Perking

the Pansies Jack and Liam move to Turkey

Jack Scott

First Published Great Britain 2011 by Summertime Publishing

© Copyright Jack Scott

ISBN: 978-1-904881-64-3

Jack and Liam, fed up with kiss-my-arse bosses and nose-to-nipple commutes, chuck

in the towel and move to a small town in Turkey. Join the culture-curious gay couple

on their bumpy rite of passage. Meet the oddballs, VOMITs, vetpats, emigreys,

semigreys, randy waiters and middle England miseries. When prejudice and ignorance

emerge from the crude underbelly of Turkey’s expat life, Jack and Liam waver.

Determined to stay the course, the happy hedonistas hitch up their skirts, flee to

laissez-faire Bodrum and fall under the spell of their intoxicating foster land. Enter

Jack’s irreverent world for a right royal dose of misery and joy, bigotry and

enlightenment, betrayal and loyalty, friendship, love, earthquakes, birth, adoption and

murder. Suburban life was never this eventful. You couldn't make it up.

A bitter-sweet tragi-comedy that recalls the first year of a British gay couple living in

a Muslim land.

Preface

ASIA MINOR, A CONTINENT IN MINIATURE Just imagine the absurdity of two openly gay, recently married, middle-aged, middle class

men escaping the liberal sanctuary of anonymous London to relocate to a Muslim country.

The country in question is not Iran (we had no desire to be lynched from the nearest olive tree

by the Revolutionary Guard) but neighbouring Turkey, a secular nation practising a moderate

and state-supervised form of Islam. Even so, Turkey provides a challenge to the free-spirited

wishing to live unconventionally. Openly gay Turks in visible same-sex relationships are as

rare as ginger imams.

There are more parallels between Britain and Turkey than many realise. Both are

historic nations once united under Ancient Rome, fiercely independent and suspicious of a

new pan-European empire formed by a Treaty in modern Rome. Both are anchored to the

edge of Europe but chained to it economically. Both have a political and cultural heritage so

immense that they transformed the world. Both have emerged from the long shadow of an

empire destroyed by world wars and both are trying to forge a modern role in a rapidly

changing world.

Türkiye means ‘land of the strong’, an old Turkic/Arabic compound. Anatolia translates

as ‘sunrise’ from ancient Greek. Both poetic epitaphs are fitting depictions of a vast land

blessed with striking physical beauty, wrought by the brutal force of Mother Nature, and

fought over, won and lost by invaders across all of recorded time. Turkey is a nation familiar

to many Brits: the beer-swigging tattooed tourist seeking cheap fun in the sun with chips on

the side, and those of a more scholarly hue who wonder at the unparalleled scale and depth of

Anatolian culture and history. Traditional Turkey is the true crossroad of civilisations, the

evidence of which lies casually underfoot, and a land where kinship and community reign

supreme. New Turkey is a reinvigorated, rising, regional power, the ephemeral playground of

pallid-skinned, sun-starved Northern Europeans gorging themselves on expensive imported

bacon, cheap local plonk and one-upmanship. Islamic majesty sits uncomfortably alongside

bargain bucket tourism. It was precisely this compelling contradiction of the captivating and

the comical that lured two culture-curious gay boys out from under the cosy duvet of laissez-

faire London life.

This book began life as a monthly email commentary of our experiences in our foster

land and the extraordinary people – the sad, the mad, the bad and the glad – we encountered

along the way. I called my dispatches ‘witterings’ and shared them with my wish-you-were-

here’s. As the witterings grew, high and low drama unfolded around us. So began a

rollercoaster ride that amused, moved, surprised and ultimately changed us forever.

Chapter 1

IN THE BEGINNING

In the beginning there was work, and work was God. After thirty-five years in the business,

the endless predictability made me question the Faith. Liam, on the other hand, was neither

bored nor unchallenged but routinely subjected to the demands of a feckless boss, a soft and

warm Christmas tree fairy with a soul of granite, Lucifer in lace. He feared for his tenure. I

feared for his mental health.

“Happy Birthday, Liam.”

Our favourite Soho brasserie was illuminated by flickering antique oil lamps and the

occasional beam of light from the kitchen. The restaurant was swollen with rowdy after-hours

workers, swapping gossip and feasting on hearsay. We had squeezed into a small recess by

the window, dribbles of condensation trickling down the glass and obscuring the view to the

street beyond.

Liam ripped off his Armani tie and draped it across the back of his chair.

“Thanks, Jack. Forty-six and fully-functioning tackle.”

