It Ain’t Half Hot, Mum

Overwhelmingly, most pansyfans hail from Britain, Turkey or the States so you can imagine my delight when I noticed that someone from Malaysia was pushing the numbers up by having a good old root around the blog – 334 posts and rising. In the late sixties, I spent nearly three years in Malaysia as a young army brat on a base just outside Malacca. My memories of life in the tropical sun are vivid and glorious. In fact, both my sisters were born in the country (at different times – my sergeant major father was posted there twice). I hope to pop back one day, as my eldest brother has done. So, whoever you are my Malaysian friend, I thank you. You’ve provided the perfect excuse to fish out some ancient time-worn snaps and take a skip down memory lane.

Sizzling Summer Reads

This writing lark has provided an unexpected bonus: I get asked to review books and they are sent to me for free. It’s mostly (but not always) a fun and diverting pastime. It also forces me away from the keyboard: I tend to read a few chapters at a time over an Americano in a local coffee shop. Now that spring is upon us (here’s hoping) and thoughts turn to a welcome break in a faraway land, you might be looking for the perfect holiday read. You could do a lot worse than these titles. You’ll be relieved to know that I’m not plugging my own work this time.

Sleeping People Lie – Jae De Wylde

A chance meeting, a stolen glance, a skipped beat and the birth of a fine romance? Well, not exactly. There are no roses round the door in this gripping trans-Atlantic tryst of passion, intrigue, obsession, and deception. Sleeping People Lie is a splendid affair of the fixated heart with a bitter-chocolate twist. A box of Cadbury’s Milk Tray it ain’t. Where will it end? That would be giving the game away. Jae De Wylde’s second book is a corker (and her first book was pretty good too). The lady’s going far. Fabulous!

Impossibly Glamorous – Charles Ayres

Charles Ayres has a white knuckle tale to tell and he tells it with wit and panache in his romping autobiography, ‘Impossibly Glamorous.’ From the moment Charles dropped out of the womb he was different and being different in Eighties Mid-West USA was no walk in the prairie. The MENSA-brained boy from Kansas country found the Bible Belt wanting and went in search of eastern spice. Draped in a second-hand fake fur he used like a comfort blanket, Charles turned on his heels, hitched up his skirt, rode out of town and lay down his sequined saddle bag in the Land of the Rising Sun. It was not all glitter and glitz. Much of the time it was a broken-hearted obstacle course of depression and hand-to-mouth living. By his own admission, Charles has not been the best judge of matters of the heart and he brushes aside one red flag after another with a camp, dismissive wave. Fortunately, there’s an eclectic cast of extras to haul him up from the emotional abyss, including my personal favourites, “the Ladies of the Commonweath.” MTV during its glory days provides a vibrant soundtrack to the adventures and mishaps. As a Tokyo radio translator and TV personality, a dazzling pantheon of stars passed through his hands and Charles deliciously name-drops his way through his extraordinary saga. In the end, though, a diet of oriental fame brought little fortune and there’s no glamour in penury. Through it all, Charles’ humour, humanity, candour, unquenchable thirst for life and rare insight into the slings and arrows, cut through the crap like a blazing shooting star. Charles Ayres is impossibly glamorous and can light up my party anytime.

An Inconvenient Posting – Laura J Stephens

When husband, David, received the job offer of a lifetime to head up his company’s office in Houston, Texas, it could not have come at a worse time for Laura. Their young children were settled and thriving in the home that she cherished, she was close to launching her own career as a counsellor and her parents had moved nearby to enable them to spend quality time with their grandchildren while they still could. To say Laura was conflicted would be a sweeping understatement. But, her love and loyalty for her high flying husband meant that she was determined to do the right thing even when her heart was screaming “no”. Besides, exchanging the grey and dripping skies of England for the endless horizons of Texas had its attractions. How bad could it be? ‘An Inconvenient Posting’ is an agonisingly candid and raw account of loss and transition. Dark and broody but revelational and comic at the same time, this book will resonate with anyone who has found themselves in the wrong place at the wrong time. Did Laura live the American dream? You best read the book to find out.

