ramblings & rantings
General articles
▪ The latest threat from Turkey
▪ Restaurateur run out of Turkey by gangsters
▪ Jewrasic Park (Norman Mark tracks his family’s history in Poland)
▪ Learning to say 'Thank You' (in Turkish)
▪ Midnight Express (Problems at Bodrum Airport)
▪ Opening a Bank Account (in Turkey)
▪ Disabled in Turkey (Istanbul piece)
Hi Norman,
As we discussed before, 1.000.000 YTL had been deposited into your account in one of the banks in Turkey, probably in Garanti Bank from the year 2004 and until the end of the year 2006. There has been a tax audit about your company concerning the said money. It is not only you but also for those whose bank accounts have been deposited by big amount of money.
The tax auditor, KAZIM KARCI, has given me official 15 days to submit the documents about the said money transfers . His telephone number and address are in the attachment.
Therefore; the documents regarding the said money transfer in 2004 have to be submitted to the tax auditor who has been dealing with the audit making the relavant declarations until 00:2 pm on 04.06.2008 . But I do not have the documents and the information which will allow me to make relavant declarations about you and also I am not authorized to sign on your behalf. So you have to come and bring all those documents before 04.06.2008. Otherwise the money transfered into your account from 2004 to 2006 shall be deemed as income so you will have to pay tax and a big amount of money penalty.In case that you do not pay your penalty and tax due, the government will seize your assest in Turkey.
The auditor dealing with your audit is bona fide and is trying to help us. But he has to close this file. In this case you really have to come personally and submit all those documents and make declarations to him. He is waiting an urgent respond from me. As soon as you get my e.mail, please answer me back. I have to inform him. I do not want you to get into trouble. You have already lost a lot of money.
I have had a help from a translator because you need to understand the seriousness of the incident.
So I will have to pay the translator from the money you had given me.
Thanks,
Take Care.
Restaurateur
run out of Turkey by gangsters
(As published in the Argus - Saturday, 17th of May 2008)
A businessman fled for his life in the middle of the night after Turkish gangsters took over his restaurant.
Norman Mark, 59, of Portslade, left with just his wallet and passport after being told he would be killed if he tried to take back control of his business.
He had spent £45,000 renovating the eaterie in the pretty village of Bitez on the Bodrum peninsula in the west of Turkey and planned to retire there.
Mr Mark, who is single, told The Argus: "This whole episode has given me nightmares. I wake up in the middle of the night and I'm so stressed by it all.
" I thought they might kill me and I find it hard to trust people now because I'm paranoid that everyone has an agenda and is plotting against me.
"I'm starting to get my life back together but this is not how I wanted to spend my later years."
Mr Marks bought a £300,000 house in Bitez as his permanent home and thought it would be an ideal place to spend his retirement - before his dream turned into a nightmare.
When the restaurant was set up in spring last year, Mr Mark returned to his social care training business, Norman Mark Training in Portslade.
When he arrived back at his Turkish restaurant, he found the locks changed and guards refusing him entry.
A group of local men had taken over the business and told him if he tried to get it back they would kill him.
Villagers warned him to be careful and not go out at night or he would be murdered.
Fearing the worst and after weeks of failed negotiations through corrupt solicitors who fleeced him for several thousand pounds, Mr Mark fled last April, he said.
He left his home in the dead of night, leaving his possessions behind him.
He has tried to get his business back through the Turkish authorities but says he has not been given any help.
Now Hove MP Celia Barlow is lobbying the Government to take up his case.
Ms Barlow said: "This is an awful situation for Mr Mark who seems to have been abandoned to his fate by the UK Consulate.
"Following this development, I hope that Mr Mark will now receive the assistance he needs to gain justice in this matter."
Once wealthy Mr Mark has been left renting a bedsit in Portslade after losing thousands of pounds through blackmail and is struggling to sell his Turkish home to release much-needed funds.
During the year it took to set up The Burger Bistro, Mr Mark said he faced continual blackmail and corruption from the Turkish authorities.
So-called "presents" of around £200 a time were required to get even the most basic of jobs done.
But he said it was not just the Turkish workmen who demanded cash - lawyers, police and local government officials did the same.
He said: "It was just the way things were done there. Everyone expected a present or they wouldn't do their job."
Mr Mark estimates he spent around £10,000 on bribes - but they turned out to be the least of his problems.
He has been fighting to get justice but after complaining to the Turkish Embassy, Mr Mark said he started receiving fines from the Turkish authorities because the restaurant, which was being run in his name, was operating without a till or proper receipts.
The Turkish authorities are refusing to acknowledge his case, claiming it is a personal matter and he daren't set foot in the country as he has been told there is a warrant out for his arrest under Turkish sedition laws.
Jewrasic Park (Norman Mark tracks his family’s history in Krakow)
Take the
Katholic and Kolestrol out of Krakow and you land up with choice of
three distinct visiting areas. The Old Town, Wavel Castle and Wawrzyfica, the
Jewish area; or rather, Jewrasic Park. This is the pre-war heart of the
Jewish community since being "resettled" there by the Poles in the
fifteenth century and until the Germans decided on a more permanent
´solution´. I consciously use the word German to compensate for the
constant and very irritating and apologetic references to the 'Nazis',
as if the baddies had descended from the planet Nazi just in time for
the Holocaust without passing through Deutschland Uber Alles.
We spent three days touring the Old Town with it's wonderful old
buildings and spectacularly adorned churches and Cathedral. The vast
market square at the centre is densely packed with beautifully appointed
restaurants and cafe's; each presenting food to die for, or rather die
from, waited on by the exceptionally pleasant and willing locals. We
then headed for the former Jewish quarter, or rather the Jewish third. I
was keen to witness where my grandparents had lived and contact a layer
of my roots and Jewish history.
So as to ensure that we didn’t miss a thing we booked a three-hour tour.
We embarrassingly found ourselves on a bright pink golf buggy boldly
advertising sanitary towels with a guide who could only say "Pope" in
English, making our way to our destination through a depressing and
neglected city desperately in need of a makeover. It is obvious that
Krakow is in dire need of huge amounts of European development grants as
well as the repatriation of all the Polish builders currently erecting
conservatories in West Hampstead. I assure you, Krakow’s need is
greater.
The Jewish area is somewhat confusing. I was not terribly sure what I
was looking for in this tacky and crumbling area that attempts and fails
to reinvent itself as Krakow's ´hot trendy´ area. Along with several
hundred other tourists, also in golf buggies, we viewed filthy and
neglected town houses about to collapse and searched for something of
interest. I found myself thinking, “Is that a Jew?” "Is that a Jewish
house?" and before very long joined the rest of the tourists examining
each other hoping to spot something of interest. This was the
Jewalogical gardens and no lions were to be found. At one point we
spotted a group of Israeli tourists furiously photographing a shop so we
hopped off our buggy hoping to discover what the great attraction was.
It was a bagel shop. That’s how deeply one needed to scrape and how
desperate one was to justify traveling through Krakow in a golf buggy.
In the main square, which had apparently been the centre of Jewish life
were more crumbling buildings and other than Rosenburgs restaurant that
had pork chops as the dish of the day there was little evidence of the
areas history. The Rosenburgs were obviously the same Rosenburgs who
were running the local Monastery.
