Little Liam, Rest in Peace

Little Liam RIP

For 40 years Liam had suffered from a benign but unsightly growth on the back of his scalp, big enough to develop independent intelligence. I affectionately called it Little Liam and had grown quite fond of it. As the years rolled by his hair thinned and Little Liam became more and more prominent, looking like a diminutive Ayers Rock rising above the bush. Big Liam sought the advice of a local doctor who recommended euthanasia, assaulting Little Liam with a scalpel. It was a bit of a tussle as the roots were much deeper than anticipated. What emerged from the butchery resembled a miniature jelly fish. Big Liam returned from the wars bloodied and stitched. All that remains is a scar in the shape of a neat and perfectly formed crucifix (and not the 666 I was expecting). Big Liam is certain that it’s a divine sign. The Virgin Mary has done it again and the Pope has popped his certificate of beatification in the post. Amen.

Houston, We Have a Problem

Whore’s Drawers

The unreliability of our ADSL is becoming a major irritant. It’s been up and down like whore’s drawers of late and even when it’s up it’s like a slow foxtrot. TTNET blamed it on the quality of our telephone line. They have a point. All we get is lots of crackling. It’s astonishing just how completely reliant we now are on the internet not just for my irrelevant irreverent dispatches but more importantly for banking and fund watching to dodge insolvency. Not to mention keeping in touch with loved ones in Blighty via email and Skype. It’s our small but vital window on the World. We ordered in a swarthy Turk with ample tools to fiddle with our wires in exchange for cash. He sorted us out. For now.

Pounds and Porn

Up and Up it Goes!

I was casually surfing the net and stumbled across a web page published in 2008 that promoted Turkey as the low cost destination of choice for those wishing to live out their dotage in the sun. In between the usual flannel and hype I found a couple of blasé declarations that leapt from the page and beat me viciously about the face. The first stated that electricity costs “should be no more than £10 per month” and the second is that “Turkey will remain a low cost alternative for years to come”. Even if this was true at the time it certainly isn’t true now. Our last electricity bill was over 80 quid and the cost of our daily essentials seem to rise month on month. I don’t know how the locals manage and, with plummeting interest rates, I’m not surprised some of my fellow compatriots are struggling to make ends meet. I hear talk that, like the stateless nomadic tribes of yesteryear, emigreys are migrating en-masse to greener, cheaper pastures in the land of the Bulgars. We won’t be joining the camel train any time soon but if it carries on like this Liam and I will have to give up the sauce. Never!

Talking of web surfing, I was amused by the “gay hairy Turkish men” search that led someone to click on Perking the Pansies. I hope he (and assume it was a he) didn’t get too hot under the collar by the absence of hard core images of swarthy, hirsute men laying bare their assets and doing what Ottoman men have done for centuries. Now I’m getting hot under the collar.

The Beating Heart of Bodrum

I’d like to give a big hand to Natalie, author of the Turkish Travel Blog. Natalie kindly invited me to be one of the contributors to her splendid post on Anatolian wonders in words and pictures. Her eclectic selection evokes some of the best that Turkey has to offer to the curious traveller, from magnificent high drama to the gloriously humdrum.

My pretentious piece describes Bodrum Otogar (bus station),  a modern day kervanseray where nose to nipple dolmüslar vie for space and custom. I wrote:

That’ll be two lira

 

To imagine daily Turkish life think of sweet baked sesame seed simit stalls, lemon scenting cut throat barbers, piercing purveyors of rapid kebabs, entrepreneurial pantaloon’d grannies on the make, baffled travellers lost in Left Luggage, mobs of weary eastern boys bussed hither and thither, carefree western girls shocking the eye, sallow sightseers with brats in caps and tea sipping cabbies dropping off in the sweaty midday sun. This magnificent entrepôt of the exotic and the ordinary is a typically Turkish tussle and bustle of commotion and chaos.

Take the look at Natalie’s delicious box of Turkish delights here.

Crisis? What Crisis?

It’s Cold Outside

Clement popped by for tea to meet Clive. Alluding to the ceaseless storm clouds of recession that just refuse to budge, his provocative first words were “I’m so sorry, things must be so awful for you in England” barely concealing his ill-judged glee with fake concern. Predictably, Clive’s hackles rose like an angry porcupine and a prickly exchange of political, social and economic views ensued. I’m afraid it became rather heated. Clive gave firm assurances that he wasn’t queuing up at the local Sally Army soup kitchen just yet.

After an indecently brief stopover, my cherished Clive departed with happy promises to return. He left us sad and melancholy.