Forced to Fly – Jo Parfitt

I read the first publication of `Forced to Fly’ and thoroughly enjoyed it. As well as 20 brand new anecdotes from a range of expat writers (including me) and bloggers, this second edition also includes a thoughtful new chapter on emotional resilience, a hot topic these transient days. This funny and forceful anthology is the definitive must-read reference for all novice and experienced expats. Slip it into your hand luggage as you board your flight to paradise. Forearmed is forewarned.

Shaikh-Down – David Gee

Decadent western mores slap stifling medieval manners around the face and lose. Nothing could have prepared Cass and Eddy for what was to come when they dumped their unwanted pasts at check-in and headed for the oasis. Follow them as they struggle to keep their heads above water (and on their shoulders). An (almost) bloodless coup upsets the expat apple cart of decadent days and raunchy nights, forcing the lotus eaters to hitch up their skirts and scramble for the border. A delicious, laugh-out-loud, randy romp through the myopic and bawdy world of Gulf expatriate life set against the chilling winds of change.

Going Local in Gran Canaria – Matthew Hirtes

Going Local in Gran Canaria is the definitive guide for visitors and expats alike, covering all aspects of life in this semi-tropical Atlantic semi-paradise. The book is packed to the rafters with well-researched facts and fun, sites and scenes, eats and treats, must-dos and don’t-dos, both on and off the well-beaten track. The entire package is delivered in a witty and erudite style from someone in the know, as is to be expected from a seasoned journalist of Matthew Hirtes’ calibre. Amusing anecdotes weave through the book. I particularly like the notion that nasty General Franco exiled gay soldiers to the island which may explain Gran Canaria’s perennial appeal to the gay community. I’ve been a regular visitor for over 25 years so maybe there’s some truth in this fanciful tale. Whether dipping in for a hint or two or reading cover-to-cover, this book should be in everyone’s Canarian suitcase.

Sunshine Soup – Jo Parfitt

I found it impossible not to be drawn in to this book. The characters are strikingly drawn and developed, the plot is compelling and the sights and sounds of Dubai form an evocative backdrop to a hugely enjoyable story of loss, intrigue and redemption. I found the story of Maya (the book’s main character) very believable and for me that makes this novel appealing. And yes, there is an actual recipe for Sunshine Soup at the end of the book, along with 19 others – a nice touch.

Bitten by Spain – Deborah Fletcher

I was bitten by ‘Bitten by Spain.’ Once in a while you read a book that makes you laugh out loud. I loved it. The author moved from her ever so sensible existence in the UK to build a new life in Spain and she describes her adventures, warts and all, with an amusing, easy-to-read style. The fact that her dogs, cat and parrots joined the fray added some real pathos and when the menagerie is augmented by an assortment of wild birds, feral animals and creepy-crawlies the final mix is hilarious. I was struck by Deborah’s pluck (she was often alone because her husband was often back in the UK working) and there are some tender and thought-provoking moments along with the humour. It really is a lovely read and the kind of book you can dip in and out of (the chapters are a bit like bite-sized set pieces). I actually read it in one long sitting accompanied by a good bottle of Rioja.

The Okçular Book Project – Alan Fenn

Last but not least…

‘Okçular Village – a Guide’ and ‘Backways & Trackways.’ I whole-heartedly recommend these books because income from sales is spent on environmental and community projects in the village of Okçular, near Dalyan in Turkey.

Shop ‘Til You Drop

With the weather finally on the up and blossom dripping from the trees, the citizens of Norwich were out in their droves doing what the Brits do best – shop and sup. Purses and plastic were loosened in a brave attempt to drag the economy out of the abyss. Technically, the economy is as flat as a witch’s tit, rather than triple dipping and the patient needs all the TLC it can get. Market stalls toppled out onto the pavement, till queues weaved round Primark, the M&S food hall heaved with Norfolk broads and we couldn’t find a table in Pret a Manger when we bagged a baguette.

