Eurovision Song-Fest Fever

Euro Camp-Fest

Forget the crisis in Syria, the civil war in Libya, Bin Liner’s death or the impending draconian clampdown on internet freedom in Turkey. It’s Eurovision Song Contest night and Europe’s having a party. Various angst-ridden bleached blond divas, euro pretty-boys in tight pants mincing around the stage and ruritanians in pantomime drag have been bussed in to Düsseldorf for the annual kitsch camp-fest. What started as a genuine attempt to heal the wounds of a war-torn Europe has degenerated into a financially crippling travelling circus of political intrigue and regional love-ins that now requires an ECB bailout to stage.

Turkey was knocked out in the semis. Who are the Azeri Turks going to vote for now? Will it be the usual Balkan back-slapping bonhomie from people who only a few years ago were at each other’s throats? Who’ll pick up the Greek vote now Cyprus is out? Was Dana International’s unceremonious ejection because the Israelis are beastly to the Palestinians or due to the fact that she’s gone rather broad at the beam and sang a crap song? Will anyone vote for the UK? I doubt it even with Duncan James’ newly acquired disco tits out on display. These are questions of profound global significance.

There will be Eurovision parties the length and breadth of Blighty, staged by queens for queens. Soho will be a ghost town and we will be glued to the set doing our bit for the boys.

Blue did a nude photo-shoot for Attitude magazine in Blighty. Stripping off for the folks back home won’t bring in the votes but might get their so so song into the charts. Watch the video below. It’s a bit naughty so if you are of a nervous disposition or easily offended I suggest you give it a miss!

Mobiles and Megaphones

A short and narrow lane runs along the side of our new house leading to a modest block of flats rented out to itinerant workers. Judging by the constant throng of virile young men who pass to and fro, the building is either the TARDIS in disguise or these poor boys are topping and tailing in sardine shifts. Understandably, such enforced intimacy presents privacy problems. My enjoyment of the latest edge of seat clinical dilemma in Casualty (or Doctors or Holby City)  is regularly and loudly interrupted by a Kurd bellowing down his mobile phone outside our window. Anatolians use their mobiles like megaphones. When our new neighbour, bubbly Beril, talks to her friends she doesn’t really need to use her phone as they can hear her in Ankara without it.

Perking the Pansies, The Book

A few months ago I happened across someone called Jo Parfitt purely by chance. Jo is an accomplished and successful author, mentor, journalist and publisher with 26 books and hundreds of articles under her belt. Jo specialises in publishing books by ex-pats who write about their lives or have something original to say about living abroad.  I thought that Perking the Pansies had the potential to be something more than a blog and set about writing a book version. I sent Jo a sample of my work. She thought I had an interesting idea with a different angle. Since then Jo has been helping me to knock the book into shape. Her critique has always been fair and honest but gentle and encouraging. Jo has been my muse and my mentor. I listened. Her advice and guidance have been freely offered with a carry on, you’re nearly there message. I think Jo now thinks I have got there. She has offered me a publishing contract. I couldn’t have got there without her.

Now I’ve got to finish the book so no summer loving for me this year. I doubt I’ll make it out of the front door. Liam will mop my sweated brow and keep me fed and watered. He is my other muse and is much less kind than Jo. I’ve promised the manuscript by September and, if I deliver, Jo will publish Perking the Pansies by Christmas. So what’s Santa bringing you this year?

Check out Jo’s website.

Read a sneak preview of Perking the Pansies.

New extract…

Chapter 6 Extract

Previously released…

Chapter 5 Extract

Give Me a Hand

Now we’ve moved to the big city, we had to go to the bank to change our branch. A simple enough procedure, I just had to write (yes write) a short letter requesting the change. Now, teacher Clive’s hand is lucid and tutorial. You can almost imagine three neatly ruled lines. Maurice’s hand is precise, crisp and artisan as befits his elevated status as an engineer. Philip’s script is stately, born of a more genteel age and fashioned down the years to a pleasing flourish. I can imagine him as a medieval monk devoting his life to illuminating the Gospels (and buggering the rector in the rectory).  The common denominator here is that all of these marvellous hands are easy on the eye and perfectly legible. My small missive, on the other hand, was not. Furthermore, even after just three simple lines, my hand ached. A dozen or more years tapping on a keyboard has rendered my handwriting laboured and indecipherable; pretty to look but as Liam said, might as well be in Gujarati. So there it is. I have been permanently disabled by new technology.