At the flea market we were invited to rummage through a load of junk to
take away as evidence that we had been there and having declined the
offer we scanned a few antique shops where the stock looked suspiciously
like the family heirlooms I never received. I couldn’t help wondering
how this stuff had landed up in the shopkeepers´ hands and indeed how
the present business owners and residents got hold of their property.
We visited a few rather barren decommissioned synagogues, one of which
was operating as a Jewish museum and another functioning synagogue
recently restored and failing dismally to compare to the extravagant
splendours of the city’s churches. My confused and unrealistic
expectations resulted in me feeling flat and unmoved. What had I
expected to see? Moses and burning bushes? Jews walking around with
yellow armbands? Wawrzyfica has a serious identity problem. The marketing is very
specific i.e. Jewish Krakow. However in reality it is early Camden Town
with just the vaguest and most undignified shadow of its former self.
We toured Schindlers’ factory set within a decaying industrial area and
again the marketing got in the way of any 'real' experience. We stared
at an empty and cordoned off courtyard, toured a staircase and
Schindlers’ office containing his chair and desk. What was this; a
memorial or what? It seemed as if people were touring the film set
rather than anything relating to history.
Our last stop was the holocaust memorial. I accept that I am not an
authority on conceptual art and recognise that some may have indeed
found this island in the middle of the main road displaying empty chairs
symbolic and significant. I, however could not work out where the
memorial began and ended. Was the refreshment kiosk and paper stall
integral? Were the rubbish bins also part of this mess? Give me flames
and granite obelisks any time.
The next day we embarked on a very expensive “tour" of Auschwitz and
Birkenhau which consisted of transport and nothing else. The journey
took us through the decaying suburbs of Krakow and into the not too
pretty countryside where the houses had obviously been designed by
architects with urgent need of Prozac and ECT; breeze block built and
oversized corrugated iron roofs painted bright orange.
We guided ourselves through the camp following the informative guide
book and appreciated not being part of a group; this allowing us to make
choices as to how to spend the limited time available. I must own up to
being somewhat anxious about my motivation for being there at all and
feared that I might be unconsciously feeding some kind of masochistic
morbidity, however soon I was able to put these misgivings aside and
immerse myself in the experience.
The museum is well laid out and easy to follow unaided. Essentially one
visits a row of perfectly respectable looking buildings containing
unspeakable horrors supported by interesting photographs and
documentation; Torture rooms, rooms where medical experimentation was
performed, rooms where the inmates slept. Words cannot adequately
describe the hideousness of Auschwich; it must be seen to be believed.
There are some images that will stay with me forever, one being a huge
room filled with children’s shoes and another of artificial limbs all
collected before the gassing and cremation of the owners.
A second row of buildings houses individual European countries
exhibitions and memorials, each beautifully laid out, interesting and
very moving. We ended our tour with a visit to the crematorium which
serves as a most dignified memorial to those who went through this hell.
We then transferred a few kilometers to Birkenhau. Birkenhau is not more
of the same; an entirely different experience. One approaches the
entrance gate and towers via the original rail route and through to the
terminal platform where 'selection´ was carried out; those able to work
marched into the camp and those not, directly to the gas chambers at the
end of the platform. After passing through the gates the sight of the
hundreds of wooden sheds in neat rows housing 500 inmates in each was
probably the most shocking experience of the day. One was totally
overwhelmed by the scale of this death factory, the desolation and
surrealism of this place.
We walked to the end of the railway track where the International
memorial stands above the remains of gas chambers and crematoria and
then back through another section of the camp containing row upon row of
more huge huts containing bunk 'beds' accommodating three people at each
level. We visited a children’s' hut where the very poignant drawing done
by a mother and child is still attached to a wall. Below it some strange
post war lunatic had daubed some Nazi grafiti.
By the time I left the camp I understood why it had been so difficult to
intellectualise the experience as it must be the most primitive
imaginable. I understood that my drive had been simply to witness. The
people who perished there deserved this.
Before we left Auschwitz we popped into the visitors centre restaurant
for a drink. I had noticed that a crowd of Orthodox Jews and Israelis
were sitting on the wall outside in the heat and wondered why they were
not using the air conditioned restaurant. When we were at the counter
ordering I noticed that the menu listed a range of pork and ham dishes
and then understood why the Orthodox Jewish visitors were outside. I
asked the restaurant manager why pork was on the menu; was she aware
that this excluded Jewish visitors? "Yes", she replied, "but I only do
my job; what I am told." This statement sounded very familiar.
Even in the Auschwitz restaurant there are lessons to be learnt.
The Turkish
Barber Shop
The Turkish hairdresser shop is equivalent to the English local pub and
if Eastenders were being filmed here the local 'Kofur’ would certainly
be the Queen Vic. It not only functions in the obvious way but is also
the main arena for exchange of local gossip, political debate,
networking and making social contacts. It is a microcosm of Turkish
society.
The common enemy for both genders is unwanted hair growth, of which
there is abundance and the role of the hairdresser or “Berber” is to
annihilate it or at least tame it. The means to this end differs
enormously for men and women.
The display of unashamed male vanity in the Berber shop is breathtaking.
Men are flattered, pampered and for a few Liras, every Turkish male can
feel like a Sultan. For women on the other hand, the hairdressing
experience amounts to getting to look good for the blokes. It’s ‘suffer
to be beautiful’ and prove that women have fewer needs than men as well
as a higher pain threshold.
I’ve created a bit of a problem for myself through having been to more
than one local Berber. Customer loyalty to the Berber is incredibly
important here and to avoid causing offence I need to regularly visit
all three; so a huge amount of my time is devoted to being in the chair.
My ‘main’ Berber in situated in the middle of the village and is staffed
by Uzgur who is a somewhat depressed and anorectic young man from Izmir.
He is very pretty and somewhat confused about his sexual identity; not
an uncommon issue here. He speaks a teeny bit of English that he has
mastered over the past few months.
A few weeks back Uzgur enquired,”Mr Norman, what is ‘nobody’?”
“Well, Uzgur, ‘nobody’ means ‘no people’"
“Ah…today in shop, no body”
“That’s right Uzgur; well done”
The next day I visited and asked how business had been.
Uzgur proudly and eloquently replied: “Morning one body; afternoon two
bodies”
My visits to the Berber begin with a warm hug, kisses on both cheeks and
a cup of coffee. I’m then steered towards the chair where the shaving
ritual takes place. I am carefully wrapped up in towels and shaved twice
with a cutthroat razor. The hair really has to go! When every trace has
been removed Uzgur brings out the nose hair detector and then the ears
are scrutinised lest one or two have sneaked in overnight.
A glass of water
My sideburns and neck hairs are then trimmed and eyebrows checked for
symmetry.
An apple tea.
Face massage
Cigarette
Water
Air conditioning checked to ensure my comfort
Back massage
Cup of tea
Cigarette
Arm massage
Plate of fruit
Hand massage
Glass of water
Head massage
Plate of food
Coffee
Flattery
Invitation to a barbeque that evening
Bill for £4
The female customers get the ‘Midnight Express’ service.
A fistful of over-processed hair is held up by the hairdresser with a
look of disgust on her face.
