Bubba’s Gobbler

Perking the Pansies has exceeded 50,000 hits in just five short months. How did this happen? I know the winter months are long and bleak but we all really do need to get out more. As the orbit of the Earth slowly warms the northern hemisphere with longer days, pansy fans will emerge bleary eyed from centrally heated hibernation. We can free ourselves from our enforced virtual lives and enjoy the bountiful summer. Alas, I guess my hit rate will plummet accordingly. Oh well, maybe my bacon will be saved by renewed interest from a wintering south plunged into darkness. So far, South America, southern Africa and Australasia have been immune to my pansy pulling power.

To lift my spirits I thought I’d celebrate my minor success with two pansy parables from America. In Blighty I was casually thumbing through the gaypers (the free gay publications distributed to pansy establishments). In between the relentless diet of pop, porn, prossies and pec pics I came across a more serious journalistic piece. Called ‘Distant Voices and Gay Lives’ the writer David McGilliveray profiled long forgotten pansy pioneers. The subject that most caught my eye was dashing William Haines who was a major box office star in the twenties and early thirties. One of his first talkies, ‘Way Out West’ (1930) included the immortal line “I’m the wildest pansy you’ll ever pick.” Obviously Billy never visited Bodrum.

Haines’ stubborn refusal to stay in the closet and play it straight eventually killed off his Hollywood career. He didn’t seem to mind and became an interior designer of some note. He met his partner Jimmie Shields in 1926 and they stayed together until William’s death in 1973. Three months later Jimmie killed himself because he found it “…impossible to go on alone and I’m much too lonely.” This is a tragic though strangely tender tale that belies the notion that gay men can’t sustain a relationship beyond a nanosecond. Joan Crawford called William and Jimmie the happiest married couple in Hollywood. I asked Liam if he would consider suicide if anything terrible happened to me. He said he was considering suicide because nothing terrible has happened to me.

From the delicious to the ridiculous, the second entertaining tale concerns my namesake and distant cousin Jack Scott, turkey trapper. Jack Scott’s affair with wild turkeys spans more than 30 years. Read all about Jack’s ever popular box and the legend of Bubba’s gobbler here.

And finally, spare a thought for the spring-loaded wannabe VOMIT who googled “im a woman wanting casual sex with a man in turkey where would i go” and returned Perking the Pansies. The lusty lass must have been devastated to find friends of Dorothy. Of course, the obvious answer is jump on the next plane for the ride of your life (or so the local boys think).

Premature eJackulation

It looks like we’ll soon be following our ex-neighbour Clement. Our smiley landlord called by unannounced dragging a Turkish family of three generations behind him. Liam was taking his morning ablutions and I was taking tea. The family were prospective buyers, and smiley Landlord wanted me to show them around the house. I refused. It was embarrassing and rather unpleasant. If he wants to sell the house from under us that is his prerogative. He will have to give us fair notice and we have no intention of acting as his unofficial, unpaid agents. That wiped the silly smile of his face.

There are plenty of little white boxes around to rent and we shall move. There’s an excellent chance that our landlord won’t be able to sell the house and it’ll remain empty indefinitely like most of the others. Myopic old goat.

From London to Bodrum

Young Yankee Erin from BlogExpat.com contacted me recently to ask if I would be willing to take part in a series of interviews she was doing with a number of expats living in different countries across the world. How could I refuse especially as the fabulous Erin describes me as “…an excellent writer with fabulous English humor”? You can read what I had to say about living in Turkey here.

Erin is an expat herself – an American living in Berlin with her husband. They have their own blog called Back to Berlin and Beyond. It’s a fun read but there’s not much fun in trying to read it in Turkey without a proxy server as it’s caught up in the ridiculous blanket ban on Google-hosted blogs.

Birds Without Wings

Award winning novelist Louise De Bernières is coming to town – well to Kayaköy a tumble down deserted former Greek village actually. Expect a civilised, sunny afternoon of recital, chat and nibbles to chew over his superb novel Birds Without Wings. If only I could write like him. Profits from the event will go to local children in need so it’s not yet another jamboree for street dogs.

Birds without Wings is a beautifully crafted, intensely human tale set in an imaginary Aegean village called Eskibahçe. Although fictional, the village is based on the hamlet of Kayaköy (Greek: Levissi) near Fethiye. The story unfolds against the backdrop of the defeat and disintegration of the Ottoman Empire, the rise of the Turkish Republic and the innocent sounding ‘population exchange’ that occurred in 1923. This cruel trade was a curious and unique episode in modern history as it was mutually agreed by both governments and sanctioned by the League of Nations. 1.5 million Greeks from Anatolia and 500,000 Turks from Greece were forcibly expelled from their centuries-old communities and ‘repatriated’ to their so-called homelands. It was religious rather than ethnic cleansing since ethnic Turks who were Christian were out and ethnic Greeks who were Moslem were in, and vice versa.

The expulsions were a harsh and deliberate plan by both adversaries to create states of religious and cultural homogeneity. This might be forgiven as the inevitable consequence of two paranoid, insecure nations attempting to foster a loyal citizenry but the fall out still resounds to this day both in the Aegean region and in the wider world.

