Showing posts with label Gay. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Gay. Show all posts

Wednesday, 14 December 2011

Houston, We Have Lift-off


An enormous thank you to On the Ege and Impossibly Glamorous for kick-starting the publicity campaign for Perking the Pansies, Jack and Liam move to Turkey. This was done without any prompting from me. I'm really touched. Find out what other reviewers have said about the book here. And that's not all. The Displaced Nation have listed the book on their Best of 2011 Expat Books and it's on the BlogExpat Christmas list.

Prowler1
On the day Perking the Pansies hit the presses, I found out that Joe Storey-Scott, the Book & Film Buyer for Millivres Prowler Group, contacted my publisher, Jo Parfitt. Prowler is Blighty’s premiere gay lifestyle chain with outlets in Birmingham, Brighton and a London flagship store in Brewer Street, Soho. Joe has agreed to stock the book. Wow. Thank you, Joe. The next day the book entered Amazon’s top ten of forthcoming biographies. It’s above the paperback release of Margaret Thatcher, The Downing Street Years. Blimey.

Thursday, 10 November 2011

Polari Literary Review

Polari
I’m really excited to announce that Paul Burston, award winning author, LGBT Editor of Time Out London and one of Blighty’s leading commentators on LGBT life, has invited me to speak at the Polari Literary Salon in February. Paul created Polari to showcase new gay and lesbian writers. Since its launch in 2007, Polari has established an enviable reputation as a centre of excellence for promoting new talent. I’ll be reading passages from my book, Perking the Pansies and Surviving the Expats in Turkey and taking questions. I’m completely terrified. Paul assures me it's a warm and easy crowd. I will have to dig deep into my past to resurrect the orator in me. I'll be trolling down to Soho to ask the literati omis, palones and palone-omis to vada my bona book*. I hope this pansy will still be perking by the end of it. What shall I wear?

*For a quick lesson in Polari slang check out Trolling on the Net.

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Tuesday, 18 October 2011

The Dorothy Dollar and the Pink Pound

When I was in negotiation with my publisher, Jo Parfitt, she asked me if Perking the Pansies, the book, would attract a wider audience beyond a gay niche. It’s a question I’d asked of myself. It’s not a bad niche to be stuck in. By some accounts the pink pound is worth about £6 billion in the UK and the US equivalent (the dorothy dollar) is reckoned to be worth a staggering $640 billion. Even if this is an exaggeration in these recessionary times, it’s still big bucks.

Pink_pound1
The more I thought about it the more I realised that neither the book nor the blog are actually about gay life in Turkey, rather they are about a gay couple living in Turkey. This is an important distinction. I did a little digging about my blog readership. It turned out that my pansy fans are overwhelmingly British, female (about 70%) and over 45 (around 80%). Even though the blog is occasionally a bit naughty and gay boy about town, this hasn’t put off the straight reader. This may be because gay culture is much more mainstream in Britain than elsewhere. The gay scene has emerged from the dark ghetto on the wrong side of the tracks and gone very high street (or Main Street as they say on the other side of the pond), the Daily Mail has stopped being routinely beastly and the tea-time TV choices for British women of a certain age are Graham Norton and Paul O’Grady (neither of whom hide their flashing pink light under a bushel).

What do you think?


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Monday, 10 October 2011

Jamey Roddemeyer, RIP

I came across this sweet video of Jamey Rodemeyer, a young American boy struggling with his sexuality. Despite vicious and relentless bullying at school, he had the strength of character to send a message of hope to all young people everywhere who are grappling to understand who they are and to make sense of their feelings. He called his message 'It Gets Better, I promise'.



Unfortunately it didn't get better for Jamey. On Sunday 18th of September, he committed suicide. He was just 14. No one will ever really know why he took his own life. The internet abounds with conspiracy theories (as usual). What we do know is that he was gay and brutalised by his class mates. Nobody stopped them.