“Your hair looks like a camel’s arse…there’s nothing anyone can do with
it…but I will try” (this is a very loose translation)
Lots of cutting, beaching and torturous blow drying follows; the
customer is suitably humiliated and grateful that the hairdresser has
condescended to work on her.
No tea
No cigarette
No massage
No dinner invitation
No fruit.
When the Pamela Anderson transformation has been completed the
hairdresser inspects the moustache.
“Aren’t you ashamed of yourself you lazy bitch….fancy walking around
looking like a donkey’s scrotum”
"Is there anything that can be done?” the customer desperately pleads.
“Hmmmm…. (Straight from the English plumber school)…I don’t know but
I’ll have a go if you promise not to scream too loud”
“Anything….anything!”
With that, a bucket of boiling wax is applied and half the face is
removed.
“Was it a success…..did you manage to do it?”
All the observing customers hold their breath awaiting the outcome.
“Yes you slut….and I bet your crotch is not a pretty sight either. Get
in the back…get your pants down and I’ll get out the lawnmower”
They disappear for a while and emerge; the customer trembling and
grimacing with pain; the hairdresser looking victorious; holding up
enough pubic hair to stuff a mattress.
“Tamam” (It’s all okay) she announces to the whole shop who give the
victim the once over and then nods of approval. The growth has been
beaten.
Bitez is superficially a sophisticated and westernised part of Turkey,
but one doesn’t need to scratch very deeply beneath the surface to
reveal that much has not changed an awful lot over the centuries; in
gender terms at least. I guess though that the more modern position of
women is a bit of an improvement on the version in the countryside. I
have a pal called Mehmet who lives in a traditional village a half hour
drive from Bodrum. He has two mothers; or rather, his father has two
wives. When I met them I thought they were at least his
great-grandmothers with cracked leathery skin and missing teeth. It
turned out that they were younger than me and what I observed was the
result or many years of mothering, tending to the goats and husband,
milking the cows, tilling the earth and cleaning and cooking for a vast
family.
I adore Turkey; but I am, after all, a bloke.
...................................
This is a chapter from “Bodrum Blues”, a collection of short stories and
anecdotes by Norman Mark looking back on his two years living in Turkey.
The book is available for downloading on this site.
Dieting
My late mother enjoyed poor health most of her life, totally ignoring
all medical advice and common sense; but there again, common sense is
not all that common, especially in people who do not want to live a
whole lot. She was a lovely looking woman with a weight problem; well, a
husband problem really, manifested by an insatiable desire for comfort
food and an extraordinary ability to rationalise her more than generous
consumption. Theoretically she should have died many years before the
actual sad event.
My mother was an ‘expert’ dieter and there wasn’t a diet that she hadn’t
researched and tried. She ran an informal diet club at our house most
afternoons attended by several of her similarly overweight friends where
dieting was discussed over copious cups of tea, plates of all-butter
home-made biscuits and great big slabs of cake wrapped in thick icing.
No matter how hard they tried, their diets simply didn’t work.
Apparently Elizabeth Taylor and Richard Burton were entertaining in
their suite at the Dorchester Hotel when she explained to her guests
that her weight problem was due to her ‘metabolism´.
Burton cynically commented:
“Yeah….it’s the metabolism that keeps on calling room service for cheese
cake”
My mother had a similar metabolism problem.
She tried the lot:
• The High Fibre diet (eat an apple after the cake)
• The Beverly Hills diet (eat Beverly Hills dry)
• The Low Carbohydrate diet (combined with the High Carbohydrate diet)
• The Mayo Clinic diet (Mayo was translated to Mayonnaise)
• The Tropical Fruit diet (Slice of Mango on top of the chocolate cake)
• The Every Diet (implement all the above diets at the same time, look
miserable, complain about heredity factors, blame your mother,
ethnicity, whatever)
None worked, so she invented her own regime:
• Eat whatever you want, as long as it is accompanied by Melba toast
• Insert the food straight from the fridge into the mouth without
touching a plate. Porcelain obviously activates the calories.
• Eat other people’s food. Stolen food is calorie free.
• Eat without being observed. This food is also ‘free’ food.
• Eat tomatoes with everything; cake, trifle whatever.
• Don’t enjoy what you eat; it doesn’t count much that way. Just a
short, “I don’t know why I ate that…it wasn’t all that good” will
suffice.
• Eat with other obese people
• Eat with very thin people. Whatever you eat will be transferred to
them by the process of Osmosis.
My mother had some very fine characteristics and qualities, some of
which I inherited, however I also inherited her ‘food problem’, and have
battled with weight most of my life.
I was a chubby child and teenager, but when I landed up in Art School in
the sixties and discovered Purple Hearts I shrank to a somewhat
androgynous Twiggy-like apparition which I maintained until I was
bordering on going bonkers and took up food again. The weight piled on.
I had clearly inherited fat genes and it had nothing to do with me
constantly filling my face.
In the seventies I worked in ‘fashion’ and shame drove me to discover
that if I starved myself I looked vaguely normal. After a couple of
years living on no breakfast, Cole slaw for lunch and a small steak and
orange in the evening I was lovely and elongated again. Never mind that
I looked about three hundred years old and fainted from time to time.
Being able to wear skinny jeans and Cuban heels more than compensated.
In the eighties I decided that Psychiatric Nursing would be less
stressful than hairdressing and ‘lived in’ for three years during the
training. Oh dear; unlimited buffet in the canteen and brilliant
leftovers on the wards; so needless to say I reached ample proportions
before very long and dispensed with the drainpipe jeans and Cuban heels;
graduating to elastic waists and shirts like maternity frocks. It was a
downward spiral and for the next twenty years or so I adopted my
mother’s rationalisation as well as diets as a way of life.
I really enjoyed the ‘colour’ diet.
The diet is very simple and easy to follow. In essence, the basic
principle is that if you match food colours they take on the calorific
value of the corresponding food.
Thus:
• Pistachio ice-cream is equivalent in calories to cabbage;
• Peppermint crisps to cucumbers
• Strawberry cheesecake to red peppers
• Mars Bars to clear beef broth
• Chips to parsnips
•
The diet also has some other very helpful diet tips:
• Eat standing up (thanks Isaac Newton) the gravity forces the food down
bypassing the stomach.
• Broken biscuits and torn bread have no calories as they seep through
the cracks.
• Eating when angry or in love doesn’t count as the emotions neutralise
the calories.
• Tell lot of ‘fat jokes’; after all fat people are happy and happiness
makes you thin.
I kept on going, that is until the day when I went out for lunch with
Anna and Mike. Both are very attractive folk and in good shape. We had
booked a table at a superb restaurant in Brighton, renowned for
inventive and gorgeous food and the occasion was going to be a real
treat.
We examined the menu and I, whilst nibbling on delicious home baked
bread rolls decided to order smoked duck breast with mango parfait and
banana caulis on a bed of rocket followed by Salmon spinach ravioli
‘drizzled’ with some divine sauce, broccoli profiteroles and a little
castle of couscous. Anna and Mike continued pouring over the menu, both
looking very anxious as they discussed the menu in fine detail.
“I fancy the sea bass”
“What about the sauce”
“Without the sauce…..and the mash….and the puree”
And I will have the baked cod….no, it’s with butter…oh dear…maybe they
could steam it….”
