A bare larder and a drained wine cellar forced us out in the rain for rations. I was intrigued by the Christmas trinket aisle at the local supermarket where all manner of yuletide paraphernalia can be purchased. We fondled the multi-coloured shiny balls, flickering fairy lights, soft toy Santas, naff papier-mâché nativity scenes and twinkling, tinselled trees, all manufactured by the enterprising Chinese. It seems Turks have appropriated many Christmas traditions and grafted them on to New Year. It gladdens my impious heart. The core Christmas value of giving and goodwill is a universal message that transcends religion. I treasure the lucky luxury of spending time with family and friends. Tragically, this is not an easy time for the lost and the lonely. It’s no co-incidence that, right across Christendom, suicide rates soar.
My Juicy Mandarins
After a calm Christmas Day with Liam’s folks and a boisterous Boxing Day with mine, we left frosty Blighty where the cold had given us colds to return to balmy Bodrum. On the dry night flight home (my first ever sauce-free flight) we chaperoned Sassy Nancy, who has finally forsaken the sticking plaster life of a social worker to seek winter solace in the ample arms of her long-term amour. We chattered away the four hours where she laid bare her tempestuous dalliance with wedded Captain Irfan. He’s a giant of a man (and giant in every department, apparently) who has assembled a flotilla of autumnal ladies vying for his favours. Nancy is undisputed chief concubine, his Nell Gwyn to her improbable Charles the Second. Nancy has the ripest mandarins on the peninsula.
Irfan skilfully manages to keep all his romantic plates spinning with an occasional wobble when he finds himself inadvertently double booked. The ensuing choppy waters serve only to nurse his ego. Business is slow during the inclement months so Nancy can expect his undivided attention.
Irfan was expectantly waiting as we emerged from the terminal building. He was everything I had imagined – charming, jovial and the size of Luxembourg. Nancy threw herself into his generous arms, giggling like an adolescent school girl as he spun her round like a failed audition from Strictly Come Dancing.
Irfan offered us a lift home to avoid the extortion of a taxi fare and would not take no for an answer. He is a large man with a small car but managed to insert us and our large suitcases into his micro hatchback. Nancy sat on a case on the front seat with her legs sprawled and her feet resting on the dashboard; a position she will be repeating later.
Emigrey Spongers
Maurice invited us to his gaff for festive drinks on Christmas Eve. I was delighted to discover that Bernard from Majorca was in town. Bernard is the El Presidente of the ‘First Wives Club’, the fellowship of the ring of exes with whom Maurice has remained friends. Liam thinks the whole concept of staying on good terms with old flames is unnatural. I have membership card number five. It’s fair to say that Maurice has a distinct type, since we are all stout short arses. His current squeeze is no exception. We are the six gobby dwarves to his stocky Snow White.
Meeting up with Bernard again reminded me of my encounter with the Spanish chapter of the guild of emigreys many years ago. Bernard runs a bar in Mallorca and Maurice and I visited him one wet, windswept winter. We were invited to Sunday lunch with an east country couple called Doreen and Jim from Norwich. Jim was doing hard labour retiling Bernard’s bar floor for which he was being handsomely paid. I asked what brought them to Spain. “Too many foreigners coming into the country and sponging off the social” came the depressingly familiar reply. I nearly fell of my chair when Jim boasted, without the slightest hint of irony, that he was claiming incapacity benefit.
We’re Not All Hairdressers
I caught up with Maurice in our favourite Soho dive. We used to be an item and met in the very same bar one damp Friday after work. We spent two years together. We guided each other through some hard times and shared some extraordinary emotional moments of healing and revelation. Maurice is an engineer which is a little unusual among the brethren.
What’s for Tea Tonight Dear?
I trudged across half of old London Town to take tea with Philip. He and his partner, David, run a fancy fromage shop in Twickenham which is doing brisk business judging by the brigade of chattering class Guardian readers queuing around the block. Unfortunately, they just missed out on the EU contract to supply Parmigiano Reggiano to the Irish needy. I managed to extract Philip from the pong for an all too brief catch up.
Philip writes a fabulous foody blog called ‘What’s for tea tonight, dear’ which is a beautifully crafted, chatty read full of mouth-watering recipes. His innate intelligence is beautifully blended with creativity, wit and style. All this pales into insignificance when compared to his astonishing ability to drink me under the table.
