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.

Silent but Deadly

A Handbag?

The drains in our new lodgings are a bit of problem. We took a well-deserved break from home making to watch back to back episodes of Downton Abbey. Midway through a deliciously haughty Maggie Smith monologue we turned to each other thinking the other had broken wind, the silent but deadly variety. Obviously, something very unpleasant had drifted across the room. I entered the bathroom to investigate and nearly fainted at the stench. Just as well Liam was on hand with the brandy to revive me. Mercifully, a few gallons of water liberally dosed with bleach soon cured the offending aroma.

Regrettably, rancid drains are the price we pay for living in paradise. During the hot, dry summers there’s just not enough pressure to push the shite through the pipe and back waft is all too common. That it has happened so early in the year is a tad worrying.

Yankee Pranks

Grand Design

A Pansy flasher in Washington DC brought back happy memories of journeys across the pond. Over dinner I led Liam on a jolly romp down memory lane. He kindly indulged my remembrance. I’ve been to the States four times – to New York, Boston, LA and my first visit was to the District of Columbia at the tender age of 20. I had dallied with a travelling Yank who worked for the Federal Government and was attending a conference in London. He invited me to stay so I did. I had tired of my dull, dead end job as chief cashier and pound counter for Habitat in Chelsea and had in mind to do as millions of others had done before me and seek my fortune in the land of opportunity. I saved my pennies, quit my job, booked a one way ticket on Freddy Laker’s Skytrain to New York and off I went. I flew out of the Big Apple and down to DC.

Me, yes really

My Yank got a shock when I called. It seemed his invitation hadn’t been entirely genuine but he was good enough to let me stay for a few weeks in return for occasional sexual favours. Springtime in Washington is very agreeable and a riot of cherry blossom. The federal heart of the city is laid out in imperial style and built in monumental neo-classical majesty as befits the capital of the most powerful nation in history. The grand design is best appreciated from the top of the Monument, the world’s tallest true obelisk. Rameses the Great must have turned in his tomb. I did the obligatory tour of the White House and the Capitol and strolled along the Mall popping in and out of the various museums along the way. It struck me how everything was described in the definite article – The White House, The Monument, The Capitol as if no others exist. It’s a sign of a confident young nation with a touch of teenage arrogance.

Gay life in Washington was a world away from recession-ravaged buttoned up Britain with its grubby backstreet gay bars. It’s taken London 30 years to catch up. I loved it and it loved me. I was young and handsome with cheekbones that could slice cheese. My hosts lapped me up and I let them. I wowed the randy scamps in Rascals, a popular watering hole and pick up joint for federal employees near Dupont Circle. They just loved my accent, along with my uncut assets.

Is it still there I wonder?

Alas, I sensed I was overstaying  my welcome and my reluctant landlord feared I would claim squatters rights. My low-key patriotism also annoyed him. He rather expected me to be enamoured with all things American. I really liked what I saw but I had learned patriotism from my soldier father’s knee and have never been able to shake it off. After a few weeks living the American dream I pined for the old country and flew home on BA.

To this day I remain quietly patriotic, though not nationalistic. To be proud of where you are from is fine but to think you’re a cut above is not. This is a message some emigreys hereabouts would do well to hear. I wonder though, if I had settled Stateside, what would have become of me?

Turkey’s Got Talent

Thank you to one and all for the good luck messages from my loyal pansyfans. Liam and I are a little pre-occupied with nest building and kitchen reconstruction. Put two gay men in a room and witness the heated debate about where to place the Habitat vase. In the meantime sit back and enjoy a joyous discovery brought to you by You Tube and Yankee Istanbul blog Death by Dolmuş

My Manx Kitten

I’d like to extend a big hand to Sally, my little Manx kitten whose voracious consumption of Perking the Pansies has single-handedly rocketed my hits into orbit. Thank you!

Other readers with certain minority interests may have been more disappointed, particularly those searching for:

  • Bingo wings birds
  • Old scrubbers
  • Gumbet love rats
  • Gobbler travels (porn)
  • Find a madam
  • Istanbul gay sauna
  • Izmir gay rent boy
  • Can pansies survive in the house temporarily?
  • Porno pansies
  • Gay gay calis
  • Lesbian politics of Britain 2011
  • Bodrum rent boys
  • Middle class rent boy

There’s a worrying trend developing here. For the record, Liam and I know absolutely nothing about rent boys, though I was tempted (but only tempted) to be one when I was young and wanted. These days I can’t give it away and Liam only obliges me out of duty.

The Wedding

We watched the royal nuptials with friends surrounded by homespun bunting, Union flags lovingly coloured in felt tip pens and attached to straws, and photocopied mini-flags on cocktail sticks. We feasted on a celebratory spread of British fare with a Turkish twist – spicy Cornish pasties for the fellas, scones for the ladies, fairy cakes for the pansies. Intellectually I’m a republican but emotionally I’m a true blue royalist. It’s a contradiction I manage to fudge with typically British pragmatism.

We had a joyous time stuffing our faces, sipping Pimms, waving our patriotic pennants and whooping at the hotchpotch of heavenly and hideous frocks. Princess Bea’s head dress could pick up intelligent life on other planets and Anne wrapped herself in her granny’s tablecloth that she’d run up on a Singer. Her Maj, of course, is above fashion. Harry looked dapper in his uniform. He’s the best of the bunch even though he’s a ginger. I’ve forgiven his faux pas with Nazi party attire some years ago. I put it down to youthful exuberance and stupidity. The Windsor-Mountbattens aren’t blessed with much up top. The Abbey looked magnificent and the majestic pageant was delivered to perfection in a way only the British know how. It gladdened my heart to see Elton John and his Civil Partner, David Furnish, in attendance. The final nail in the coffin of bigotry? Well, perhaps.

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I’ve heard it said that the whole jamboree was a waste of time and money in these days of austerity and the terrible events occurring around the globe. What’s wrong with forgetting the woes of the world just for one day and enjoying the fairytale moment? I hope the dysfunctional Firm have learned the Diana lesson and gorgeous Kate will be allowed to flourish in a thoroughly modern way.

Any Port in a Storm

Bodrum is getting busier by the day as the town warms up with the weather. Works continues apace to complete the classy new streetscape before the summer rush. Contrary to my initial cynicism, a spacious new civic square is being laid out along the bar street rat run revealing a spectacular view of the crusader castle. It will be a place of sanctuary from the relentless hassle to come from the imported hawkers with their spring-loaded libidos. Whole villages in the East are being drained of their young men as they start their annual migration in search of casual employment and easy lays. We have a bird’s eye view of the caravan of young totty as they scamper past the house dragging their humble belongings behind them. The testosterone is palpable.