Oh Woe is Me

Laugh and Cry
Screen Dames
A Real Weepy

A chill night wind conspired to trap us inside most evenings so we amused ourselves with a delicious mix of gossip and the silver screen, liberally lubricated with increasingly less cheap plonk as wine prices seem to rise by the week. We amused Clive with our sorry emigrey tales of the mad, the sad, the bad and the glad. We watched Beautiful Thing and Tea with Mussolini; two of my favourite films. Seriously sentimental Clive just loves a weepy so I kept a box of autumnal shades to hand.

We ventured out  to a village morgue bar just the once and really wished we hadn’t. We’d hardly taken our first sip when a despondent, drunken emigrey called Fergus from Falkirk was working his pitch at the bar and looking for a stooge. He collared us to impart his hard luck story. Fergie is a big man with a greasy ginger toupée and a disproportionately hefty lower torso, giving him the look of a bewigged weeble. He had married an attractive tender-aged Thai girl who he had picked out of a catalogue. She was delivered by post and married for security. After a couple of barren years, the Thai bride divorced fat Falkirk Fergie, kept the security and moved south to warmer climes. He now drowns his sorrows in the bottom of a beer glass frittering away the meagre income left to him. A dismal tale of woe too far, we headed for the door, taxied home and chucked on Steel Magnolias to lighten the mood. It was not the best selection. Clive was inconsolable and emptied the autumnal box.

Bodrum Blues

We rushed Clive around the peninsula to provide a tasty titbit of our foster home. He took to Bodrum even in mid makeover mode and adored the castle, camera-clicking like a man possessed. Unhappily, despite the glorious, cloudless skies, the rest of the midwinter yarımada is distinctly unprepossessing – scruffy, neglected and vacant. I think he finds Turkey’s rough, ramshackle patina rather unappealing. As man of certain age, cultivated habits and mature sensibilities, Clive is more drawn to the coiffured charm of the Home Counties.

It wasn’t always so. Clive’s salad days were filled with audacious spirit as he criss-crossed the globe in search of adventure and discovery; even floating up the Irrawaddy on a Sampan to smoke opium in the jungle with the natives (I know a sampan is a Chinese flat bottom boat so highly unlikely to be found in Burmese waters, but no matter). Alas, we must all grow up eventually and get a sensible job in sensible shoes. These days Clive’s favourite holiday destination is refined Madeira – Surrey with a little more sun.

A Star is Born

Burger-star, Clive, landed after sundown at a wind-chilled, sodden Bodrum Airport, jetting in via Istanbul. We waited outside the domestic terminal without realising that internal Pegasus passengers disembark from the International terminal.

Plonk

As my first-born friend of 38 years, it is fitting and proper that he is our maiden caller. I am truly gladdened that he made the effort to join us, exhausting his air miles to do so. We hurried him home, hit the sauce to rejoice and chatted into the wee small hours. Over-drinking is fine for a couple of old reprobates like us but poor Clive suffers terribly from hurricane-force hangovers. The next day he scrambled out of his pit in time for afternoon tea, mumble-mouthed, fuzzy-eyed and ashen-faced fumbling for the paracetamol.  It took him another hour or so to string together a few coherent words which were “What’s for dinner?”

Sodden Bodrum

We were spited by a vengeful Old Testament deluge punctured by a spectacular light and sound show that lit up the sopping sky and cut the power. Prodigious pulses of horizontal rain assailed every crack and cranny, through every easterly window frame and beneath every threshold. Towels were requisitioned and old cushions commandeered to ebb the relentless biblical flow. The bucketing, biting blast blew over, a catastrophe was averted and we retired two by two.

Educating Rashida

Tariq has acquired a brand new set of dashing, shiny dentures so Tariq is toothless no longer. He proudly grins all over the site flashing his novel knashers at random passers by. Tariq and the missus are archetypal village types; she in a head scarf and clashing floral baggy pantaloons and he in a tatty vest with a fag permanently jammed in his gob – honest people with simple needs. It is to their credit that they are raising their two daughters as thoroughly modern types.

Educating Rashida

Tariq’s eldest daughter came by the house waving a piece of paper which she handed to me with much excitement. I thought it was yet another bill but it was her last school report. I called Liam out to the patio and we examined it together. She had received tip top marks in virtually every subject (except English, unfortunately) and beamed with pride. Quite right too. We were chuffed that she thought to show us, and the next day bought her a box of Cadbury’s Milk Tray. My eternal hope is that her parents resist the pressure to marry her off at 16 to some country cousin.

We mentioned her glowing report to Clement, but he simply doesn’t approve of educating Turkish girls “lest they get above their station.” Honestly!