Quentin Crisp

Mentioning Quentin Crisp in a recent post compelled me to re-watch the Naked Civil Servant, Crisp’s TV biopic first broadcast in 1975. The incomparable John Hurt played the equally incomparable Crisp (or Dennis Pratt, to give him his real name). The film made stars of them both. It was an overnight sensation and catapulted Crisp to centre stage and a new career at 67. I watched the original broadcast as a spell-bound 15 year old. The Edwardian dandy’s resolute insistence that he would be what he wanted to be, despite the considerable odds stacked against him, was an inspiration to this post-pubescent boy coming to terms with his sexuality. Looking back, it was a major miracle that he survived the ordeal to tell the tale.

The film had a profound effect on me. I wanted to be him. Not the makeup and mince but the mettle and pluck. It’s no exaggeration to say that the film gave me the courage to leap out of the closet a year later. I did so without fear or regret. Just like Quentin, I was uncompromisingly out to everyone. Take it or leave it. Just like Quentin, I was offered money but, unlike Quentin, I never took it. I had choices that he didn’t. I always worked and the coppers in my pocket were legally earned. I’d learned self-reliance, I’d learned real pride, and I’d learned both at my father’s knee. Like Quentin, I was a civil servant. Unlike Quentin, I kept my clothes on at work (except for one drunken Christmas party, but that’s another story).

I didn’t always agree with Quentin’s more outrageous pronouncements. His public faux pas that AIDS was ‘a fad’ was completely stupid and something he never fully recovered from. But, in the final analysis, he was a pansy pioneer who burst through the barriers and made the world a little safer for the rest of us. For that I honour him.

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Pink Flamingos on Lake Tuzla

This is being reposted from yesterday as I completely screwed up the scheduling. Duh!

Jack Scott's avatarPerking the Pansies

Some areas of the Bodrum Peninsula have miraculously avoided the triumphant march of the little white boxes up hill and down dale. Lake Tuzla provides a precious sanctuary for a host of wildlife, none so regal as the flamingos on their annual migration. Irreplaceable wetlands like this are under constant threat of draining for agriculture and development. When it’s gone, it’s gone. We should think about that.

Thank you to the lovely Yüksel for these superb images which were taken in February 2012.

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Pink Flamingos on Lake Tuzla

Pink Flamingos on Lake Tuzla

Some areas of the Bodrum Peninsula have miraculously avoided the triumphant march of the little white boxes up hill and down dale. Lake Tuzla provides a precious sanctuary for a host of wildlife, none so regal as the flamingos on their annual migration. Irreplaceable wetlands like this are under constant threat of draining for agriculture and development. When it’s gone, it’s gone. We should think about that.

Thank you to the lovely Yüksel for these superb images which were taken in February 2012.

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It’s a Wrap

After the Hump’s disastrous showing at the farcical Caucasian Eurovision circus, we awoke to a thump at the door to match the thumping in my hung-over head. The removers launched into a fast frenzy of wrapping and packing at a speed I’ve never experienced in Turkey before. Our meagre chattels were efficiently boxed, labelled and loaded like a well-oiled Germanic assembly line.  The procession of sweaty men was halted only momentarily by a traditional Turkish marching band – all monotonic horns and clashing drums – as it passed along the ancient street. Our fabulous Turkish neighbours popped across the courtyard with tea, cake and smiles. After the briefest of breaks and a quick fag with the fags, the boys chucked themselves back into the fray. The entire endeavour was all done and dusted in just three hours. We had shopped around for a few quotes but most of the silly prices were higher than the value of the family silver: it would have been cheaper to flog the whole lot off and start again. BacktoBodrum came to our rescue with Soyer International Removals – fast, friendly, and cost effective. Our goods will soon be sailing on high seas back to Blighty. We’ll be following them very soon, a suitcase each and handful of high hopes .