The Day Perking the Pansies Went Viral

After I posted So You Think You Can Write a Pop Song? last night I checked my pansy map and thought there was a nuclear attack on North America and Western Europe – very Cold War. Pansies were bursting out all over the place. It shows that a title that catches the mood can go a long way. I hope all the spotty teenagers across the western world weren’t too disappointed. I suspect they won’t return!

See the video on my Facebook Wall.

So You Think You Can Write a Pop Song?

Listen to this and then read the story.

The Promise

Liam’s been setting some lyrics to music. The words in question were penned by our nephew and my namesake, Jack. The prose is very deep, very torch song – all lost love, bitterness, angst and misery. It’s entitled the Promise. It escapes me what a 14 year old adolescent could possibly know about mislaid love. I put it down to the comprehensive system. Classically trained Liam can’t do hooks and struggled with the composition. He’s developed a deeper appreciation of the well-crafted three minute pop song. What you heard was the result. Not a pop song perhaps, but beautiful nonetheless.

Did the Earth Move for You, Darling?

A Moving Feast

Friends called from Yalıkavak and Gümüslük to let us know that the earth had moved beneath their feet. Fridges rattled, beds wobbled and light fittings swayed. We felt nothing here in metropolitan Bodrum. However, as we foolishly live on top of the Anatolian Tectonic Plate surrounded by active fault lines, it is inevitably we will experience an earthquake sooner or later. According to the Kandilli Observatory and Earthquake Research Institute at Bogazici University there were over 40 tremors of various magnitudes across Turkey over the last 24 hours. They don’t tell you that in the brochures.

Drums and Drugs

We now have neighbours. Our house is one of two on a single plot with a shared gated entrance and garden. We’d rather hoped the other house would stay vacant. It was not to be. We dreaded being saddled with a couple of old reactionaries; all head scarves, clashing florals and disapproving looks. We’re mightily relieved that Vadim and Beril are delightful arty types from Ankara. Vadim plays the bongos (or whatever the Turkish equivalent is) with talented gusto and Beril looks like she dropped too much acid in the Sixties. We engage in lots of pointing and demented waving of hands. They hardly speak a word of English and, of course, our grasp of Turkish remains lamentably poor. We’ve agreed to have a dictionary do over a bottle or three to exchange random words just for the hell of it. The ruder the better, I hope.

Ask Angela

Ask Angela

I’ve been working on a website for our friend Angela. A vetpat of distinction, Angela is like a delicious transatlantic cocktail – a Fulham girl with a Yankee twist. She provides a one stop shop for all of your needs in the Bodrum area. We have first-hand experience of Angela’s great service – fast, efficient, friendly and cost effective. Take a look at Ask Angela and if you need any help, give her a call.

PS I don’t get a penny!

Water, Water Everywhere and Not a Drop to Drink

We popped out into town for an americano in Kahve Dünyası, a top notch place to sip coffee and people watch. It’s located at the end of the small arcade of up-market shops along the promenade close to Bodrum marina. The coffee arrives with a chocolate tea spoon – for eating not for stirring. Although it’s a chain, Kahve Dünyası provides a superior brew to the Starbucks close by.

We sauntered back along the promenade replenished by the caffeine and the warming spring sunshine. Our upbeat mood plummeted when we walked into our house. The newly refitted kitchen had been transformed into a shallow paddling pool. Fortunately, the room is set slightly below the rest of the house and a step dammed the flood. The qualified water technician recommended by our landlady had poorly fitted a dodgy T junction which had cracked. We spent the evening mopping up the deluge. The next day we hurried down to Koçtaş to buy a replacement fitting and a wrench. Hey presto, now I’m a qualified water technician.