Postcards from Gran Canaria

Postcards from Gran Canaria

Gran Canaria was just what the quack ordered. We bonked, drank, slept, drank, ate, drank, swam, drank. You get the picture. We also giggled more than we’d done in ages – at ourselves and at the exhibits around us. Here are the postcards never sent.

The Barbarian Hordes

Few would describe Gran Canaria as pretty. The volcanic rock moored off the coast of Africa gets little rain and looks like an overbaked chocolate biscuit from the air. Closer up, it’s like a giant quarry on a tea break. Nevertheless, year-round sunshine, cheap booze and even cheaper fags (of both the smoking and shagging varieties) attract the northern tribes of Europe, all in desperate need of vitamin D. Our billet for the week is a welcome oasis set among the concrete with well-tended gardens, attentive staff and a refreshing salt water pool. The only fly in the sun lotion is the scarcity of parasols. This isn’t especially helpful as we’ve landed in a heatwave and are fairly keen to avoid third degree burns. Our continental cousins are notorious for reserving their sunbeds at the stroke of midnight so, to inject some fairness, our Spanish hosts stack and chain up (yes, chain up) the sunbeds overnight. Come dawn, it’s like feeding time on the Serengeti, a daily spectacle we witness from the safety of our terrace. We’ve decided not to play. Just like Brexit.

gran-canaria

Moobs and Boobs

Our fellow sun seekers are a mixed bunch – Dutch, Germans, Austrians, Irish and Brits, but almost without exception, they have one thing in common: fat. Acres of it. Europe has an obesity crisis. We eat too much and move too little (me included). And the more mature ladies do love to let it all hang down. Who says a burkini is such a bad thing? Not me. Their menfolk are no better, wobbling to the bar, moobs a-swinging. It ain’t a pretty sight. Rest assured, I only take my top off when I’m prostrate.

An exception to the pageant of lard-arses and bingo wings is an elderly German who is in remarkably good shape and wears the tightest of trunks. He swings low in an entirely different place. We call him Melonballs. His pool pal is a round, leather-skinned hausfrau with the gravelly voice of a 40 a day habit and hair like a cockatoo. Funny really. We’re sure Melonballs is the one who’s had a cock or two.

Windbags and Wankers

All over Europe there’s a certain kind of man of a certain kind of age who is loud, opinionated and stupid. It’s our misfortune to be trapped with a classic specimen, an Austrian wanker who has cornered every Brit round the pool and lectured them on the dire consequences of Brexit (for them, of course). He’s no better than that old windbag Jean-Claude Juncker, president of the European Commission, whose pompous utterings nearly made me vote to leave the EU. The Austrian bore got short shrift from me. We call him Franz Ferdinand and are praying someone will shoot him. Not literally, you understand, but you get my drift.

More postcards next week…

Every Dog Has Its Day

Every Dog Has Its Day

Playa Del InglesLiam works like a dog and every dog must have its day in the sun. And where better to laze round a sun-kissed pool lapping up a large glass of chilled white than the island named after man’s best friend? So we’ve picked up a last minute bargain to Gran Canaria, flying from our very own little international airport right here in Norwich. Liam and I are well acquainted with the volcanic rock that is Gran Canaria. It’s been a firm favourite with the fairies for decades now.  It was in 2012 that we last rolled out the sun towels there. At the time I wrote:

Now I’m older, wiser and firmly married, I’m content to observe the boozin’ and cruisin’ from the safety of a bar stool and shady sun bed. Notes will be taken and reports will be written. No doubt the odd geriatric German will wave his crumpled old do-da at us on the beach, flopping out from a well-clipped grey bush. My wrinkly old British do-da will remain safely under wraps.

Jack and Liam Go to Gran Canaria

So you can imagine what it’s like. According to Going Local in Gran Canaria by Matthew Hirtes, that nasty old fascist, General Franco, banished gay soldiers to the island which may explain the island’s evergreen appeal to the rainbow brigade. A place of exile is something Gran Canaria has in common with Bodrum, a place which…

…has always provided refuge to the exiled and the unorthodox…

As I mentioned in Turkey Street.

And talking of Bodrum, we’re popping over in October to attend a wedding, so some good news coming out of Turkey for a change. Salud!