Twenty minutes later we ordered our food. Anna ordered first:
“We would both like the sea bass….but grilled….just a bit of lemon….cut
the oil. Please ask the chef to steam some broccoli and a couple of new
potatoes…no butter…that will be fine.”
This was not a joyful meal and after skipping pudding my pals ordered
hot water as a coffee substitute.
After this painful celebratory meal I decided that maybe I would die
much younger than them, but what they were doing would kill me anyway.
Sacrifice has always been more threatening to me than overindulgence.
The occasion reminded me of a joke:
This chap goes along to the doctor to get his test results.
“Have you got my results, doctor?”
“Yes I have and it’s very bad news I’m afraid” he replied, “You have a
terminal illness”
“How long do I have?” the man enquired.
“Two weeks”
“Oh my God! This is terrible! Is there nothing I can do?”
“Yes, there is. Give up alcohol, cigarettes, sex and rich food” the
doctor advised.
“And will I live longer?”
“No….but it will feel like it”
Funnily enough once I gave up dieting and took up exercise, like
emptying the bin and walking to the delicatessen I lost weight.
My mother would be really proud of me and no doubt, if she were alive we
would celebrate over a wicked Cornish pasty.
Learning
to say ‘Thank you’
Some time ago I travelled out to Bodrum with two friends, Kim and Lorna.
Being more than a little precious, pretentious, girlie and ‘anal’, I was
not sure that they would take to Turkey as I had. Bodrum certainly is
not Cannes! We had decided to avoid the ghastly bucket shop food at a
cost of 10 pounds a disgusting throw and bring our own picnic on board.
On the way to the airport I popped into Marks and bought a good range of
Sushi, smoke salmon rolled up things, various prepared salads and the
naughtiest cheesecake. My pals provided some curled up sliced carrots and
half a tub of very oId Hummus. They are, shall we say, a little careful
with their dosh; the type of people who bring out a calculator when
sharing a meal with friends in a restaurant and then not including the
share of the tip.
I thought that they would find it very difficult getting into the banter
with the guys and that they would be regarded by my Turkish pals as
being rather snobbish, mean and stand offish. I therefore groomed them
throughout the flight about some of the cultural characteristics, what
to expect when engaging with people and how to appropriately respond.
About half way through the journey we discussed how easy it was in
countries like Spain and Italy to pick up a little ‘tourist’ language;
‘a coffee with milk’; ‘Good day’; ‘Where is the British Embassy?’,
’Where is the clap clinic?’ and so on. I thought it was important to
make the effort as the local folks do appreciate this. I explained how
difficult it was to learn even the most basic Turkish. It is easy to
read as you pronounce just what is written and there are no hidden
pronunciations like Loughborough, Marylebone etc. In the end we decided
that just mastering ‘thank you’ and ‘please’ would probably be
sufficient for their holiday.
The two quickly memorised ‘Lutfen’ (Please) but just couldn’t get the
hang of ‘Tershikular’ (Thank you). After much practice and still failing
to remember the word when tested, I suggested that they utilise a word
association and offered the word ‘Testicular’ as a good memory prompt
for ‘Tershikular’.
We had several practice runs before landing: “Testicular….Tershikular;
Testicular….Tershikular” and both Kim and Lorna were highly proficient
by the time we landed.
The arrivals hall at Bodrum airport is a bit chaotic, as before one can
pass through passport control one needs to go to a ‘Visa’ desk and
purchase a three month visa for £10. Not all visitors know this and
therefore often spend ages in the passport queue only to be then sent
away to the Visa desk and join the queue there. At the Visa desk they
only accept ten pound notes and will not give change. All this results
in people getting pretty irate and tempers sometimes flare, resulting in
the passport officers being somewhat curt as only these kind of
officials can be.
On this occasion, being better informed, the three of us purchased our
Visas and then went to passport control. Kim and I went through first
and waited on the other side of the barrier for Lorna. When she came
through she was blushing and somewhat flustered. What was the problem?
“Well, she said…. I gave the guy my passport and he checked the visa and
then returned it to me. I said ‘thank you’ in Turkish and he looked at
me as if I was potty; obviously having no idea what I was saying”
“What did you say?” I enquired
“Well….I remembered what you had taught me on the plane and remembered
the word association”
“What did you say Lorna?”
“Thank you in Turkish”, she replied indignantly, “Testosterone”
Some people just don’t get it!
.............................
This is a chapter from “Bodrum Blues”, a collection of short stories and
anecdotes by Norman Mark looking back on his two years living in Turkey.
The book is available for downloading on this site.
Midnight express
Turkish people tend to be kind, warm and incredibly hospitable; that is
with the exception of anyone who is ‘official’ and particularly those
donning a uniform. Unlike the bobby on the beat, I have experienced the
Turkish police and gendarme as being bloody unhelpful and indeed
somewhat scary. This ain’t Dixon of Dock Green! The immigration officers
at the airport are particularly miserable, often curt, and sometimes
outright hostile and are obviously not trained by Emily Post, however I
pass through immigration so often that the ‘guys’ on duty there have got
to know me and we usually exchange a few pleasantries, like “Why you no
wife?”
When entering Turkey, foreigners are required to buy a ‘Visa’ which is
more of an airport tax than a visa and lasts for three months. Those of
us who are not registered residents here are required to get back home
or at least pop over to Greece for the day in order to renew the visa on
our return. This is no big deal as it takes a couple of minutes to buy
the Visa stamp and get it validated by the immigration officers and
costs the grand sum of £10. It’s also a good day out; an hour on the
ferry and a chance to get some decent Kleftico and duty frees on the way
back. On leaving Turkey, once again the date of the Visa stamp is
checked to ensure that you have not overstayed your welcome.
Recently when returning to the UK, I, as usual, presented my passport at
one of the immigration desks and was somewhat taken aback when the
immigration officer looked at me rather accusingly and instructed me to
wait; he needed to check something with his ‘friend’. My blood ran cold.
Crikey had someone planted dope on me and have things improved at all
since ‘Midnight Express’? He seemed to be away for ages and when he
returned he instructed me to follow him. I obeyed and my jelly legs
managed to carry me through to the police room hidden behind the scenes
where a pack of officials were doing their official thing; drinking tea,
watching TV, playing board games within heavy clouds of cigarette smoke.
I was told to sit and my passport was examined in great detail by
several of the police; lots of pointing fingers and loud discussion.
Finally the one with the heavy black moustache and very large tummy
hanging over his gun belt motioned for me to stand up and approach the
desk.
“You stay no legal”
“Sorry? I don’t understand”
“You stay ninety days more”
“I have a visa”
He held up this hand indicating that it might be a good idea if I shut
my face or else get sent to the Iraq border.
“Visa for ninety day. Today ninety one day”
Oh shit! What’s the punishment for overstaying the visa? Beheading? I
think that’s a Saudi thing; Hands chopped off? Maybe we're talking Iran.
Try looking distressed; no effort there and apologise profusely.
“Sir, I am very sorry, I did not know. I made a mistake. I am very very
sorry”
“Hah!” he snapped (Shut the fuck up you English poof going all girly on
me! Typical milky tea drinker who probably can’t down a bottle of Raki
without vomiting all over the camels)
“You get punish!”