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We escaped the madding crowd by browsing the floor show in the Forum. Modern art isn’t everyone’s cup of char but Liam loved it. I left him to peruse the exhibits and ordered a couple of drinks at the bar. Cheers!

God for Harry, England, and Saint George

Today is St George’s Day. As most people in Britain know, St George is the Patron Saint of England and his flag is also the national flag of England. But George isn’t the exclusive preserve of the English. As a patron saint, he’s rather popular all over Christendom – Georgia (the name’s just a coincidence), Portugal, Malta, Ethiopia and plenty of cities and regions. His status as a soldier saint (rather a contradiction in terms, I would have thought) may explain his popularity. Everyone loves a dashing hero, especially one that goes around slaying dragons and rescuing maidens. Of course, George wasn’t English either. He was born in Roman Judea and his father came from Cappadocia in present day Turkey.

George rose in the ranks to become a member of the Emperor Diocletian’s personal bodyguard but came a cropper when he refused to renounce his faith. George was rather handy with his fists and the Emperor virtually begged him to drop the whole Christian thing (or at least keep quiet about it) but mouthy George wasn’t having it. He was martyred in AD 303, enduring a slow and horrible death.

I’m not much into the trappings of nationalism, though I am quietly patriotic. I have written before that it’s fine to be proud of where you are from, it’s not fine to think you’re a cut above the rest. The English Defence League (EDL) and other right-right nutters have rather hijacked and debased the symbols of English nationhood. Consequently, people like me wouldn’t dream of waving the Flag of St George in the same way that the Irish, Scots and Welsh proudly display their own national emblems.

I’m hoping the EDL thugs will eventually slide back to the bottom of the pond. Their travelling circus of clowns is looking increasingly thin and desperate. I really can’t take seriously those who think that The Royal Pavilion in Brighton, the pleasure palace built in oriental style for George IV, is a huge mosque. Oh, the irony. The best way to counter the idiotic is with ridicule because the EDL is ridiculous.

The First Day of Spring

The first proper day of spring found us leaping into the car to make sure we didn’t miss it. Liam fancied a road trip to the north Norfolk coast and had the resort of Sheringham firmly in his sights. The town was heaving with families who had the same idea, all making the most of the Easter holidays. The air was thick with a heady blend of exhaust fumes, deep fried cod and sickly-sweet candyfloss. Memories of childhood came flooding back, jaunts to windswept resorts before I discovered the joys of Spain. And believe me, Sheringham was windswept. The North Sea was working hard to propel ice cream scoops from cones, causing deafening tantrums from the buggy brigade. Fortunately, the wind was warm. Just a few weeks ago, the nipple-hardening gusts would have petrified the kiddies to the spot. I can’t say I liked Sheringham that much. From its name, I expected cute and quaint. I got bucket and spades and amusement arcades, fine if that floats your boat. The beach, though, is impressive.

Biker Boys in Cromer

From Sherringham, we swept inland to the Georgian market town of Holt for a root around and a light bite. The main road into town is dominated by a large funeral directors’ showroom and I suspect it does a brisk business. More of a large village, handsome Holt drips money, judging by the number of Chelsea tractors cruising through the streets and the price of property in the estate agents’ windows. Sadly, Holt was more or less closed. It was Sunday and Sundays are still sacred in this corner of the county. We found just one bar/restaurant open. The owners had clearly given up their day of rest to monopolise the day’s trade. At eight quid for a cheese and ham toastie, they were making a killing.

We made it back to base for a final snifter before sundown. Naturally, the riverside beer garden at the Playhouse Theatre Bar was our hostelry of choice. We were the oldest bingers in town as we sat like a couple of old pervs watching the exuberant youngsters around us and ear-wigging their artful (and sometimes pretentious) conversations. I didn’t realise Fred Perry tops are back in. Shame. I chucked all mine out in the Noughties.

Displaced Jack

The fine people at Displaced Nation have asked to me to write for them. My new gig is a monthly column about writing. God knows why they think I have anything particularly useful or original to say about this subject (or any other) but I’ll give it a go and hope I don’t run out of things to say. So, ladies and gents, I give you my inaugural piece…

You’re thinking about writing a travelogue or memoir. Should you start with a blog?