I know how lucky I am. I have a charmed life. I have always had the support of my family and have always felt loved. I am one of the lucky few. I know Blighty isn't perfect. I know some people harbour dark views. I know some children are bullied. But I'm glad I grew up in a country that is genuinely free, a civilised little island where political correctness has gone mad, according to the more reactionary among us.  Well, tough. I’m glad it’s not okay to say paki, nigger, queer or spastic. I’m glad people have to watch what they say and what they do. I’m glad bigotry has consequences. That’s why people died fighting Hitler. Lest we forget.

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Stand Up and Be Counted

Thursday, 29 September 2011

Sisters are Doing it for Themselves

I’ve never really got futbol. In my experience, few gay people do. Having said that, there is a Gay Football Supporters Network and London has its very own gay-friendly team, the London Titans, who play serious soccer in local leagues. So what do I know? Perhaps times are changing and the sport is finally shedding its well-trodden racist, sexist and homophobic image. I suspect the jury's still out on that one. In any case, it's too late for me. I'm set in my gay ways. The only football game I’ve ever attended was when I popped along with my sister to watch my young nephew captain his little league team in a local park. My usually calm and matriarchal sibling was transformed into a screaming harridan. Such is the intoxicating power of the beautiful game.

England gave football to the world then ruined it by exporting hooliganism. The tribal thuggery that afflicted the English game in the 80s and 90s has largely died out but is still alive and kicking in many other corners of the world. Fenerbahçe, one of Turkey’s top soccer teams, had a bit of bother with their own fans of late. Rather than play their matches behind locked gates, they decided to punish their unruly supporters by filling their stadium with women and children only. Men were persona non grata. It was a rip-roaring success that hit the headlines. The ladies electrified the good humoured ambience as they partied in the stands, sang, chanted, waved and danced. They knew all the words and all the moves. Was this a just a cynical gimmick to attract positive PR or a genuine attempt to keep the bad boys at bay and let the ladies shine? Who knows? Still, women are invading the pitch all over the world these days with their own local and national teams. Are Turkish women finally coming out of the kitchen and doing it for themselves? I do hope so. Go girls!



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Wednesday, 21 September 2011

Painting the Town Pink

Gümbet is something else – Blackpool with a Turkish tan. I vowed after our last visit that I’d rather watch paint dry than spend another night there, but it does have one small enticement – a gay bar – a bone fide watering hole for happy homosexuals. It took us a while to find Murphy’s Gay Clup (sic). Presumably it was an Oirish theme pub in a previous existence. It was hidden along a sad little side street off the main drag, and we entered the place with apprehension, anticipating the heady aroma of tinsel and testosterone. We found a half decent, half-filled bar, populated mostly with young fey after work Turks huddled in camp conclave, a few off-duty taxi drivers twiddling with their tashes and the odd bemused bi-curious tourist in search of furtive titillation. Liam couldn’t stop giggling at some of the punters. It reminded me of  London in the seventies.  At least we didn’t have to knock on the door to gain entry. We stayed awhile and yes, it was kinda fun in a retro kinda way.

White_shirt

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Wednesday, 7 September 2011

No Arab Spring for Syria

I came across the blog of a young gay Syrian called Sami. He writes with great courage and eloquence about his plight as gay man in an Arab state and his profound worry about his family as the Assad regime continues its march of murderous oppression. At first I was a little suspicious after the hoax blog by a Syrian lesbian that turned out to be an American writer living in Scotland. Now I’m convinced it’s genuine. As with the entire Arab world, being gay in Syria is illegal and punishment is severe. Of course man on man action is virtually obligatory as access to the fairer sex is restricted before marriage, and sheep are hard to find in Damascus. Boys will be boys after all. Just don’t say gay. Well, at least they don’t string them up like they do in Saudi Arabia and non-Arab Iran so that’s alright then. Gay rights are human rights and humans rights are thin on the ground for anyone in Syria right now.