Oh my God! What a way to die!
“What punish? I mean, what punishment”
“You pay money”
There is a God!
“How much?”
“You pay one hundred million Lira”
Shit! And then relief that the guy had obviously forgotten that recently
a few noughts had been removed from the currency.
Even a hundred million seemed preferable to potentially having hot coals
shoved up my bottom.
At that moment one of the officers sneezed and without thinking I said:
“Chok Yashah” (Bless you)
Everyone in the room turned around to check if I had indeed said this.
One enquired:
“You speak Turkish!?”
“Chok az” (Very little) I replied rather meekly.
“Chok iyi” (Very good) they chorused.
“You live Turkey?”
“Yes I do. I love turkey. Turkey is the most wonderful country. Best
people and best food; best police”
“How long in Turkey?”
“Not long”
“You speak very good”
“Wonderful language. wonderful people, wonderful culture, wonderful
roads, wonderful prisons. Should be in Europe. Should win Nobel prize;
should win Eurovision”
“You want cigarette my friend?”
“Yes please. Best cigarettes, best cancer; best emphysema”.
“You drink tea?”
Best tea
I was given a cigarette and before very long a glass of very sweet tea
was offered. Fuck the Diabetes…so I’ll go into a coma; that’s fine. I
won’t know what they’re going to do to me and when I come out it will
all be over. I would have been rescued from some off shore island prison
by the SAS and will appear on Newsnight.
“My friend, we must make you pay money”
I would love to pay money, best money; best monkey.
“How much?” (forgetting the hundred million mentioned earlier).
“One hundred but friend price 90 million”
“How much?” I checked.
Obviously thinking that I was bargaining he replied “Okay for you
eighty”
“Eighty is fine. I am very happy to pay eighty”
I took out my wallet; found and handed over two fifty Lira notes.
Lots of discussion took place and eventually my inquisitor said.
“We no small money. You small money?”
“No. Just fifty and fifty”
“Okay my friend you only pay fifty”
Oh that was so kind. I’ve always said that the Turkish police were just
the best.
“When come back?”
Fuck! This doesn’t end.
“I’m not sure”
“You come back. Here my card. We go drink Raki together”
“I would love that. I love drinking Raki and particularly with police”
“Very good. Where house?”
“In town”
“You need electrician man?”
“Now funny you mention that…………..”
Another enquired:
“You need house painter man?”
“How did you know?
“You make phone me” and handed over his card.
Lots of back slapping and shaking of hands and then kisses and hugs and
I was escorted out the room; through the barriers to the departure
lounge where I rushed to the nearest toilet and practiced evacuation
procedures.
...................................
This is a chapter from “Bodrum Blues”, a collection of short stories and
anecdotes by Norman Mark looking back on his two years living in Turkey.
The book is available for downloading on this site.
Opening a Bank Account
The Turkish burocracy is really interesting, complex, and for foreigners
very difficult to comprehend. Getting anything official done, including
getting a telephone installed is a maze of form filling, visits to
offices, questions by officials, signings at the notary office etc. and
were one to follow the system, nothing very much would happen at all. It
is all streamlined however by a parallel system of ‘present’ giving,
which in other countries would be referred to as fraud and corruption!
Here, it's is all part of the colourful and somewhat unpredictable way
of life, without which one simply would not function.
The banks seem to be the only institutions that adopt a more business
like approach; however the banking experience can be very frustrating
indeed. It took me forever to open my first bank account as the system
goes around in circles. You can open a bank account if you have a tax
number, but you can’t get a tax number without a bank account! Somehow I
got over this one as in the end money speaks here and the prospect of
having an English customer led to the bank ‘forgetting’ to fill in some
forms and hasten the usual laborious process.
My experience at my local bank usually involved at least half a day of
queuing so after three years of enduring this I decided to change my
bank to a bank used by a lot of ex pats; known to speak English and
provide a good personal service.
I turned up at the bank without an appointment and asked to open an
account. I was immediately ushered upstairs where I was introduced to
the assistant manager Mahmut, a thirty something year old Rock Hudson
look alike. He stood up to welcome me:
“Mr Norman…welcome” extending his hand.
“Thank you….how did you know I was Norman?”
“When you open account at other bank three year before I did for you”
With that he took out an old diary from his desk drawer and immediately
found the relevant page and showed me his notes. I was gob smacked!
“Sit down…what would you like to drink?”
“A whisky and soda” I joked
He called out to the tea lady,” Get Mister Norman a whisky and soda”
(‘Please’ is reserved for one’s equals or betters)
“No, I was only joking. I would love a glass of water”.
He instructed the tea lady.
“So how are you?” he asked, “and how is your house in Kale Konut? And
how is Mister Bernard?”
“Everything is great thanks very much. I would like to open a bank
account”
“Of course. Where you living now?”
“In Bitez”
He called out to all the staff on the floor,” This is Mr Norman who came
to my other Bank three years ago. He from England and he bought house in
Kale Konut”
“Everyone greeted me, “Hoshgaldiniz”
“Hoshbulduk” I replied, accepting the welcome.
The water arrived.
“You live in house in Bitez?”
“Yes”
“In development?”
“No an independent house”
“Villa…hm…”he was impressed
“How many square meter?”
“Gosh….I don’t know”
“You have swimming pool?”
“Yes”
“Ah….very nice. You would like tea; apple tea; Turkish tea?”
“That would be very nice, thank you.”
He ordered the tea
“So you want to open bank account”
“Yes please”
“Good…no problem. You live alone?”
“Yes”
“You not married?”
“No”
“All alone. Well not quite. I live with my cat”
“Your cat!” He called out” Mr Norman live alone with cat!”
The staff responded approving.
“I also live alone. I four cats”
“That’s nice”
“One day your cat meet my cats and teach them English”
This was then translated into Turkish and was met with much amusement.
“So you want open bank account”
“Yes please"
The glass of tea arrived and Mahmut took out a wad of forms and began
the usual questions.
At some point he enquired, “You want tea, coffee, something?”
“I’ve had enough thank you.”
Brushing aside my refusal he ordered me a coffee.
One water
One tea
One coffee
“So, how much you pay for your house?”
I answered, assuming this was a question on the form.
“How much!” he exclaimed” this must be big house! Hey everyone, Mister
Norman paid X for his house!”
A chorus of questions and comments followed including “How many square
meters?; has it got a swimming pool?; that is a fortune!; this guy much
be rich; this guy must be crazy! etc”
Mahmut told me I was robbed and gave me the business card for his cousin
who is an estate agent.
“Next time you use my cousin…he gets good price”
A colleague approached the desk and handed me a business card,” This my
brother; he estate agent he gets you good price”
One water
One tea
One coffee
Two estate agents
One solicitor
One architect
We continued form filling.
“You want something to eat?”
“No thanks…I’m fine”
“Have something….you want cola?
Without waiting for a reply he ordered the tea lady to get me some
cheese pie (which happened to be hanging around that day) and coke.
“You speak good English Mister Norman”
“Thank you”
“Other English people we no understand too good. We understand you”
He broke off and shouted across the open office loudly in Turkish. A
woman appeared from an inner office and introduced herself as the bank
manager. Before sitting down she snapped at the tea lady who brought
across a glass of apple tea. Mahmut and the Manager continued their
discussion and then asked me if I would give the staff at the bank
English lessons when the season ended.