When Liam and I first flogged off the family silver, jumped the good ship Blighty and waded ashore to Turkey, we planned to put our feet up and watch the pansies grow. Twelve months into the dream, we began to feel, well, a little bored. It was a benign type of boredom — not the terminal kind that leads to low self-esteem, heavy drinking, chocolate binges and serial infidelity. More…

Liam’s Lips

“The eyes of Caligula and the lips of Marilyn Monroe.”

Who said this and about whom?

Jack Scott’s School Days

Quite by chance, I’ve just discovered that Sebastian Wood became the British Ambassador to China in 2010. Why should I be interested in Her Maj’s representative to the Middle Kingdom? Well, I went to school with him. We weren’t in the same class but we were in the same play. He starred as Puck in A Midsummer’s Night’s Dream; I was cast in the bit part of Snug, the Joiner. He was cream of the straight ‘A’ crop; I was middling in the could-do-betters. He studied hard; I hardly studied at all. He became a member of the civil service elite; I became a middle ranking municipal bean counter. There’s a lesson in there somewhere.

Our man in Beijing got me thinking about other boys I schooled with. Tomasz Starzewski is an internationally successful designer who’s done rather well dressing the rich and ridiculous. He charges top dollar for his top notch frocks. I remember being rather unkind about the ample curves of his puppy fat years. Kids can be cruel and I had an acid tongue. Tomasz began his path to profitable haute couture at a young age and, when he found out that I worked for Habitat in Chelsea, popped in now and again. It was his way of pointing out that he was on his way to wealth and distinction while I was working in a shop on the minimum wage. Revenge, no doubt, was sweet.

I was a lazy pupil and tended to focus more on my hormones than my homework. I’ve never much had an ear for languages (my persistent failure to acquire more than a few mispronounced words in Turkish is a case in point). During Latin lessons I made sure I always sat next to Mario Franz Xavier Victor Joseph Thomas Da Souza (Mario’s family came from Goa in India, hence the saintly Portuguese roll call). Our chalk-dusted old teacher’s style was lamentably predictable. Working left to right from the back of the class, he would ask each boy in turn to translate a single line from a passage. All I had to do was count the number of boys and the number of lines and get Super Mario to translate my line for me. It worked a treat until my abject failure at the end of year exams.

I last saw Mario (at about the last time I saw Tomasz) when I bumped into him in Kings Cross. I’d just been to an appointment at the Institute of Ophthalmology where a research professor had been fascinated by how I’d managed to contract an STD in my eye. Who knew? Not me. It certainly brought a whole new meaning to the phrase ‘It’ll make you go blind.’ Ah, memories.

In for a Penny, In for a Pound

I entered a travel writing competition on ‘We Said Go Travel’ a while back then completely forgot about it. There’s a prize I think, but I’m not too sure what it is now. My memory isn’t what it once was. Anyway, the competition theme is ‘A Place You Love’ so I entered an article about Istanbul. I lifted it from Act Two of Turkey, Surviving the Expats – one of the eBooks I’ve been flogging to death recently. I doubt I’ll win the competition. My writing style is a bit too risqué for most mainstream travel sites where blandness tends to reign supreme. But, if you’d like to give my piece a chance (and you’re on Faceache), either click on the luscious image above or follow this link and ‘like’ the photo on Facebook. I thank you.

ISTANBUL, THE CITY THAT STRADDLES TWO CONTINENTS

No trip to Turkey is complete without tasting the wonders of Istanbul, entertainment, media, cultural and economic capital of Turkey with a population of 13.5 million (and counting). The political capital, Ankara, seems dull and provincial by comparison (think Canberra versus Sydney or Ottawa versus Montreal). Greek Byzantium, Roman and Ottoman Constantinople and Republican Istanbul, the city that straddles two continents is dirty, busy, loud, infuriating, sophisticated, exciting, chic and sublime.

More…

Perking the Pansies

Jack Scott's random ramblings

It Ain’t Half Hot, Mum