Handbags and Gladrags

Chrissy invited the ‘Come Dine with Me’ set to a local restaurant in Torba on the occasion of her birthday. The restaurant is run by a slightly fey man called Emir who rides a motorcycle but keeps his helmet hidden in the pannier to avoid getting it dirty. The gang assembled preened, pressed and powdered with breasts out on display despite the nipple-hardening chill.

Recently engaged Emir joined Liam and I at the bar. He suggested that when the weather improved we might like to join him for a skinny dip on Dodo Beach, an isolated spot where we can bathe unmolested. I suspect he had molestation of his own in mind.

The soiree was as cold as the weather. I was asked to judge a handbag competition because, as a gay man, I obviously know all about women’s handbags. I was presented with a ghastly array of (presumably fake), Gucci, D&G, Burberry and the like. I awarded first prize to the ugliest bag, big enough to transport paint from B&Q. The event became increasingly ill tempered. Bernard, a petty, humourless man of many hidden shallows, complained loudly that Chrissy no longer “puts out” as he delicately phrased it, preferring instead to take Jeffrey Archer to bed. We are growing weary of the relentless rivalry and trivial keeping up with the Jones’ village mentality. The crème is starting to curdle.

Last Will and Testament

Our relationship is not recognised in Turkish Law and not likely to be any time this century. We thought we’d better prepare Turkish wills and have them notorised to make sure that we are mutual beneficiaries should one of us succumb to terminal wine flu. Wise Kirazli Karyn strongly advised us to drop the idea and drop it quick. What seems like a perfectly sensible proposition might lead to years of grief in the Turkish legal system. As we don’t have any immoveable assets (ie property) simple British wills are sufficient though they will need to be apostilled to be recognised by the Turkish authorities.

Pansy Fans

Liam and I were chatting over a glass or two of red and the conversation turned to readers of Perking the Pansies. It occurred to me that I have little clue about who you are. To help me out would you be so kind as to complete my little poll. It’s just a bit of fun and you can’t be identified so there’s no danger of being cold-called by a double glazing salesman or a viagra vendor.

Ring of Fire

We awoke to the news that Mother Nature has viciously smacked Japan with the most powerful earthquake in recent history unleashing a titanic tsunami that is powering across the entire Asia-Pacific region at the speed of a passenger jet. My grumble about a bit of chilly weather in our corner of the world now seems pathetic. I have it to hand to the ingenious Japanese who have minimised damage and casualties with clever application of technology. Other nations in the region may not be so fortunate.

The entire Pacific Ocean is framed by faults and volcanoes that geologists call the ‘ring of fire’. Since we foolishly live on top of the extremely active Anatolian Tectonic Plate it’s only a matter of time before we experience the earth moving beneath our feet and our jerry built dwelling may well collapse like a house of cards. Liam served up a spicy curry last evening with egg fried rice and home made onion bhajis. It was delicious but I’m now dealing with a ring of fire of my own.

Brass Monkeys

Just as it seemed spring was around the corner lulling us into a false sense of hope, Mother Nature decides to take a cruel side swipe with a cold snap just for a laugh. Two degrees overnight and a light dusting of snow on the Bodrum Peninsula. I didn’t move to sunny Turkey for this. I confess it’s not as chilly as the image suggests but, without central heating, it feels cold enough to freeze the balls off the proverbial brass monkey. Liam and I are fighting over the duvet to ensure our nether regions remain intact and in proper working order.

I found a tiny mouse that had taken refuge from the elements in the watering can we keep on the terrace. Alas, the creature had perished. We called him Mehmet and flushed him down the loo. Liam said a few words before he pulled the chain.

Feel the Love

I’ve long believed that everyone hated us. The British strut the world stage hanging onto the coat tails of our mighty American cousins and I can understand why this gets up the noses of many. Ridicule in Iraq, deadly bombs on the Tube, World Cup humiliation and nil point at Eurovision all point to a depressing impression of widespread antipathy. It’s little consolation that the pushy Yanks are despised more. It’s come as a refreshing surprise to discover than dear old Blighty is the second most popular nation in the World according to a BBC World Service Country Rating Poll. It’s a welcome antidote to the legions of emigrey Brit-bashers and doom and gloom soothsayers on the top of the Clapham omnibus. Alas, we were beaten into second place by the Germans but I suppose we’re getting used to that. Apparently, though, Turks don’t think much of us at all, presumably because they are taught that the English (Britain doesn’t seem to exist in Turkish parlance) were responsible for the final destruction of the Ottoman Empire. That’s what happens when you back the wrong horse.

