretty futile exercise as Liam hadn’t slept with anyone of the fairer sex since the early eighties and these days would need an instruction manual and a road map. Even though Irfan knows Liam’s inclinations, Nancy’s strategy worked. Clearly, I have completely underestimated the any port in a storm mentality of the average Turkish male.

Needless to say, Irfan and Nancy ended the game cooing like adolescent love birds. Irfan escorted the girls home, determined to nibble on Nancy’s savoury titbits. Liam and I retired to the house to watch the sun rise and contemplate the destructive tango of these two middle-aged, lustful teenagers.

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.

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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.