Syria1
Sami writes:
The regime is still killing in Hama – yesterday they started assassinating doctors to increase fatalities. They are slowly killing my nephew, and killing me in the process. The only image that is in my mind now is of his smile when he calls my name and says, ‘You draw a cat, I draw a dog’. Syrian Gay Guy
I posted a few words of support on Sami’s blog. It was the least I could do. It’s a small, small thing I did as we watch the body count grow.
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Saturday, 30 July 2011

Gay Marriage in New York

I’ve been following the debate about civil unions across the pond with interest and bemusement. America was founded on the noble principle that all men are born equal (although, at the time this sentiment didn’t extend to slaves or women). The States is not called the Land of the Free for nothing. Last month New York State legalised same sex marriage, the most populous state ever to have done so. New York has now joined a small select group that includes Connecticut, Iowa, Massachusetts, New Hampshire and Vermont, as well as the District of Columbia. Because it’s New York, New York where Lady Liberty shines her torch the event has been widely reported across the globe. It’s even hit the media here in Turkey.

I assume I’m correct in thinking that a same sex union registered in New York has no legal standing in those states that do not recognise such relationships or have positively banned them. So it’s okay to be a child African bride, a forced Pakistani bride or a polygamous Arab but it’s not okay for two consenting adult Americans to decide who their significant other should be. What a strange situation. There will always be people who object to same sex relationships on moral or religious grounds. They are entitled to their views but are not entitled to force them on others. The wish of some to form a romantic bond with a member of the same sex is a personal issue. The legal recognition of it does not lead to anarchy and Armageddon.

What of my homeland? Civil partnerships were introduced in United Kingdom in 2004 which give same-sex couples rights and responsibilities identical to civil marriage. New Labour may well have put the country in hock for the next century but they did deliver a radical and comprehensive equal rights agenda. This was truly historic and I believe history will judge it so. About time too. I had become thoroughly fed up with a society that expected me to pay all my dues in return for second class citizenship and semi-rights. Liam and I married in 2008.

What of my fosterland? Homosexuality is not mentioned in the Turkish legal code and so gay people live in a kind of legal limbo neither protected nor persecuted, officially anyway. The Turkish Government has made it abundantly clear that it has no intention of introducing equal rights for lesbian and gay Turks. I have to add, our obvious union has never received a bad vibe from the Turks around us. If anything the reverse has been true. As non-Moslem heathens we’re Hell-bound anyway so it matters little what we do.

America is not perfect, no country is, but it is a beacon of freedom and hope for people from less blessed lands. Some people are gay. It’s just the way it is.

More on Perking the Pansies

Monday, 23 May 2011

Cappuccinos and Rent Boys

After our horrendous first day driving through Izmir in the rush hour we decided on an early night. Fully rested, the next day things seemed more promising. Our hotel was equidistant between the city centre proper and a trendy, Sohoesque district called Alsancak. No one would describe Izmir as beautiful. Much of it was burned to the ground in 1922 during the Greco-Turkish War, and the city was hastily and unsympathetically rebuilt with block upon block of mediocre concrete box architecture that surely wouldn’t withstand even the slightest tremor. However, the place does have a certain appeal and Alsancak, in particular, has a real buzz, all trendy shops and pavement cafés.

Izmir1
I fancied a trip to the Roman agora, the largest market place ever excavated from the period. We rambled through the modern pazar and delighted in confounding the hawkers by responding to their catcalls in German, French, Spanish, and a little Turkish, anything but English. We found the agora remains on the wrong side of the tracks and gazed through the railings. Having been spoilt by the glory of Ephesus, I’m afraid an enormous hole on the ground with a few old stones randomly scattered about looking like London after the Blitz really didn’t impress. We didn’t bother going in.

Alsancak is where the few gay bars are to be found. We had done our internet research and went in pursuit of the shameful twilight world of Turkish deviants. It was hopeless. We found only one dismal little dive bar down some dark alley. It was a tawdry, dirty, virtually empty and pounded by ear-splitting techno. The drinks were absurdly expensive and even the ‘free’ bar snacks came at a price with a specially prepared bill of their own. The apathetic bar staff were so bored they poured alcohol on the bar and set it alight for a laugh. Taking a leak was a surreal experience as the entrance to the toilet was guarded by a head scarfed granny in pantaloons demanding a lira to spend a penny. The few punters were predatory, rough rent boys in cheap shell suits looking for punters of their own. As they began to circle us like a pack of hyenas, we knew it was time to leave. We sprinted to the entrance fully expecting it to be locked. Thankfully, it wasn’t. That was Izmir.
More on Perking the Pansies