“I’ll drink to that.”

Our waiter intruded. “Have you decided?”

“Yes, Cato,” I said. “We’ll both have the special.”

The cute Colombian turned on his heels and sashayed off towards the kitchen. Liam

retrieved his tie and rolled it absently around his fingers.

“You do know that’s Italian silk?”

“It’s just a shackle. An over-priced, over-hyped, ridiculous little shackle.” He closed his

eyes and massaged his forehead with the tips of his fingers.

“Good day at the office, darling?”

“Just pour the wine, Jack.”

Liam folded his tie, placed it neatly on the table and stared into my eyes with unusual

intensity.

“Jack, you know I love you, don’t you?”

“Sure I do.”

In the three years we had been together, Liam had been irrepressibly affectionate. We

had recently married, an affirming fanfare of family and friends crowned by two glorious

weeks in Turkey. I had never felt more loved.

“Look,” said Liam. “I’ve got something to tell you.”

Cato returned and fussed over the table setting for what seemed like an age, adjusting

the condiments like chess pieces to make room for the oversized plates. He placed the white

linen napkins on our laps and started to fret over my cutlery.

“That’s fine, Cato!”

Liam shuffled uncomfortably, and Cato and his impossibly thin waist minced back to

the kitchen.

“I thought you liked this place?” I said. “I thought you were happy?”

“I do. I am.” He forced a smile.

“This is you looking happy?”

Our food arrived along with a fresh bottle of wine and a sulking waiter.

“It’s the job,” said Liam. “It’s driving me insane.” He took a fortifying swig of wine. “I

told that bitch of a boss where to stick her profit margins. I’ve done it. I’ve quit.”

Liam had spent the last two years working for a cut-and-thrust, slash-and-burn private

sector company, vainly trying to coax the unemployable into work. He sought stimulation and

challenge and got both in spades, along with a gruelling twelve hour day. I reached over the

table and held his hand.

“Jumping ship’s fine, love. As long as it’s onto dry land.”

“But, you’re my dry land, aren’t you?”

Cato returned every now and then to check on my mood and replenish our glasses, his

distracting buns quivering like two piglets in a sack. As Liam and I chatted, the windows

started to de-mist and we caught glimpses of the drab winter coats and scarves scurrying

along the icy street outside.

“The worker bees of London,” said Liam. “Just look at them.”

I got the point. I’d worked in social care for thirty years, gently ascending a career

ladder to middle management, middle income and a middling suburban terrace; comfortable,

secure and passionately dissatisfying. We talked with growing animation through the starter,

main course and deliciously calorific death by chocolate dessert, about the evils of work, and

how our jobs were ruining our health.

“What the hell are we doing?” said Liam.

“The same as everyone else love, treading water.”

“That’s it? Thrashing about in the shallows?”

“Better than drowning.”

“I’d rather take my chances.”

Jacques Brel belted out Jackie through the restaurant speakers and Liam considered his

next move.

“We’re stuck in a rut, Jack, a big fat suburban rut. There’s more to life than matching

bathrobes and strategically placed scatter cushions.”

“You’re drunk.”

“As a skunk.”

“So what would you have us do? Sell the semi?”

“Yeah, why not?”

“Because it’s our home, that’s why not. What would we do? Walk the streets and queue

at the soup kitchen? Live in a cardboard box and wait for Godot?”

“Now who’s drunk? Let’s just do it.”

“For fuck’s sake, Liam, do what?”

“Something different. Somewhere else.” He paused. “More than tread water.”

I peered at Liam through my wine glass, his face distorted like a reflection in a hall of

mirrors. The booze was coursing through my veins and I was feeling more receptive by the

bottle. Cato appeared through the crowd carrying a tiny birthday cake lit by a single pink

candle. A perfectly formed forty-six was neatly iced onto the delicate vanilla sponge.

“Happy Birthday, Señor Liam. Feliz Día from the House.” The pre-occupied diners

around us gave Liam a half-baked hand. We laughed and I thanked Cato for his

thoughtfulness.

“Perfect timing, my little camarero. Another bottle and make it quick.”

We awoke to the sound of heavy rain pounding against the rattling sash windows. The radio

was blaring and the central heating was firing on full. Liam leaped out of bed, returning with

a pot of freshly brewed French roast and a jug of water. He was annoyingly bright.

“Paracetamol?”

I mumbled into the pillow. “Leave the packet.”

He perched on the side of the bed and stroked the back of my neck.

“If that’s a prelude to anything requiring movement, forget it.”