Desperately Seeking Doreen

Desperately_Seeking_Doreen

A cursory glance at my stats shows that Perking the Pansies pops up on the internet in totally unexpected ways. My irreverent ramblings seem to attract the lost, the lustful, the inquisitive and the ignorant – and from the four corners of the world. These are a few of my favourite search terms:

  • Pussy lovers (for feline aficionados, obviously)
  • Gran Canarian Sex (for a bit of bump and grind in the sun)
  • Rent Boys (believe me, my street-walking days are over)
  • Hardon All Day (hit it with a stick)
  • Is Marti Pellow/Gary Lineker/Kate Adie gay (they seem happy enough to me)
  • Gumbet Love Rats (for the ladies who never learn)
  • The Turkish Living Forum (keeping my 2012 rant right up there in the rankings)

And then came:

  • Doreen Dowdall

Doreen Dowdall

Now that one completely threw me.  Dowdall was my old girl’s name before her soldier boy popped his ring on her finger. Who was the mysterious surfer?  I don’t know, but if s/he ever surfs back, do drop me a line and put me out of my curiosity. And yes, that is me in the picture (the one in shorts, not the fabulous Sixties frock). Bless.

P.S. It’s Doreen Dowdall’s 85th birthday tomorrow. Apart from being a bit mutton with a touch of arthritis and a dodgy hip, the old girl’s in fine fettle. I just hope I’ve inherited her genes.

2013 in Review

Perking the Pansies recovered from a difficult birth at the murderous hands of the Turkish censors, thrived through the terrible twos and survived the transitional threes, ending the year with 60,000 hits for the last twelve months. Thank you to everyone and anyone who’s passed by and glanced at my random witterings. Most blogs burn out after two years so I must be living on borrowed time.

As the sun sets on 2013, in the best Hogmanay tradition, I give you the year’s top ten – a pick ‘n’mix treat of bum cleavage, Turks at the barricades, a shot in the arm, a tender coming out story, a sexy rugger bugger, a book to send you to sleep, an old-time boozer, an olive tree planted in a foreign field and a scratched itch.

Plumber’s Bum

It was the picture wot won it.

Turkey Troubles

A revolution in the making?

Tom Daley: Something I Want to Say

Saying it before someone said it for him.

Gareth Thomas, Dancing on Ice Drama

Who said ice-prancing rugger buggers can’t read?

Life in the Old Blog Yet

With thanks to the nice people at WordPress who featured me on one of their big hitting sites.

Turkey, Surviving the Expats – Out Now!

Keeping me out the workhouse.

God Save the Queen’s Head

A Chelsea classic and old watering hole of mine.

From Little Acorns...

A small corner of Turkey that is forever John.

Seven Year Itch

A soppy tale from Liam.

Turkey, Who Will Blink First?

And we all know who did in the end, don’t we?

For some inexplicable reason, this was the most popular image of 2013, featured in Let’s Hear it for the Brides.

Nine Elms
The Thames at Nine Elms

And I shouldn’t forget the perennial favourites from previous years that keep coming back again and again like a bad case of thrush.

Gran Canaria Sex Emporium

Proving that ‘sex’ really is the most searched for word on Google.

Now That’s What I Call Old

A humble little post about a spectacular discovery in eastern Turkey that just keeps on giving while the archaeologists keep on digging  – 8,000 hits and climbing. Who would have thought?

Expat Glossary

Oft quoted and oft plagiarised (and not always with a credit, tut tut)

Goodbye to the Turkish Living Forum

The few spoiling it for the many. A real shame.

Turkey Street RecliningAnd what of 2014? All I know is that Turkey Street, Jack and Liam move to Bodrum will be out early in the year. Will it be as successful as the first one? Who knows? Not me. Whatever happens, come rain or shine, a happy and prosperous year to all my pansy fans. Thank you for staying the course and for your remarkable support. I’m touched but then, I have been for years.

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

Sleeping People LieA 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

impossibly glamorousCharles 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

An inconvenient postingWhen 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

Forced to FlyI 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

shaikh-downDecadent 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 canariaGoing 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

sunshine soupI 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

bitten by spainI 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 ProjectThe 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.

The Cream of the Crop 2012

The Cream of the Crop 2012

top 10 It’s the turn of a new year, a time to reflect on the recent past. And what a hectic time it’s been for these old two old drunken reprobates. Four years ago, we jumped the good ship Blighty and swam ashore to paradise in search of a dotty dotage of gin and tranquility  We found a paradise of sorts and so much more besides. Three years into our choppy voyage, I found a little fame and notoriety, and a new course was set – as an accidental author. 2012 brought change: a rudder slammed into reverse and a return to our damp little island perched on the edge of Europe. So, in the best tradition of the year’s end, I give you the most popular Pansy posts of 2012.