Tuesday, 3 May 2011

Yankee Pranks

A Pansy flasher on my Perking the Pansies hit map from Washington DC brought back happy memories of journeys across the pond. Over dinner I led Liam on a jolly romp down memory lane. He kindly indulged my remembrance. I’ve been to the States four times – to New York, Boston, LA and my first visit was to the District of Columbia at the tender age of 20. I had dallied with a travelling Yank who worked for the Federal Government and was attending a conference in London. He invited me to stay so I did. I had tired of my dull, dead end job as chief cashier and pound counter for Habitat in Chelsea and had in mind to do as millions of others had done before me and seek my fortune in the land of opportunity. I saved my pennies, quit my job, booked a one way ticket on Freddy Laker’s Skytrain to New York and off I went. I flew out of the Big Apple and down to DC.

Me, yes really
My Yank got a shock when I called. It seemed his invitation hadn't been entirely genuine but he was good enough to let me stay for a few weeks in return for occasional sexual favours. Springtime in Washington is very agreeable and a riot of cherry blossom. The federal heart of the city is laid out in imperial style and built in monumental neo-classical majesty as befits the capital of the most powerful nation in history. The grand design is best appreciated from the top of the Monument, the world’s tallest true obelisk. Rameses the Great must have turned in his tomb. I did the obligatory tour of the White House and the Capitol and strolled along the Mall popping in and out of the various museums along the way. It struck me how everything was described in the definite article –The White House, The Monument, The Capitol as if no others exist. It’s a sign of a confident young nation with a touch of teenage arrogance.

Gay life in Washington was a world away from recession-ravaged buttoned up Britain with its grubby backstreet gay bars. It's taken London 30 years to catch up. I loved it and it loved me. I was young and handsome with cheekbones that could slice cheese. My hosts lapped me up and I let them. I wowed the randy scamps in Rascals, a popular watering hole and pick up joint for federal employees near Dupont Circle. They just loved my accent, along with my uncut assets.

Is it still there I wonder?
Alas, I sensed I was overstaying  my welcome and my reluctant landlord feared I would claim squatters rights. My low-key patriotism also annoyed him. He rather expected me to be enamoured with all things American. I really liked what I saw but I had learned patriotism from my soldier father’s knee and have never been able to shake it off. After a few weeks living the American dream I pined for the old country and flew home on BA.

To this day I remain quietly patriotic, though not nationalistic. To be proud of where you are from is fine but to think you’re a cut above is not. This is a message some emigreys hereabouts would do well to hear. I wonder though, if I had settled Stateside, what would have become of me?

More on Perking the Pansies

Saturday, 30 April 2011

Something for the Weekend, Sir?

Hairdressing, like undertaking, is a steady trade which never goes out of fashion. Having sampled a few establishments in the village, we have settled on a high street barbershop run by a delightful father and son combo. Our number two cut requires only a few minutes with a hair trimmer. However, this cannot be said of the average young Turk. Generally blessed with abundant tresses, even the humblest waiter vainly adorns his head with elaborate, gravity defying sculptures held aloft by a vat of gel. Armpits though, are not always so well groomed.
Our genteel Bodrum barber is a far cry from Liam’s first skirmish with a Turkish coiffeur. The fun began on the final full day of our gloriously romantic honeymoon in splendid KaÅŸ. I persuaded Liam to join me in the exotic pleasure of a Turkish shave, an indulgence I have enjoyed many times on previous visits to Asia Minor.

The barbershop boys saw us coming, and we were mobbed by eager young bucks queuing up to service us. The routine began innocently enough – an efficient double shave with a cut throat razor followed by ear and nose fuzz skilfully dispatched with a flaming cotton bud soaked in petrol. I thought it unusual to find that we were stripped of our tops for the neck and shoulder rub. My young man asked if I would prefer a full body massage in the little room at the back of the shop. I naïvely accepted thinking nothing untoward could occur in a busy barbershop on a main thoroughfare.