There is Nothing Like a Dame
My time in Blighty is a captivating carousel of shopping and social engagements. I enjoyed a gorgeous gossipy lunch with Julia, an old work pal from way back. She’s the Chief Executive of the British Association of Occupational Therapists and at the pinnacle of her career. Naturally, she was nothing before she met me. She’s the only VIP I know, and I’m convinced that a damehood will be in the offing at the end of her tenure – for her of course. I’ve already got mine.
Liam is spending quality time with his folks. I pop by now and again to sup my father-in-law’s Jameson’s and catch up on Corrie with the mother-in-law.
Tales of the City
Clive and partner Angus, invited us for dinner; a civilised and sophisticated affair, attended by some of our other long-term London life friends, Debbie, Ian and his partner, Matt. Clive is my oldest friend, more like a brother really. We attended the same school and have travelled down the years together, not always agreeing, sometimes quarrelling but always caring.
Debbie is a voluptuous head buyer for Fenwick’s who travels between the fashion capitals of the world seeking the latest accessories. She is Miss Mortgage Free of Kingston-upon-Thames so the girl from The Valleys has done good.
Ian is the manager of a Soho porn store, though he prefers to call it a ‘lifestyle’ shop, principally for his mother’s benefit. When pressed, he readily admits that R rated DVDs and poppers are the biggest draws. Apparently, regardless of the brand, poppers (or ‘room odorisers’ to give them their proper retail name) are all made by a man called Colin in his shed in Carshalton. Ian is particularly proud of his Christmas windows this year with little bottles of lube and condoms sitting prettily in sparkly trees between a pair of overpriced designer knickers and the new Armistead Maupin novel. “Beat that John Lewis!” he proudly exclaimed. Matt is a banker and has recently moved to a new position where the dealers know what wine to drink. He tells me this is the only qualification required of a banker these days. They are the archetypal urban gay couple with a penthouse flat in Bow and a mortgage the size of the Irish bailout.
The evening frolicked along handsomely. I miss the intelligent banter and repartee. It’s not something we get much of in Yalıkavak where espousing the malevolence of the Daily Mail is the usual stuff of debate.
Sex, Drugs and Sausage Rolls
London is a rare winter wonderland, gripped by a vicious Siberian front. Nevertheless, we slipped the leash of social and family commitments for a self-indulgent Sunday sojourn to a Vauxhall crush bar. We took drugs, stripped off our tops to display our newly acquired slimline torsos, flirted a little and reconnected with our subculture as the snow fell roundabout. We looked utterly ridiculous but we had a ball. You can take the boy out of London but you can’t take London out of the boy.
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Loft Living London Style
We observed the blanket blizzard from the safety and comfort of our loft musing how we might manage the social merry-go-round that is to come. Still, we were content in the knowledge that the house was warm, snug, leakless and the power uninterrupted. Perchance, I may experience my very first white Christmas.
The Emigrey Express
We flew home on the emigrey express. To our fore was a banquet of bleached, bottle-blonds whose tinted tresses disguised a sea of solar haggard, sour facades. Obviously a peroxide barnet is a VOMIT prerequisite.
To the aft lay a sallow, loud-mouthed, drunken imitation of Archie Moon cuddling an empty bottle of Bells. He’d spent his time in the departure lounge downing the duty free and popping frequently to the tuvalet for an illicit fag. He dozed through most of the flight but awoke ten minutes before touchdown and casually lit a cigarette which was rapidly dispatched by the horrified staff. Meanwhile, Liam munched his way through two packets of chewy caramel, soft nougat and crispy chocolate balls that cost more than the airfare. We landed just before Gatwick was closed for the winter.
Blighty life pal, Karen, is housing us during our trip to the mother country, storing us in her delux en-suite loft. She is blessed with a wonderful home – chic and bohemian at the same time. She is a classy, off the wall lady of taste, charm and substance and fancies herself as a Mrs Madrigal type. The cap really fits. Karen’s husband, Peter, died of cancer a couple of years ago. His decline had been indecently swift, and she is slowly emerging from the disabling pain of grief: a hard slog that I know only too well.
Perking the Pansies 