“Look. I’ve been awake half the night thinking.”

Liam began to recall our wine-fuelled debate in remarkable detail. “What if we actually

do it?” he said. “What if we sell up and head for heat and hedonism?”

I rubbed my eyes and reached for my glasses.

“Well?” said Liam.

“It has its attractions.”

“That’s it? It has its attractions? Wake up, Jack. Let’s bugger off to Nirvana.”

My brain struggled to find first gear and slipped back into neutral. A squad of sadistic

dwarfs was pick-axing the inside of my head.

“It’s not that simple, Liam. If it was, everyone would do it.”

“Repeat after me, Jack: work is the root of all evil. Imagine life without the turgid

meetings, kiss-my-arse bosses and nose-to-nipple commutes.”

“Imagine life without money, Liam. Poverty is the root of all evil.”

I took a pill and downed another glass of water.

“We’ve equity in the houses,” said Liam.

“Not enough. It wouldn’t last.”

“Oh come on, nothing lasts.”

Liam leapt up and pulled open the curtains. The rain had petered out and winter

sunshine streaked through the windows. He was resolute.

“We could rent.”

“Rent?”

“Yes, rent. A bargain basement by the sea.”

“A beach hut in Bognor? I don’t think so.”

“Even if we had more time together?”

“Especially if we had more time together.”

“And more sex.”

“God, it gets worse.”

“I’m serious, Jack. If….”

I cupped my hand over Liam’s mouth. “Pour me that cup of coffee and let me think.”

Later in the day, revived by full-fat croissants and intravenous caffeine, we lay next to each

other on the super-sized bed, staring at the ceiling and calmly hatching our audacious plot to

step off the treadmill and migrate to the sun. Liam convinced me that anything was possible;

all we had to do was decide where. He fancied France but I was less than keen. I once stayed

at a rancid carbuncle in a godforsaken village in the middle of the Dordogne. The only other

hotel guest was a dead rat floating in the kidney-shaped cesspit they called a pool. When I

checked out the next morning, the propriétaire and his finger-sucking sister offered me an

extended stay in return for a ménage à trois. I politely declined their kind offer. As I left the

foyer, a pack of rabid dogs launched an unprovoked offensive on my suitcase, presumably

attempting to retrieve the warm saucisse I’d purloined from the hotel breakfast table. One of

them, clearly starved of accouplement, decided to mount the case and squirt his jus d’amour

over my Samsonite.

On a visit to Normandy, I had a life-changing incident in a roadside convenience, an

experience that rotted my espadrilles and permanently damaged my sense of smell. The

revolting hole in the ground was overflowing with an aromatic pee soup, liberally spiced with

putrid garlic, topped with stool croutons and bubbling up like a witch’s cauldron. It had

clearly been used by every Tom, Dick and Norman in town, more than once. A brisk wind up

the English Channel would have carried the offending stench to Sweden and given

surströmming a run for its money.

“You know what they say, Liam. The French have clean kitchens and dirty toilets. The

English have clean toilets and dirty kitchens. I know which I’d prefer.”

I had a soft spot for Spain but the place was already teeming with Brits on the run and

anyway, Liam had a principled aversion to bull fighting. Gran Canaria – Spain with a gin

twist – was little more than a duty-free brothel in the Atlantic and was overrun with naked

Germans waving Teutonic tackle around the X-rated sand dunes. Italy was home to the Vicar

of Bigots and sleazy politicians, Portugal had fado but precious little else, and Greece was an

economic basket case on the verge of civil implosion. As we dismissed each country with

outrageous prejudice, we knew that anywhere in the Eurozone was probably beyond our

means. The pound was poorly and the ailing patient was getting weaker by the day.

Everything pointed in one direction, and it was Liam who finally voiced our biased decision.

“You get a lot of bang for your bucks in Turkey.”

We had just returned from Bodrum, a chic and cosmopolitan kind of place attracting

serious Turkish cash, social nonconformists and relatively few discount tourists. Liam loved

it and after many years visiting the western shores of Anatolia, I needed no convincing. We

were agreed. It was Turkey or nowhere.

