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.

It’ll Make You Go Blind

Clive and I know one another from our salad days. In those distant times we were two of the three fey musketeers. Our third partner in camp crime was Paul who jumped the good ship Blighty many decades ago to dwell in a Parisian garret and chain-smoke Gitanes. Birds of a feather flock together. We somehow knew we were different and so did everyone else. We were relentlessly teased from the moment we entered the school gates. Nothing physical, you understand. That would be unseemly at a traditional grammar school with 400 years of history. Besides, beatings were reserved for the teachers to discharge. I suppose we hardly helped our cause by being rubbish at rugby and lip-synching to the backing vocals of Mott the Hoople’s Roll Away the Stone in Clive’s front room. Our sex education consisted of lecturing hormonal adolescents on the evils of masturbation. It nearly caused a riot.

Ian is a more recent acquaintance, a mere 15 years so a young friendship. As saucy singletons he and I trawled the dances halls of Europe and had a ball. Nowadays we are both hitched and respectable members of the elder gay community. Ian exists at the epicentre of gay culture by managing a licenced sex shop in Soho. He won’t tell his mother he’s gay. She knows of course. Mothers always do. But then, being nearly 50 with teeth and hair intact and never marrying is a bit of a clue.

Cuba Libre

It is the occasion of Maurice’s half century. He is adamant that he doesn’t want a fuss so he’s off on a Caribbean getaway to Cuba to celebrate the day on a beach with a cuba libre and a fat cigar. He clearly underestimated the determination of partner Alun, the fiery Welsh dragon. A surprise party was planned and executed a few days before. We joined the jamboree along with a parade of bears, cubs and chubby chasers who had forsaken their XXL fix to congratulate the birthday boy. XXL is a huge London club for fat boys and their admirers providing an excellent alternative service to those of us with our best years behind us and who can’t compete in the otherwise body obsessed, steroid-buffed twinky scene.

Maurice is not one to take centre stage, preferring to let others fly. He endured the attention with his usual polite charm grinning through gritted teeth and dreaming of the beach and the bacardi.

A Game of Two Halves

The walls of Karen’s gaff are dripping with original art. One or two of the canvasses are worth more than my pension pot. As I have reached my clumsy age I fret endlessly about knocking over the Clarice Cliff especially when returning slightly worse for wear after a night on the tiles. I’ve been trying to drop subtle hints about making sure the will’s up to date and to remember her poor gay relations.

Karen is the Honorary President of the Wycombe Wanderers Trust in recognition of her grandfather, Frank Adams, former player and club benefactor. She carries out her responsibilities with dedication and enthusiasm even on the coldest match days. She’s promised me a stadium tour. I’ve accepted on the understanding that I can be the soap on a rope in the changing rooms.

Evenin’ All

Once more we are staying at Karen’s gaff in Southfields. She, on the other hand, has decided to decamp to the States for the duration leaving us in the safe hands of her lodging nephew Jack, my namesake. Jack junior is a special constable and looks devastatingly cute in his uniform. He let  me feel his truncheon though I resisted the urge to handle his helmet. Thumbing his warrant card reminded me of the time, many years ago, when I met an arresting sergeant from the Los Angeles Police Department. He showed me his LAPD badge which was so heavy I asked him if he hit people across the head with it. Before entering the Police Service, Jack had been a part time model for Abercrombie and Fitch. Expect to see him as the new pretty face of  Crimewatch sometime soon. He can feel my collar anytime

My Family Jewels

London calls again. As we waited for our taxi to take us to Bodrum airport, Tariq our newly dentured caretaker playfully tweaked my nipples and tried to push me into a flower bed. He has also taken to pointing to my lower furniture and snapping his fingers in a scissor-like action. I’m not sure if he is referring to my intact prepuce (which would be amusing enough to anyone who’s never seen one) or his desire to rid me of my family jewels altogether and keep me as his personal eunuch. Maybe there was some truth in that old Ottoman adage that women are for procreation and men are for recreation.

Y Viva España

Liam loves a spreadsheet and a bit of research. He’s at his most content when fiddling with his formulas and colour coding his columns. I set him a challenge. I wanted to know the price differential for living our kind of life in Blighty, Spain and Turkey. Having worked out our major expenses – food, booze, travel to Blighty, rent, bills, healthcare etc, Liam set about the task with gusto and usual thoroughness. The analysis is remarkably detailed and the results are not at all what we expected.

Based on our spend in Turkey

  • We would spend a third more living in the UK than in Turkey (in the southeast of England, outside London). This is mostly due to higher rent levels.
  • Our average weekly grocery shop would be cheaper in the UK than in Turkey
  • Our average grocery shop would be cheaper still in Spain
  • Overall, we would spend a fifth less if we lived in Spain

These are headlines only and many factors are variable. Nevertheless, it makes an interesting read. What makes the most difference to our fiscal health is our income. As we don’t work we depend on our investments. British and Eurozone interest rates are negligible so we would have to supplement our income somehow, leading to an obvious and unpalatable conclusion. However, rates won’t remain low forever.

Of course, we don’t live in Turkey on cost grounds alone and we don’t intend to move on any time soon. We’ll keep an eye on it though. We don’t know where our doddering dotage will take us.

The Hills Have Eyes

Clement has fled to the hills to his village bungalow. I must confess to a slight sense of ambiguity by his exodus. In many ways he’s been a gracious and kindly neighbour but his quaintly old-fashioned views are way out of kilter with the modern world, a bit like an eccentric maiden aunt. I shall not to miss his angry evening discourses – how dear old England has lost its moral compass and is going to Hell in a handcart. He is emotionally and spiritually drawn to the warmth of traditional Turkish family values. It reminds him of the Blighty of his youth where everyone knew their place and were happy with their lot. Those were the halcyon days of consumption, grinding poverty and backstreet abortions where the love that dares not speak its name would result in persecution and a stiff prison sentence. I wish him the best but fear for the worst.

Ground Hog Day

What Day Is It?

Work is a four letter word round here. It reminds me of the bitter daily grind and sends a shudder down my spine. I have to admit, though, that gainful employment did provide a structure to my day and a timetable on autopilot  – 6.30am, Heart FM; 7am douche, press, brew, fag, no breakfast; 8am, Tube no seat; 8.55am, Café Nero Americano; 9am PC on. Ready steady go. Now all that is in the past and I can do as I please I sometimes don’t know what day it is. I don’t know where the months have gone since I gave all that up and I often don’t know what I did yesterday. Liam is no better. It’s not a complaint just an observation. Perhaps it’s early onset dementia. Besides it’s easy to imagine I’m Bill Murray in Ground Hog Day when watching the same episode of The Weakest Link on a continuous loop. Tis the fate of all emigreys.