Louise de Bernières is perhaps best known for his earlier book Captain Corelli’s Mandolin which is set on the lush and verdant Greek Island of Kefalonia during World War Two. My very first holiday with Liam was to Kefalonia. Our debut jolly was marred by a manic Franco-Algerian woman, a bird with bingo wings. She took far too much of a frisky shine to Liam. She chased him around the pool like a bitch on heat and I had to tell her to keep her wandering lusty hands to herself.

Nutty Professor

Tariq the Toothed was very pleased to see us when we got back to Tepe Houses. He shook my hand with an iron grip only Turkish men possess and nearly broke my fingers. It seemed to entertain him. He may be the hired help but he was making sure I knew who was really in charge.

Our new neighbour moved in while we were in Blighty. He is Turkish with a shock of wild silver hair and long unkempt salt and pepper beard. He walks around semi-naked regardless of temperature and resembles an elder caveman from One Million Years BC. He’s having huge shelves installed in the house so we assume he is some kind of nutty professor from Istanbul.

Apocalypse Now

I am availing myself of Karen’s five star facilities and superior broadband. I stumbled across another depressing tale of loopy American evangelical Christians who believe that the recent natural catastrophe in Japan portents the imminent End of Days. Their pastor predicts the apocalypse will commence on May 21^st. He’s not sure what time exactly. Delusional disciples are travelling the length of continental USA in a camper van spreading the Word to the faithless. This may be just the harmless ramblings of those who’ve hit the altar wine and I don’t doubt the possibility that the world as we know it may well end in a cataclysmic event one day. Look at what happened to the dinosaurs.

What gets me is the supreme arrogance of these aberrant people who believe absolutely that come the Day of Judgement only those who believe in Jesus will be saved. The rest of us will suffer an agonising death and burn in Hell for eternity. Setting aside the gross insult to the innocent victims of the Japanese quake or the overwhelming majority of humanity who subscribe to an entirely different religious tradition (or like me, none at all), it all seems a bit unchristian. What about the remote people of the New Papua rain forest who’ve never heard of Jesus or the children too young to have the Truth revealed to them, to name just a few billion?

Superstitious nonsense, I say. Still, I’ve made a note of the date and will probably skip the flossing that morning just in case.

Hi De Hi

The final instalment of our trip to Blighty was a cheap and cheerful family gathering at Butlin’s in Bognor Regis for my Mother’s 80th birthday celebrations. On the morning of the great day we organised a modest birthday bash. The family assembled at the designated time and my eldest brother gave a speech as befits the head boy. This was followed by the British première of ‘The Only Virgin in London’ a photo and video montage of Mother’s life set to music. There was hardly a photo of the Bognor Belle without a fag in hand. Mother has puffed away on twenty a day since the Suez Crisis with few detrimental side effects. It’s a shame she can’t get her fix on prescription as the cost is crippling on a state pension. Liam had worked on the DVD for months creating a superb piece of slushy, sentimental art worthy of the grand occasion. There wasn’t a dry eye in the house.

I was pleasantly surprised by Butlin’s. Not at all the ‘Hi De Hi’ potting sheds and am dram vision of Hell I was expecting. There’s even a five star hotel attached. Apparently, Bognor is the oldest recorded Saxon place name in England and the sunshine capital of Britain, though the latter accolade is hardly worth bragging about. The town was bestowed the Regis suffix after George V convalesced there in 1929. Subsequently, on his deathbed royal aides attempted to console the grumpy and dim huntin’, shootin’, fishin’ King-Emperor by suggesting he would soon be well enough to visit Bognor again. His final words are widely, but incorrectly, reported as being “Buggar Bognor!” I have some sympathy with the sentiment.

The Matriarch

We spent a joyous evening with my kid sister, her partner and their four football obsessed boisterous boys. She is the only one of my siblings never to have married. Her partnership has endured longer than any other in my family where divorce has been the depressing norm. Their humble home is south London is warmed by love and respect and my sister rules the roost with gentle discipline and a dogged determination that her boys will be decent people. She is a chip off our mother’s block and she is succeeding.

Hell and Damnation

I was sad yesterday when I heard that Elizabeth Taylor had died at the age of 79. Dame Liz retained her British nationality despite becoming the definitive all-American Hollywood star. Sensible girl. She wouldn’t have got the damehood without it.

I suppose she’ll be remembered more for the high drama of her personal life than her art. I will remember her for helping to raise over $100 million for the AIDS charity that she founded at a time when many thought that people with AIDS should be left to rot in the gutter.

I was mad today when I read that the congregation from Westboro Baptist Church intend to picket Dame Liz’s funeral. Margie Phelps, daughter of the hate group’s leader, Fred Phelps, tweeted “RIP Elizabeth Taylor is in hell as sure as you’re reading this and getting mad as a wet hen. She should’ve obeyed God. Too late!” It’s nice to know the hell and damnation school of enlightened thought is alive and well.

The Pink Pound

We caught up on all the dire economic news in the UK though the credit crunch seemed to be completely passing Soho by as I tottered through. I have long been used to being fleeced by brewers and inn-keepers who target the pink economy. The tradition has continued with the £4 pint of cooking lager. Despite the extortion, I spotted lots of conspicuous consumption and people doing what they have always done – shop, sup and cruise. The queens fiddle while Rome burns.