1. Now That’s What I call Old

Who would have guessed that a lazy, throwaway post about the 12,000 year old ruins at Göbekli Tepe in Eastern Turkey would hit the top spot? Although it was published in 2011, like Meatloaf’s Bat Out of Hell*, it never left the charts. In fact, it’s my most popular piece ever, racking up 7,500 hits to date.

2. Expat Glossary

Another perennial favourite. Technically, it’s a page not a post nowadays (though it started off as a post many moons ago). Oft quoted and copied, it’s a tongue in cheek attempt to classify the vintage villagers of expatland. It continues to strike a chord.

3. Goodbye to the Turkish Living Forum

The closest I came to an unseemly slanging match – I queered my pitch with the Turkish Living Forum (or, more accurately, they queered their pitch with me). I stopped the vile conversation in mid-sentence. I can do that. It’s my blog. It gladdens my little homo heart that this post continues to attract punters. If I’ve put just one potential member off the bigoted posts, then my work is done. It’s a shame. Most contributors to the forum seem sane and reasonable. It’s a good idea ruined by the vicious and vocal few.

4. Britain’s Got Loads of Talent

I’m a sucker for a sob story and Britain’s Got Talent is stuffed to the rafters with them.  A genuine attempt to discover the best (and worst) amateur talent that Blighty has to offer, or a cynical commercial exercise in crass over-sentimentality? Probably both and so what? This year a dog won. No, a real dog, not an ugly person.

5. No Going Back on Going Back

A slip of the wrist and the cat was out of the bag. A premature posting meant that I announced our repatriation much earlier than I had intended and readers tuned in to read the news.

6. Zenne Dancer

A post about a ground-breaking and award-drenched Turkish film, inspired by the true story of a Kurdish student who was gunned down by his own father for being openly and unrepentantly gay. It still hasn’t been released with subtitles so I’m ashamed to say I still haven’t seen it.

7. Fifty Shades of Gay

I wrote this post to celebrate and support the launch of Rainbowbookreviews, a brand new LGBT book review website. As part of the party, Perking the Pansies, Jack and Liam move to Turkey was offered as a competition prize. What some people will do for a freebie.

8. The Friendly Games

This was my naughty but nice take on the closing ceremony of the London 2012 Olympics. The BBC did a grand job in televising the once-in-a-lifetime event – online, on radio and on TV. Liam had all three on simultaneously. For a brief period, the nation forgot its woes and smiled again. The mother lode of precious metal helped.

9. Bodrum’s Crusader Castle

Towards the end of our time in Turkey, I thought it was high time to give the pansy treatment to the grand centrepiece of the Bodrum townscape – a little bit of history (not too much) and a little bit of humour. It’s a popular cocktail.

10. Gran Canaria, Sex Emporium

Our first ‘proper’ holiday for four years and we chose Gran Canaria, that rocky mid-Atlantic brothel. You can take the boy out of the back room but you can’t take the back room out of the boy.

I leave you with my favourite image from 2012. I know, it’s all a bit predictable but I’m turning into a dirty old man and I intend to wallow in it. Happy New Year everyone and thank you for enduring my camp old nonsense for yet another year.

Olympics1

*Bat Out of Hell stayed on the UK album chart for 474 weeks. God knows why. 

Five Rules for a Happy Gay Life

Our re-acquaintance, after a absence of 5 years, with the lewd, the rude and the crude of the Isle of Dogs* reminded me of a bit of a gag that Bob Senkow sent me some time ago:

  1. It’s important to have a man who helps at home, who cooks from time to time, cleans up and has a job.
  2. It’s important to have a man who can make you laugh.
  3. It’s important to have a man who you can trust and who doesn’t lie to you.
  4. It’s important to have a man who is good in bed and who likes to be with you.
  5. It’s very, very, very important that these four men don’t know each other.

Just a happy gay life? Discuss.

*Contrary to its name, the islands have little to nothing to do with the canary bird. Rather, it is the bird that is named after the islands, not the converse. The name Islas Canarias is likely derived from the Latin name Canariae Insulae, meaning “Island of the Dogs”, a name applied originally only to Gran Canaria. According to the historian Pliny the Elder, the Mauritanian king Juba II named the island Canaria because it contained “vast multitudes of dogs of very large size”.  Source: Wikipedia

This still applies today. Woof, woof.