Have You Been?

I was acquainted with a squat toilet from a very early age. As an army brat I lived some of my childhood in Malaysia and our house came with an extension for the Chinese maid. We weren’t posh, Dad was a regimental sergeant major, and every family had a maid courtesy of Her Majesty, even lowly squaddies. It was time before the rise of the Asian Tigers and the reawakening of the Middle Kingdom when Britain still had a blue water fleet. The maid’s quarters were equipped with a squat toilet whereas our family convenience was of the pedestal variety. She used her facility and we used ours. ‘East is east and west is west and never the twain shall meet’ as Rudyard Kipling wrote.

Caught Short

We were wandering through Gümüslük Bay, a beguiling little harbour set among the meagre ruins of ancient Mindos. As a protected archaeological site, the bay has been saved from the relentless march of little white boxes that afflicts that part of the Bodrum peninsula. Unfortunately I got caught short. I darted into the public convenience for relief. I gazed in utter horror at the flush ceramic pan. Oh shit, how does it work? My mother trained me to sit not to squat. How do I hover precariously over the hole with my drawers round my ankles without tipping over? I gingerly and carefully pulled my jeans and Calvins over my trainers, first one leg then the other, contorting my body to avoid contact with the wet floor. I almost fell onto my backside in a vain attempt to maintain my dignity. It was like a game of twister but with only one player. The moral of the story? Go before you leave.

According to Wikipedia an alternative name for a squat WC is an Alaturca from the Italian Alla Turca – as the Turks do. Fancy that!

The Word on the Street

Thank you to those who voted in my playful poll about proxy servers. Here are the results of the Perking the Pansies jury:

31% – Yes I use a proxy server in Turkey

28% – No I don’t use a proxy server

10% – I’ve no idea what you’re taking about!

31% – I don’t live in Turkey

For anyone interested, the way to access a proxy server is to sign up to a ‘Virtual Private Network’ (VPN). This handy service provides a gateway to British terrestrial TV and also circumvents internet restrictions by the Turkish authorities. We use my-private-network.co.uk. The service was easy to set up and costs about a fiver a month. This allows us to stream live TV and watch catch up services on our laptop. We also installed the BBC iPlayer to download BBC programmes to watch at our leisure. For an altogether better viewing experience, we connect the laptop to our TV and sound system.

The Downside

The process can be frustrating and unsatisfying. Live streaming and catch up needs a good internet speed. Ours is up and down like whore’s drawers. A variable picture quality, broadcasts that freeze then jump forward and endless buffering can irritatingly interrupt our  enjoyment. Downloading programmes using the iPlayer works really well as it saves a temporary copy on our computer but, of course, only applies to BBC broadcasts.

Doldrums in Bodrum

We bloggers are like rats. We get everywhere and Japan is no exception. Charles Ayres writes a deliciously over the top blog called Impossibly Fabulous from the Land of the Rising Sun offering camp agony uncle advice to the bewildered. It helps to keep him sane as an alien in the most homogenised nation on our diverse planet. I am concerned about Liam’s slow but certain slide towards the veil and sought Charles’ insight. These were his thoughts:

Doldrums in Bodrum

January 2015 Update: Unfortunately, Impossibly Fabulous is off the air these days so this link no longer works. 

Incidentally, the word Anatolia derives from the Greek Anatolē which means ‘sunrise’ so Charles and I are both bloggers from the land where the sun rises. A bit silly really as the sun rises everywhere eventually, even in Grey Britain.

Bursting into Life

The mould season is drying out. Spring is in the air and there is a spring in our step. The warming rays have stirred us from the benign boredom of our winter hibernation. Flowers are bursting into life, shorts are being aired and flip-flops dusted down. Alas, the mozzie season approaches alongside. Relentless and voracious, Turkish mozzies just love to feast on poor Liam. Dive bombing like kamikaze pilots they show him no mercy. At times he resembles a medieval pox victim. We’ve purchased several kegs of napalm and rinsed out the net as a precaution. Thank God that there is no malaria in our corner of the World.