Eurovision 2012

The campest cabaret has come to town. This year, the good burghers of Baku are proud hosts to the financially crippling annual Eurovision Song-fest. At least the well-oiled Azeris can afford to stage the ritzy affair without going cap in hand to the IMF. Various tone-deaf bottle blond painted divas with floaty hair, mincing pretty-boys in tight white lycra and hairy ruritanians in ethnic pantomime drag have parachuted into town to compete for the most infamous music prize on the planet. The Azeri autocrats are rubbing their hands in glee. As usual, votes will be cast along political and ethnic fault lines regardless of the quality (or otherwise) of the compositions, most of which will be badly sung in banal single-syllable pop English. It’s music, Jim, but not as we know it. Expect plenty of back slapping Balkan bonhomie between recently befriended old foes, top marks from the Turkish jury to their Azeri pals, the usual love-in between Athens and Nicosia and friendly hands across the Baltic. Pity poor Engelbert, he hasn’t got a hope in Hell. To not come last will be a decent achievement. Regardless of the shameless predictability of it all, we’ll be popping our euro-corks courtesy of a lovely Bitez Babe. We’ve promised not to trash the joint as Engelbert’s nul points come rolling in.

The glitzy shindig has caused quite a ruckus in the Caucasus. A couple of Eurovision websites have been hacked by anti-gay cyber attacks, leaving the catchy slogan “here is no place to immoral gays in Azerbaijan. Leave our country, no place to stay in Azerbaijan for gays who look like animals.”  Now, who are they calling an old dog? The Iranians have thrown a hissy fit at the prospect of all that decadent fun and frolics from the sexually suspect just across the border. The Iranian ambassador has been withdrawn in protest, there’ve been riots by the great unwashed and a fatwa or two from the mad mullahs. Like the Puritans of old, it seems the Iranians have forgotten what is it is to have a little glittery fun. These days, what passes for Saturday night entertainment on state-controlled TV is ‘Lynch the Queers, Live”.  Now, where did I put my knitting needles?

While I’m looking for them, check out the Russian entry from the singing grannies.

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The P-Day Landings

We took time out from our packing, sorting and chucking (how did we manage to accumulate such a vast collection of crap in just four short years?) to have a tipple or three with the winners of the ‘Spot the Gothic Pile’ competition that I ran in March. The winning pansy fans were chosen at random from two stacks of correct answers identifying Norwich Cathedral – one for Blighty and one for Turkey. Imagine my surprise when I learned that Niki from Suffolk (Norfolk’s southern sister) and Paul from just outside Kuşadası (but originally from Suffolk) knew each other? “Fix! Fix!” I hear you cry. Believe it or not, it was a complete co-incidence – honest gov’nor.

I had simply intended to post signed copies but Niki and Paul had bolder ideas. They had a pansy summit in mind, a liquid convention on our home turf. The dastardly plot was hatched and P-Day was planned. We met at Café S Bar, an unpretentious watering hole along Bodrum’s town beach where the rainbow flag flutters in the breeze next to the flags of all nations. Ozzie, the seriously fit convivial host dispenses charm and flirtatiousness in equal doses. At the height of the summer he strips down to his speedos and plunges headlong into the bay, tackle in hand, to spear the catch of the day. It’s done more to impress the mixed mob than to put food on the table. Alas, we’ll miss the brawny burlesque this year.

We made a good-humoured bunch – me and Liam, Niki and her beau, James, Paul and his beau, Nigel and their best Blighty Pal, Kiwi Cheryll. Kiwi Cheryll is a licensed sex therapist with a fruity tale to tell (just don’t ask her about the chocky-wocky do da story). Sensible Nigel and Cheryll sipped the soft stuff while the rest of us hit the sauce. What splendid people. After a jar or two, I signed copies of the book. Sadly, by that late stage in the game my scriblings had degenerated to illegible doctor’s scrawl and I’ve no recollection of what I actually wrote. Cheryll kindly bought the very last copy in my possession – another tenner for our half-empty purse. Four hours in the making, the P-Day Landings were a fun-filled finale to an epoch of epic proportions. Have we made the right decision? We think so but, watch out, one day Jack will be back.