He led me into the room and lay me face down on the padded table. His expert hands kneaded and pounded my torso into rapturous submission, and my mind wandered into semi-trance. The spell was rudely broken by a tug of my shorts, which were unceremoniously whipped off in a single movement. I had gone commando that day which rather startled my young masseur but which only added to his vigour. His pummelling went into overdrive. I opened my eyes fleetingly to find him standing to my side inches from my face, shirtless, scarlet-faced, sweating like a dray horse and obviously aroused. For the remainder of the rubdown, I kept my eyes firmly shut and my arms religiously tucked to my side for fear of displaying the slightest encouragement. It was my honeymoon, after all.

Meanwhile, Liam was relishing an upper body rub. However, he became alarmed when the crimper's fingers started to walk south towards the small of Liam’s back, playfully plucking the waistband of his shorts and continuing their passage into the abyss. Liam grabbed the boy’s wrist firmly giving a whole new meaning to the word hayır.

It is not hard to imagine what raced through Liam’s mind as he endured the grunting, murmuring and bed squeaking that emanated from the back room. Shortly afterwards, my tellak and I emerged into the light, me shaking uncontrollably, he drenched in sweat. We concluded our business with a quasi-post-coital cigarette.

More on Perking the Pansies

Saturday, 23 April 2011

It's OK to be Different

Quentin Crisp once famously said “men deprived of the company of women turn to boys. And men deprived of the company of boys turn to animals”. He surely had in mind English public schools, Welsh sheep farmers and American convicts but not Turkey where sexual ambiguity is an art form. I have been visiting the shores of Anatolia for 15 years or so and I think the entire country must be encased in lead since my gaydar malfunctions as soon as I enter Turkish airspace. This leaves me in a continuous state of utter confusion as I’m thrown off balance by the intensive, penetrating stares and contradictory playful signals from the swarthy men around me.

During the summer months whole caravans of young men with spring loaded libidos and the any port in a storm mentality begin their annual migration to the coast looking for casual work and casual sex. I know that in societies where there is strong gender separation and girls are expected to protect their virtue, access to sexual shenanigans is limited to a hand shandy from the boy next door. But, some of these poor fellas are like coiled springs. The frustration is palpable.

And why give it away when there is a little profit to be made? Even the nicest people join the gay for pay brigade because doing it for cash rather than for pleasure is the best way to avoid guilt by association. You see, these men do not consider themselves to be gay. The thought of it would disgust them. And, in the conventional sense, few are. It seems that a familiar fumble with the boys is tolerated if absolute discretion is exercised. It is certainly not an obstacle to marriage. And so, come the end of the season, the boys return to their villages to overwinter, marry their cousins and breed. When spring is in the air they re-join the exodus back to the coast to pick up where they left off. It’s all done without a moment’s thought.

CrispTurkey is a man’s world. Female sexual liberation is but a distant dream. Perhaps this is why so many young Turkish women look po-faced and miserable. And, what about Lesbianism? Let’s just not go there. A sly grope between men might be overlooked but drinking from the furry cup is way beyond the Pale.

What really intrigues me is the sizeable number of older married Turks who get their jollies in hamams and the like. Perhaps, an instant and uncomplicated dalliance reminiscent of a distant youth is a welcome distraction from the never ending drudgery of domestic convention. Or, perchance, there is some truth in the old Ottoman adage that women are for procreation and men are for recreation.

There is, of course, a fundamental distinction between sex and sexuality though lazy thinkers often confuse the two. A world of difference exists between a quickie with a passing stranger and the profound desire to form a romantic and emotional bond with a member of the same gender. This is where the grief starts. Turkey provides a challenge to the free-spirited wishing to live unconventionally. Stifling social conformity redolent of fifties Britain means that it takes a very brave (or desperate) person indeed to break free. The penalty ranges from exile to death, literally. Honour killings are more common than people realise. Consequently, openly gay Turks in visible same sex relationships are as rare as ginger imams. And I don’t think it’s anything to do with class or education. In London, I know two Turkish men, both gay but from opposite ends of the social spectrum – one from an urban, middle class educated family, the other from an Eastern village community. Both felt compelled to leave the land of their birth to live a free and open life. Both lie to their families.