Sucking on a Woo Woo

Sucking on a Woo Woo

On the morning of my birthday, we awoke to the thud of wildebeest migrating across the floor of the apartment above us. It coincided with the thud of wildebeest migrating across my forehead. We dragged ourselves out of our pit and wandered into the sunny run-down wilderness in search of comfort food. We found it at Jimmy’s bar and availed ourselves of generous Jimmy’s ample portions. The rest of the afternoon was spent in a semi-coma around the cool pool. Around us, there was an excitable coach party, in from Maastricht. It turned out to be the same rowdy herd who disturbed our slumber by clog-hopping across the floor. Why didn’t I pack my elephant gun? As I nodded off in the shade, Liam slipped away and when I returned to the apartment, I found it decorated with Canarian-style birthday paraphernalia. A cartoon banner was draped across the balcony and a mini chocolate slice was topped with eight multi-coloured candles. We toasted my old age with a glass of plonk Liam had picked up at the local market, a steal at 65 cents a litre (yes, 65 cents), though I admit it could have doubled up as oven cleaner. Once Liam had put a smile on my face, he then took advantage by sitting on it.

Rested, rinsed and sporting a post-coital glow, we headed back to the brothel in our best gay-about-shopping-mall outfits. Even at our age, we scrubbed up rather well. We drank, we ate, we drank some more. Meals on the rock are more ‘hearty’ than haute cuisine. Liam’s steak was the size of the Isle of Wight and I was served up half a sow stuffed with Brie. As we sucked on our after-dinner woos-woos, we watched the congregation of happy gays weaving around us; young and old alike, same sex couples of all genders and hues holding hands, laughing and loving. The security guards looked on in amusement. They were there, not to harass, but to keep us safe. I wonder what General Franco would have made of it?

We bar-hopped the night away before agreeing on a final snifter or two at Coco Loco, a raucous dance and video dive. Everyone was in a merry mood, fuelled by the cheap duty-free triples coursing through their veins. Cabaret was provided by a lithe young thing whose skimpy gold lame shorts gave his religion away. He rode the dance pole like an old pro and shook his booty like Beyoncé. As we meandered through the exotic hubbub, Liam was being stalked by a tall dark stranger, a  man whose snout was so large he could have snorted Colombia. I too had an admirer. My foreign paramour was a drunken vision in denim with a face that could grate Parmesan. Liam, ever competitive,  leaned over and whispered, “Don’t think much of yours.”

 

What a drag …

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On the Buses

Liam and I spent a few days in Gran Canaria to celebrate my birthday and to catch a few rays before the winter drizzle forced us into snug hibernation. We flew Easyjet – On the Buses with a tango tan. As usual, speedy boarding was a nail-biting chaotic scrum. Mindful of our blood pressure, we decided not to leg it to the front. As we queued to board the plane, a lumpy broad with precision-cut bottle-black hair and a particularly miserable expression, ram-raided a wheelchair-bound pensioner through the snaking crowd. “Well, excuse me,” she screamed. “Get out of the way!” Startled passengers parted like the Red Sea, us included. Presumably, the charmless dragon was pissed off about having to do some work.

Thankfully, we managed to get seats together and strapped ourselves in for the full EJ experience. The chief flying mattress was a jolly fat fellow, an extraordinarily energetic thing who cha-cha-cha’d up and down the aisle and nearly took off when indicating the emergency exits. Cha-cha-cha man tried to talk up the over-priced down-market bacon butties by announcing that they came with “an accompaniment of ketchup.”  Amazingly, the hype worked and steaming cellophane packs of soggy microwaved rubber were hurtled down the cabin courtesy of the “here, catch,” school of Sleazyjet service. Half the punters suffered third degree burns.

Next Holiday Post: Gran Canaria, Sex Emporium.

Jack and Liam Go To Gran Canaria

Jack and Liam Go To Gran Canaria

Perking the Pansies will be off the air for a few days. Liam and I are taking a well-deserved mini-break to Gran Canaria, that scurrilous mid-Atlantic duty free rock to catch some rays, stock up on Clarins essentials and celebrate my 52nd birthday in dipsomaniac style. I’ve been many, many times before for a little winter warmer and furtive fun in the sun. Now I’m older, wiser and firmly married, I’m content to observe the boozin’ and cruisin’ from the safety of a bar stool and shady sun bed. Notes will be taken and reports will be written. No doubt, the odd geriatric German will wave his crumpled old do-da at us on the beach, flopping out from a well-clipped grey bush. My wrinkly old British do-da will remain safely under wraps. I like to keep the boys guessing (or from throwing up). Normal transmission will be resumed shortly. Salud!