I agreed to give English lessons
The tea, cheese pie and cola arrived.
One water
One tea
One coffee
Two estate agents
One solicitor
One architect
Cheese pie
Cola
Apple tea
Part time job
The bank manager then invited me to dinner “as special customer” and
asked if I would like a "special customer card" which would give me
entry to all the first class airport lounges and priority boarding for
all flights.
One water
One tea
One coffee
Two estate agents
One solicitor
One architect
Cheese pie
Cola
Apple tea
Part time job
Dinner
Privilege card
The bank manager left and Mahmut continued.
“Mister Norman, you not married you say”
“No”
“Me also not marry”
“I see”
“Mister Norman, maybe you come my house and we drink wine together?”
“That would be very nice Mahmut”
“I telephone you.”
One water
One tea
One coffee
Two estate agents
One solicitor
One architect
Cheese pie
Cola
Apple tea
Part time job
Dinner
Privilege card
Date with Mahmut
On the bus back to Bitez I realised that I hadn’t got a bank account,
but what the hell; this is Turkey and one must get one’s priorities
right.
………………………
This is a chapter from “Bodrum Blues”, a collection of short stories and
anecdotes by Norman Mark looking back on his two years living in Turkey.
The book is available for downloading on this site.
Forget China; for people with disabilities at least, Istanbul may as well be the Forbidden City.
My friend Janet and I booked a two city holiday to Turkey; Istanbul and Bodrum. Janet flew down to meet me and depart from Heathrow. She has MS and requires a wheelchair at times when she is going through a very severe patch and a walking frame the rest of the time and we therefore booked assistance from British Airways and Turkish Air. Both provided an excellent and sensitive service. We booked the hotel in Istanbul with Dial a Flight stipulating that the hotel needed to be suitable for people with disabilities and requested a wheelchair be provided. We were told that the wheelchair could not be guaranteed but that a request would be sent over to the hotel.
After an excellent flight and exceptionally attentive and friendly support at Istanbul Airport we made our way to the hotel where we discovered that we needed to descend about twenty steps to get into reception. The previous disabled guests obviously must have had hovercraft wheelchairs or done Mary Poppins impressions. After a most undignified entrance, me virtually carrying Janet down the staircase, we checked into our rooms and shortly after, attempted to make our way to the dining room only to discover that we needed to climb another twenty steps from where the lift ride ended. Again Janet was deposited in the dining room in a somewhat unceremonious way; resembling a bag of potatoes and experiencing some considerable embarrassment and discomfort.
Having survived the first night relatively intact, the next day we requested the wheelchair in reception and were told that this had not been requested. It was apparently too late to do that now and we needed to just get on with it, utilising taxis for all journeys and Janet attempting to manage with her walking frame.
We managed to get by taxi to Saint Sophia in the centre of the historical area and then to the Grand Bazaar where, in addition to being constantly stared at as well as being asked somewhat precocious questions about Janet’s impairment we did some shopping.
We then headed for the exquisite Blue Mosque where the guardians insisted that Janet, in spite of her obvious needs, remove her shoes and leave her frame outside the Mosque; no amount of explaining would make them budge. Obviously God was expected to provide but I guess that he was busy with other matters that day and Janet therefore needed to be virtually carried throughout the visit leaving both of us feeling pretty exhausted.
The taxi driver back to the hotel ripped us off and by the time we got there had just about enough energy to get down the steep staircase. The thought of later climbing the stairs to the restaurant was just too daunting a task and we settled for me going out to buy a takeaway.
The next day, having skipped breakfast (it was all just too much like hard work), we struggled up the stairs to the street and took a taxi to the Topkapi Museum. We were ripped off again by the taxi driver. The Topkapi Museum also obviously hadn't heard of people with disabilities; the cobble stone paths making access impossible, so we sat outside for a while and eventually decided to give up. We were both exhausted and Janet was feeling dizzy and nauseous from attempting to wheel herself along the impossibly uneven paths. We decided to collect our baggage from the hotel and head for the airport which would be far more comfortable.
Having had a very uncomfortable journey to the airport in a taxi with the driver's hand intermittently resting on my upper thigh, we were again ripped off and to add insult to injury the swine drove off with one of our bags and duty frees still in the boot. Never mind, we were on our way to Bodrum/Bitez and all would be well. And pigs will fly!
The Municipality in Bitez had built a lot of new pavements but had decided to plant palms and shrubs to pretty up the place in the middle of each, resulting in pedestrians being required to walk in the street and pray not to get knocked over by the traffic. In Bodrum there was the odd ramp built at 45 degrees.
The local people were wonderful and could not have been more helpful and we would not have survived without them being prepared to lift Janet’s chair up and down stairs, on and off pavements, into and out of restaurants. All the taxi drivers we used were incredibly helpful. However, much of this experience added to Janet’s humiliation as the kindness was often accompanied by unreserved curiosity and inappropriate sexual comments.
After a few days in Bodrum we both realised that during our entire trip to Turkey we had seen but one wheelchair user in the street and no people using walking frames. Turkish people with disabilities obviously have more sense than us and stayed at home.
I am a Harrods fan; always have been and always will. My parents are Harrods’s fans as were my grandparents. The idea of supporting another shop is unthinkable. We don’t live in Knightsbridge but it doesn’t matter; our hearts and spirits are with Harrods and it doesn’t take very long to get there from Walthamstow. The underground ride is okay and it gives me the opportunity to make a bloody nuisance of myself, especially when a bit pissed on Harrods bubbly and singing:
Here one shops;
Here one shops;
Here one shops.
Here one shops;
Here one shops;
Here one shops….shop.
Here one shops; here one shops; here one shops.
Chorus:
Here one shops
Here one shops etc.
It’s important working up a high colour and red eyes during the chorus; preferably with alcohol laced foam emanating from the mouth.
I just about manage to remember the words and get them out in some sort of order; which is pretty miraculous especially as before I make the pilgrimage to the store I perform a do-it-at-home self-lobotomy to promote compatibility with my chums; Annabelle, Hooray and Henry.
I have friends who shop at Harvey Nichols, Fortnum and Mason’s and some at Selfridges even though it’s definitely second league. We tend to keep off the subject of shopping as once we had a bit of a heated row about which was the best shop and it all ended in tears. Well, actually we resorted to throwing Godiva chocolates at each other and it did make a bit of a mess. The neighbours called in the police who broke it up and gave us all a verbal warning but no one was charged. It probably had to do with us all having consumed an excessive amount of Pimms on empty stomachs; not a canapé in sight.
I don’t actually buy very much from Harrods, but I attend the customers sales preview night each year without fail. I don my Harrods supporters’ colours; green and gold and carry a huge Harrods shopping bag, made in Taiwan for about 2 pence and bought at Harrods for about 325 pounds. Never mind; it all helps support the shop and keeps Mohammed Fayed in disgusting luxury, which is just fine; after all he is the chairman.
Preview night is just super. My fellow Harrodians and I e mail each other and secretly organise meet ups in champagne bars en route so that with safety in numbers we can tease the groups of Harvey Nichols shoppers attempting to gatecrash the preview night. We call out things like:
Who’s a silly sausage then?