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Bodrum Past

Some Bodrum Belles of our acquaintance have been living hereabouts for a couple of decades (or more). They tell of cold water flats, power supplied on a wing and a prayer, a town virtually devoid of modern conveniences and fun, lots of it. Bodrum was where the intelligentsia was exiled and where the artistic found sanctuary. It was far enough away from Ankara to stay under the radar of the more reactionary tendencies of the ruling elite. Even today, Bodrum has a diverse, edgy vibe unique in all of Turkey. This is why we chose it. Ambling along the newly marbled streets lined by fancy bars crammed with the well-heeled, it’s hard to imagine how it must have looked in times past. Imagine no longer. Here are some old grainy snaps of the town. The last two images are of the lane that runs along the side of our house – then and now.

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A curiosity is the Greek Orthodox Church that once stood in the heart of the town (first two pictures in the sequence). It’s a reminder of Bodrum’s Greek past before the euphemistically called ‘population exchange’ of 1923. Liam and I debated what now stands in its place. We think it’s the rather large and ugly concrete library. Perhaps those in the know could help us out.

Postscript

There’s a fabulous Facebook group page dedictated to old images of Bodrum places and people called Eski Bodrum. It’s a fascinating study in social history. Thanks to Back to Bodrum for the heads up.

Time Out, Istanbul Top Billing

I’ve never had much difficulty finding something to say. In fact, sometimes Liam would rather I kept it buttoned once in a while. Today I received a copy of the April edition of Time Out, Istanbul, courtesy of Pat Yale which features a piece she’s  written about expat books. Pat is one of the (if not the) pre-eminent resident travel writers in Turkey. She gave Perking the Pansies top billing. It made me feel like a sexy centrefold without the need to take my kit off (believe me, these days Jack in the flesh would put anyone off their Adana Kebab).  Pat’s review is, well, see for yourself. I am speechless. Thank you, Pat. You managed to shut me up and Liam is at peace for once.

Time Out Instanbul April books

Locked Up and Knocked Up

Are you an expat who started a company to do the business in Turkey? Do you have a website? If not, you’d better get one sharpish and register it with the authorities. If you don’t, you might find yourself dumped in the clink for 6 months. Even if you do have a website, you’d better make sure it’s stuffed to the brim with company information. Don’t forget to include the name of the office cat, your granny’s maiden name and the parlous state of your bank balance. If your site content isn’t up to scratch, expect to be banged up alongside a hairy daddy with a twinkle in his eye and a little lovin’ on his mind. Why is this? Well, the Turkish Government has just adopted a new Trade Law which is due to come into effect on the 1st July this year.

Sounds like some daft idea from a witless job’s-worth paid to dream up the unworkable. I expect it will go the way of the much heralded internet regulations introduced with a fanfare then unceremoniously dropped when it became blindingly obvious they were just a little bit crap.

Chirpy Chirpy Cheap Cheap

As we munched on our hearty treat at the Yeni Bodrum Ocakbaşı, we gazed across at the Istanköy Hotel. I felt a shudder down my spine. Back in 2008, a couple of months before we finally paddled ashore with all our worldly goods, we spent a week in the hotel courtesy of Thomas Cook. When we arrived we were escorted to a dingy sunken room the size of a broom cupboard. Natural light was supplied by a caged slit. It was not a good start. I complained and we were moved to a better room. I say ‘better’ purely in the comparative sense. Our stay was challenging. The over-familiar staff greeted us with ‘yes, mate’ or ‘hello Jimmy’ and it was impossible to get round the rowdy pool for tattooed honey monsters with their brats in caps (despite being in term time). To top it all, we were sure that something dodgy was going on with our safety deposit box.

We had booked cheap and cheerful because it was only a bed for the night. The purpose of our trip was to dolly-hop across the peninsula trying on the towns and villages for size. Early readers will know that we settled on Yalıkavak, a pretty coastal village, about 20 kilometres northwest of Bodrum.

The town of Bodrum is not well-served with good budget hotels. There’s a real gap in the market for the cheap and chirpy rather than the cheap and nasty.

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