Soon after we arrived, we heard the tragic story of a waiter who, by all accounts, was a kind and gentle soul and a little bit fey. He had done his duty by marrying, siring children and sending most of his meagre earnings home to support them. One early morning he was walking home through pretty, sleepy Yalıkavak having finished his shift. He was set on by three teenagers who robbed and murdered him. It’s a terrifying tale and, of course, queer bashing can happen anywhere. However, what makes this case unusual is that he was raped first.

The political establishment hardly helps. In the spring of 2009 the Turkish minister responsible for children’s services called homosexuality a disease that could be cured. To be fair it caused quite a stir in the press and in the Government. Her comments were contradicted by the Minister for Health and there was a small demonstration in Istanbul – very Stonewall. At the time it made us review our decision to relocate ro Turkey. But we came anyway.

Added to this, the current Government and the main opposition party have recently made it very clear that they have no intention of introducing legislation to protect the LGBT community or to recognise same sex unions. Part of the problem, I think, is the absence of a liberal tradition within the Turkish body politic. In the West liberalism has a moderating influence on those populist politicians, both left and right who play to the gallery and appeal to the fears of the ignorant.

I am not saying dear old Blighty represents some sort of nirvana of equality. It doesn’t. Only recently during the last British general election, Tory candidate for Sutton and Cheam, Philippa Stroud claimed that the demon of homosexuality could be overcome through the power of prayer. Ms Stroud would do better to fall to her knees and pray for something worthwhile, like a cure for cancer or world peace.

I must add that my obvious union with Liam has never attracted bad publicity from any Turk. I assume, as non-Moslem foreigners, we are infidels and Hell-bound anyway so it hardly matters what we do. Ironically, the only disapproving glances we receive are from some of the expats. It is more lazy thinking to assume that Turkey, as a Moslem country, is incurably afflicted by the same fixed biblical attitudes of many of its Arab neighbours. Turkey is not Saudi Arabia. I tend to compare my newly adopted country with Eastern Europe, nations on their own journey to modernity. Being gay in the Baltic republics or Bulgaria is hardly a walk in the park either but this is slowly changing. Think Spain following Franco’s death or Ireland after Catholicism lost its iron grip. Turkey is a magical land graced by a rich culture, gorgeous people and a love of family which I truly honour. A respect for difference will not destroy that. It’s ok to be queer. It won’t bring down the house though it might bring in a little more style.

More on Perking the Pansies

Thursday, 21 April 2011

Perking the Pansies Bound and Ungagged

I love writing Perking the Pansies. It keeps me off the streets and on the straight and narrow (to coin an ironic phrase). I’m truly grateful for all the kind words of encouragement I receive from readers across the globe. I don’t always have the time to respond to each one but I am cheered by them. Thank you.

Alongside the blog I’ve been writing a literary version of Perking the Pansies with added drama and spice, warts and all. It's altogether a more daring exposé of everyday expat life in Turkey and the events that shaped our world. With a lot of luck and a fair wind it may one day get published. I don’t expect to make my fortune but it would be gratifying to see someone lounging and laughing round a shimmering infinity pool, G&T in one hand, Perking the Pansies in the other.

It’s five years since Liam and I first met. Our rollercoaster life is simply the best as Tina Turner famously sang. In tribute to Liam I’m releasing a small snippet of the book which describes the manner of our meeting. It's still a work in progress but I hope you like it.



Chapter_Five.pdf Download this file
It's a PDF file. If you don't have a reader you can get one here.

Perking the Pansies has attracted quite a bit of media interest so I decided to launch my own website as I try to launch my career as a freelance writer. You can find it here.

Are We Mad?

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 even one that is secular and practises a moderate and state-controlled form of Islam.

Jacks_face
Turkey is a country 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 that wonder at the unparalleled scale and depth of Anatolian culture and history. 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 place blessed with striking physical beauty, shaped by the brutal force of nature and fought over, won and lost by conquistadors across all of recorded time. Turkey is a true crossroad of civilisations, the evidence of which lies casually underfoot.

I decided to chronicle our exploits with the mad, the sad, the bad and the glad in a blog for the whole world to ignore. Since most Turkish travelogues we have read tend to be worthy, insipid or both, I decided I would try and stir things up with something a little less reverential and lot more controversial.

Read more on Perking the Pansies

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