Who’s a great big girl’s blouse?
Oh…and who’s bought herself a new hat!
Sometimes the Fortnum mob gets very well organised and makes it onto our patch just outside the entrance to the ever so tasteful Dodi and Diana memorial shrine. At first there usually is a tense stand off but before security gets a chance to separate us, violent insults are exchanged. Like:
Fortnum has a smelly toilet!
Once the comments became so vile, we were all removed to the fragrance department until order was restored.
The thing about Harrods is that it’s so essentially British; has, well had really, the Royal ‘By appointment’. Never mind that the owner is Egyptian and half the staff are foreigners, few having even heard of Knightsbridge before. But I don’t care. One is British and proud of it and a Harrodian forever. Sod it if we’re getting shafted.
There one goes
Thee one goes
There one goes.
The scenario I describe above is, in my view no dafter than the reality of football fanism. Football is a very curious business. Whilst I perfectly understand the attraction of watching a good game (I must own up to getting mildly engaged on the few occasions I have been pressured into watching) I cannot understand what it is that reduces perfectly rational, intelligent and mature people into a somewhat primitive frenzy; losing all insight as well as any notion of dignity.
What is it that makes adults paint their faces, don grossly overpriced team colours and behave like imbeciles in the name of a club that they most likely have never been near? What is it that gets them to pour their hard-earned money into the coffers of filthy-rich club owners and support the vulgar lifestyles of a bunch of acne’d overgrown teenagers with about as much taste as they have intelligence. What stirs up the adrenaline for these ‘stars’ who have time shares on a single brain as if they have each invented penicillin and the computer or had at least won the Nobel peace prize?
My guess is that football provides the illusion of skill, fame and success by association.
“We won!”
“We beat the shit out of them!”
“Here we go….here we go!”
No. ‘We’ did nothing of the kind. What ‘we’ did was go to the off licence; dress up like seven year olds, eat doner kebabs and crisps, drink copious amounts of beer and ultimately vomit all over the toilet floor.
Afterward of course there is the analysis with the boys (and more recently girls; proving that women can be as stupid as men) down the pub where the experts share their wisdom.
“Did you see what that fucking wanker did…he had the ball and then that arse of a Beckham came up from the side?”
Oh dear…………………….
Old in Madelaine
I first visited Madelaine in Portugal in the days when landing at the
local airport was akin to the most extreme Disneyland ride and required
nerves of steel, Valium and half a bottle of Gin. It took at least three
months to travel from there into town and mountain goats were in short
supply. There was virtually nobody under the age of a hundred and the
aerial view of the population was a distinct silver grey. Clubbing ‘till
the early hours was a bizarre notion and a night out was akin to a near
death experience.
What Madelaine did have however, was a welcoming, warm, respectful and
dignified culture and of course a totally dreamy landscape. I vowed that
when I was old and confused enough not to be able to, or indeed bothered
to distinguish between Madelaine, Macedonia and Madagascar I would
retire here. Until such time I would explore more lively hot spots;
which I did. I shook a wicked hip in most European capitols and further
afield; I was young and the world was my oyster.
Roll on twenty years and I woke up one morning in a cold sweat after a
nightmare in which I discovered that I qualified for a Saga holiday.
Even in my conscious state the nightmare continued. I researched and
found out, to my horror that at the age of 55, I did indeed qualify.
What happened to 65!
In an effort to recover from the shock of being offered cheap holiday
insurance for ‘older people’ I retreated into a state of age Denial. I
started shopping at Top Shop, squeezing myself into Licra T shirts and
baseball boots and cap. I avoided Marks and Spencer like the plague and
died my hair blonde, detailed with a silver blue streak. Everything
became “cool” and I bought roller blades which I continued to use even
when the arthritic knee protested, telling me that this was not a
terribly good idea.
The onset of terminal old age was relentless however. I spent 50% of my
time looking for my glasses and another 10% trying to remember what I
had been looking for. I burnt out several kettles and ‘lost’ dozens of
credit cards having forgotten where I had secreted them from potential
burglars. One morning I ventured out to the shops in my slippers and on
countless occasions with my flies undone.
My hearing had deteriorated to the extent that much of my social
intercourse with my peers consisted of “Who?”, “Where?” and “What did
you say?” and a good day out was chatting to other decrepit old things
in the doctor’s surgery whilst waiting for the latest Diabetes, blood
pressure and Cholesterol test results. Oh well, the tablets would sort
it all out; but life was not that simple; each tablet interacted with
the other, accelerating my progressive demise and requiring additional
tablets to counter the side effects of the drugs that had been given for
the side effects of the other drug’s side effects.
The body that had previously had a distinct triangular shape had somehow
turned itself upside down; hair was mysteriously disappearing from my
head at night and found to have been relocated to other most ridiculous
places by the morning. Tweezers were required but my eyesight was so
poor that I needed to get special specs to effectively operate them; and
then of course we get back to the hunting them out saga. The face was
rapidly crumbling and the jowls were getting in the way of buttoned
shirt collars. My waist line had totally disappeared and the veins in my
legs began to resemble the map for the Via Rapido. Not a pretty sight,
but what the heck, I was grateful to be alive; in a fashion.
Sex was largely something that younger people, minor royals and members
of parliament engaged in. So to spice up my remaining years and
rejuvenate my youthfulness I took on a beautiful young lover only to
discover that a good episode of Coronation Street and a slice of
cheesecake was just as exciting. Young lovers are simply no good; they
want to indulge in crazy pursuits like going out and staying out until
at least 9pm when I was ready for my Ovaltine, a good book and bed.
I had lost interest in so many things that had previously been so
important to me and now no longer mattered. Global warming seemed like a
fairly good idea; it would reduce the heating bills. Young people were
not interested in voting; good! War kept them busy and less likely to
hit me over the head and steal my pension when I would eventually need
an electric trolley to get out and about. Identity cards? Who cares? I
was not going to rape, pillage or become a suicide bomber. Problems with
the UK? Bugger off! In short I began becoming more right wing than
Attila the Hun and about as humane as Gengis Khan.
I began to sound just like my own parents making judgemental and
critical comments about anything and everything that challenged my
comfort zone. I moaned and complained about just about anything; scowled
at people in the street. Fancy that woman wearing those ridiculous
shoes; look at those badly behaved children; I bet they are on welfare.
The bus never runs to time and the weather has definitely got worse over
the years; and people no longer speak proper like. I really settled into
grumpy old mode.
Through permanent pursed lips I would deliver utterances about the awful
young people of today who drank so much and misbehaved; how nobody had
respect for themselves and others and how society was becoming more and
more chaotic. Of course there may be some truth in this, however my
chief resource for research was the TV Jeremy Kyle show which I guess
may not be truly representative of modern society; I hope and pray.