Several hours of feverish planning passed. Scribbled Post-it notes and an annotated map

of south western Turkey guided us through a long and impassioned debate. We briefly

entertained the notion of living in Kaş on the Turkuaz Coast. We had honeymooned there and

fallen under its captivating spell. The sparkling Bohemian jewel was surrounded by a pristine

hinterland and had mercifully been spared the worst excesses of mass tourism. Its glorious

isolation was also its downfall. The resort was a wilting two-hour drive from the nearest

international airport, was effectively closed out of season and lacked those dull but essential

full-time services we all need in the real world: banks, supermarkets and an upmarket drag

bar. We cast our eyes along the map. The coast running south-east of Kaş had been colonised

by Germans and Russians and the string of concrete resorts running north – Fethiye,

Marmaris, Altınkum and Kuşadası – attracted legions of beer-soaked karaoke Brits. Bodrum,

the bookmaker’s favourite, won by a mile.

At this point, we got stuck – hopelessly stuck – in the quicksand of reality. Planning the

fantasy was thrilling and cathartic but ultimately hopeless. Despite our best efforts to make

all the pieces fit, practicalities and a whole range of insoluble conundrums got in the way.

Liam called them technical hitches and doggedly refused to concede defeat. I admired his

pluck to bet against the odds. All I had to do was sell my East London house, just as prices

were in free fall. All he had to do was agree a financial settlement with his ex on their jointly-

owned property in Kent. Thus far, that particular knotty problem had proved more difficult to

resolve than the Arab-Israeli conflict.

“I’ll speak to Robbie,” said Liam. “You never know.”

I did know. Robbie wouldn’t give an inch.

It fell to me to end the delusional pipedream.

“It’s not just about us, love.”

Liam collapsed on to the bed and buried his face in the crumpled map of Turkey.

“Your mother,” he mumbled.

“Your parents.”

“I know, I know, they need us.”

“And we need them.”

We lay on the bed in silence, running through the endless permutations in our heads.

After a while we fell soundly asleep, wrapped around each other and dreaming of the

impossible.

Epilogue

BELLE ÉPOQUE

A year in the making and our voyage had barely started. What began as an exhilarating

journey into the unknown soon became a raw test of endurance. We survived the fall of the

Raj, separated the wheat from the chavs, distanced ourselves from the emigrey closets and

cried a river over Adalet. Charlotte and Alan had been hung out to dry and still didn’t know

who dished the dirt. The senseless murder of an innocent man came close to capsizing our

boat. But the turbulence that swirled around us only served to bring our sainted existence into

sharp relief. Through it all, as if fixed at the eye of the storm, Liam and I remained solid,

together and optimistic. Lady Fortuna favoured us. It was, beyond question, the best year of

our lives.

In twelve concentrated months, our lives had been touched by the good, the bad, the

foolhardy and the heart-wrenching. For a while, we wondered which category we fell into,

but then the truth slapped us about the face like a wet towel. We could have our place in the

sun, but not as fully paid up members of the embittered emigrey imperials. They might dump

their unwanted pasts at check-in and blame Blighty for all their woes, but we weren’t about to

join them. Nor could we become plastic Turks. Our dismal language skills and very obvious

union precluded it. No, we occupied the space in between, neither fish nor fowl. We were

content with that. For now.

We had made a decadent choice to retire early, against the advice of many. Our

financial health had been compromised but our emotional health had soared. There was no

going back. Besides, we were fond of our exotic foster country and her many puzzling

paradoxes. Dire warnings of imminent religious zealotry had proved premature but we would

keep a watchful eye.

Our move to Bodrum Town had changed us. We were happy in the Bohemian oasis

with its progressive vibe and liberal tinge, though we did wonder what the town really made

of us. A message from a Turkish-American Bodrum Belle gave us hope.

“There will be envy among your neighbours that there are two very polite gay

yabancilar who pay on time and are courteously living in the family’s stone house, both of

which have already singled you out from many. Whilst the older generation counts the pesos,

you are setting a path of freedom for some of the very trapped sons (and daughters). If it

were easy, you would not be doing it.”

Dina Street

Turkey is a magical land graced by a rich culture, gorgeous people and an intrinsic love

of the family. A respect for difference won’t destroy that. It’s okay to be queer. It won’t bring

down the house, though it might bring in a little more style. At times I think we’re

floundering about like idiots but now and then I think we’re making a real difference. Time

will be the judge. In the meantime, rising inflation and falling interest rates may yet force us

to perk our pansies elsewhere. I hear Bulgaria is nice.

“The book's originality lies more in it's honesty about the grubby

reality of expat life that conventional travel literature prefers to gloss

over.” Time Out, Istanbul

"At turns, hilarious, saucy, witty, heartwarming and incredibly

moving." Global Living Magazine

“Funny and insightful and poignant all at once.” Rainbow Book

Awards

“Empathetic, respectful and pretty acute.” Hugh Pope, journalist and

author

Find out more on www.jackscott.info