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.

Alice’s Bucket List

It takes a lot to make this cynical old queen cry. Okay, I confess. It doesn’t. I cry at sentimental films cleverly contrived to elicit an instant emotional response. I cry when Karen (Emma Thompson) realises that her husband Harry (Alan Rickman) is having an affair in Love Actually. I weep when Mary (Joan Plowright) and Arabella (Judi Dench) wave farewell to Luca (Baird Wallace) in Tea with Mussolini. I am inconsolable when Ste (Scott Neal) and Jamie (Glen Berry) run through the forest to the soundtrack of Make Your Own Kind of Music by the Mamas and Papas in Beautiful Thing. It’s an acting thing and it gets me every time.

Alice Pyne is not acting. Alice has cancer and she has a blog. She writes:

‘Hi, I’m 15 years old and live with my parents and sister in Ulverston. I’ve been fighting cancer for almost 4 years and now I know that the cancer is gaining on me and it doesn’t look like I’m going to win this one 😦 I’m hoping to write in here as much as I can and I’m also going to show my bucket list which I’m trying to get done before I have to go. Hopefully, I’ll update as I tick each one off the list :)’ Alice’s Bucket List

I began to read Alice’s wish list out loud to Liam. I had to stop half way through. It was all too much. Her courage astounds and humbles me. It should humble us all. Alice has restored my faith in humanity. Thank you Alice.

Money Talks

Hanife, our formidable landlady and the matriarch of an old, monied Bodrum family dropped by with produce from her prodigious garden. She regularly provides us with various treats such as just-picked fruit, freshly baked pastries and sticky honeyed dough balls. There’s an age old and noble tradition in Turkey that if a neighbour presents a gift of food on a plate you must respond in kind. A plate must never be returned empty. Our habit is to return the dish with the rent money. Canny Hanife doesn’t seem to mind judging by the smile of her face.

Pansies on the Go

Google Blogger has just released a new mobile phone version of the Perking the Pansies Showcase which makes reading the Showcase on the go a breeze.

Perking the Pansies Showcase

Fat Fly Season

The weather has finally turned glorious after an unpromising start but it’s fat fly season. Turkish flies are so much bigger and more annoying than their British relatives. Liam has become a serial bug killer, declaring chemical war on the troublesome pests. Busy bees are buzzing about the buds, all manner of creepy crawlies are creepy crawling, the mozzie net is up and the duvet reduced to a sheet.

I climbed an old rickety ladder to turn on the solar hot water system and we bought a ceiling fan for the bedroom which I proudly installed. I used extra long screws to fix it to the ceiling. I can’t be sure I haven’t punctured the flat roof. We’ll know next time it rains. We feared decapitation when we first turned it on. Liam flicked the switch and we watched the blades slowly rotate like a turbo-prop. Hey presto, I’m now a qualified electrical engineer as well as a bone fide plumber.

Cut Glass

Umm?

The mercury has risen. Summer is suddenly slapping us about the face like a sweaty flannel and the pansies are wilting.  We took a stroll in the blazing sunshine along the refurbished promenade for a spot of lunch by the breezy harbourside. The Town is looking splendid, dressed in brand new quality livery. A new avenue of elegant adolescent saplings has been planted rising above a riot of red bedding flowers. The municipal gardeners should be proud of their speed and skill.

We took a seat at a waterside café near Castle Square to quench our thirsts. We sniggered like spotty school boys when the waiter placed the glasses on the table. They reminded us of something but I couldn’t quite put my finger on it.

Separating the Wheat from the Chavs

Released from the bonds of vacuous acquaintance we’ve separated the wheat from the chavs, emigrey-wise. Pretentiousness and reinvention is something of a lifestyle choice for many. I’m surprised our hosts indulge it with such good humour. I guess it helps to keep the economy turning, particularly during the lean months. Dyed-in-the-wool conservatism (both with a large and a small C) is unsurprising since the majority of emigreys tend to be a generation above us. Even so, the moral absolutism from the binge whingers is hard to stomach and the irony of widespread, thinly disguised racism and xenophobia is lost on most.

American Idol

A pansy flasher from Los Angeles prompted me to do a bit of digging about and I think I’ve just exceeded my 15,000th American hit. I can’t be completely certain as WordPress doesn’t  do geographical stats so I cobbled the figures together from other sources. However, what is clear is that around a fifth of pansy fans now come from across the pond. I’m at a complete loss as to why this is. Perking the Pansies is about expat life in a faraway land written in a peculiarly British camp Carry On style with a side of extra bite. I never imagined my irreverent drivel would appeal to our Yankee cousins who’ve developed a different brand of humour since independence. I hoped I might capture a few punters in New York and San Francisco but it seems that the pansies have penetrated every single state in the Union. I feel like a minor American Idol.

Talking of the City of Angels, I have many fun memories of my whirlwind tour of southern California way back in 1991. I was rendered speechless by the sheer scale of the larger than life city, fell head over heels for the charm of Laguna Beach, got gloriously drenched at SeaWorld*, screamed like a girl at Disneyland, leered lasciviously at the muscle marys  pumping iron on Venice Beach and laughed out loud at the absurdity of Palm Springs. The final part of my all too brief break saw me tripping the light fantastic in seedy West Hollywood, epicentre of gay life in LA LA Land. I lodged at the San Vincente Inn, a delightful gay hotel back in the day. Alas it now appears the place has degenerated into a cesspit of shameless debauchery.  None of that happened to me, more’s the pity.

*I don’t really approve of performing animals these days even when it’s done which such care as is the case with SeaWorld.

You might also like:
Fancy a Ride?

Cappuccinos and Rent Boys