One of the most dangerous aspects of growing older was the process of
evaluation. What has this all been about? Who am I? What happens now? To
top it all I re-read a piece by Maupassant; real suicide stuff:
“There is no God. Human thought is a chemical or electrical reaction to
external stimuli, and its purpose is to enable us to survive and
reproduce. Man is a helpless victim of mechanistic forces, an animal
whose instinct draws him unerringly to the lowest denominator:
satisfaction of the appetite for pleasure and power. To disguise the
sordid realities, we have invented comfortable abstractions. Religion
disguises the utter pointlessness of existence, while the idea of
progress masks our inability to change. Love poetizes the horrible
carnality of the procreation process, and Patriotism applies a veneer of
respectability to human cruelty, greed, and aggression. These
abstractions, which we raise to the status of moral and human truths,
are illusions. If there are consolations in life-literature, music,
painting, scientific discovery-they are victories over Nature, which is
the enemy of the spirit. And they are won by an intellectual aristocracy
of artists and thinkers who must be free to pursue truth wherever it
leads. Sentimentality in art merely succours the common illusions, and
the aim of the writer should be to show ‘humanity bleeding’ in ways that
are neither forced nor fantastic but plain and ordinary. More observer
than moralist or preacher, the artist strips life bare and reveals the
human condition for what it is: a ghastly cosmic farce”
I guess Maupassant would not be on the A guest list for dinner parties
but he did reflect at least a teeny bit of what I had been experiencing.
It was definitely time to retire; time to head for somewhere dull and
wait to die.
Where was there where they catered for people like me? I suddenly
remembered Madelaine. It would be just the ticket. I packed loads of
khaki shorts and t shirts, sturdy sandals and walking shoes. That would
be my full wardrobe and nothing else would be required. I humped my
suits, coats, DJ and shoes off to the nearest Oxfam shop, booked a one
way ticket and flew in.
Something major had taken place since my last Madelaine holiday and I
was gob smacked by the changes to what used to be a quaint, little and
relatively undeveloped area. Gosh, the infrastructure was superb. There
were sophisticated restaurants and cafes, tons of new hotels, smart
apartment blocks and glitzy shopping centres. Young people roamed around
with ‘attitude’ and looking as daft as young people anywhere else.
People complained about the traffic and the cost of designer clothes and
the folks hanging around some areas definitely looked as if they had
developed more than a taste for the odd drop of Poncha. Posters
advertised orchestral concerts; the theatre was alive and well and there
was obviously a thriving Architectural and Artistic community. Middle
aged women were surgically rearranging their faces and wearing tops from
which stretch-marked tummies were attempting to escape. Madelaine had
come of age.
Far from the anti-room to the next life that I had expected there was an
energy that I had previously been unaware of. Never mind, I would ignore
all that as I needed to get on with the serious business of planning to
become the very best of grumpy old ex pats.
I needed to research in order to successfully and convincingly adopt the
old and craggy persona I was determined to develop and headed for tea at
Reeves Hotel. It was a grave disappointment to find that there was not
an old person in sight. My fellow guests were young enough to be my
children and far from being old and musty the place had retained a
certain understated elegance combined with 21st century slickness. It
obviously would not serve my research purposes at all. I gave up on this
and then spent endless hours in coffee shops and restaurants observing
the passers-by but was less that inspired by the older people; they just
weren’t decayed or miserable enough to serve as the role models I was
seeking and needed if I was going to succeed in my quest to put myself
in a state of discontented atrophy.
I finally located the grey brigade on my first promenade walk from Praia
Fortura towards town. There they all were….dozens of them; the Brits
clad in light kaki calf length shorts and Croc shoes and the Germans in
socks and sandals; but damn, they all looked revoltingly healthy and
happy. Perhaps my idea of old and spent doesn’t exist and I’ll need to
think of a different way to reinvent myself.
I had a brilliant day today. The weather is miserable and the plumber
didn’t turn up. A bus driver was rude and unhelpful and people pushed
past me at the bus stop. I was virtually ignored by the cashier in the
Supermarket my neighbour did not respond to my “Good morning”. Some kids
were actually enjoying themselves at the pool; going a far as laughing
out aloud and smiling!
There is hope.
Diabetic Cheesecake
Just because you have
Diabetes does not mean that you cannot live a completely normal life.
With a little imagination recipes can be adapted so that you can eat
virtually whatever you want.
Diabetic cheesecake 1
Base:
Crush 5oz all bran and mix with tablespoon of granulated sweetener. (It
will give the shits, but never mind)
Mix with hot water until it forms a paste.
Spread the paste on the bottom of a Pyrex dish and cool
Filling:
Mix large tub of low fat cottage cheese with another spoon of granulated
sweetener until smooth. (more shits)
Dump on bran base and chill for 30 minutes.
Strawberry Topping:
Take a pack of granulated diabetic jelly and with a small elegant spoon
sprinkle on top of the cake.
Chill for 5 minutes
Serving:
Scoop some of the cake onto a cake plate. Decorate with a sprig of mint.
Take 40 Paracetamol with half glass of water.
Die and be grateful it is all over
Diabetic cheesecake recipe 2
Get dressed
Go to Marks and Spencer
Buy 6 portions of Cheesecake
Take it home
Consume in front of the Jeremy Kyle show
Go into a coma
Some years ago I resolved to
spend the rest of my life in single bliss; unconcerned with the
complexities of intimate relationships. At first the experience was
somewhat frustrating, but before very long the mind and body adjusted
and one derived one’s pleasures from such joys as cheesecake and
Coronation Street. That way one doesn’t’ have to put up with moods, “I
told you so”, “You never do (whatever)” and fighting over the duvet.
Life was good in a very lazy kind of way.
As I rapidly head towards my sixtieth birthday and have taken to healthy
eating and loads of exercise, the juices have begun flowing again. By
yesterday I had found myself driven towards examining a dating website
and considering signing up. Having heard of many success stories through
dating websites, even for the older and craggier men with the fuller
figure, I decided that if I wanted to date someone before my funeral I
had better do something about it; and quickly. It had become an
emergency and required urgent action. I guess it’s downhill all the way
now.
The words ‘dirty’ and ‘old’ come to mind; however my research tells me
that there is no accounting for people’s preferences and that different
strokes for different folks is a reality. Some people are genuinely
turned on by hairy ears, disappearing grey hair, wobbly tummies and
varicose veins.
After paying my 60Euro ‘membership’ fee I set out to complete my
profile, an experience that was akin to having a course of ECT without
the anaesthetic or the tea and biscuit after. Ego and Persona and realty
don’t always harmonise. My hidden self bares no resemblance to what the
mirror reflects.
I decided that it might be a bit of a mistake portraying myself in the
way I would like to be (and never was) as it was obvious that whilst I
could build up a bit of a fantasy world based on my ideal self, I would
never be able to actually meet my cyber-admirers. I would be found out,
so I thought that perhaps I ought to go with reality and see what
happened.
Name:
Norman
That one’s straightforward. Oh dear, Norman Wisdom and his ilk keep on
haunting me. Why did my parents burden me with this humiliating name?
Okay I’ll switch my first and surnames. I’ll become Mark Norman. This
wasn’t really a lie, just the truth reassembled a bit. Actually for
security reasons I had better not use my real names so I should choose
something like, ‘Tab’ or ‘Clint’
Age:
Boy this was challenging. I was in Granada recently and when visiting
the Cathedral was asked if I wanted a pensioners concession. I, of
course refused, as indeed I was also planning to refuse a bus pass on my
next birthday, the annual pensioner’s fuel allowance, concession tickets
to the theatre and free prescriptions. There was no way I was going to
write 60 on any form!
28 wasn’t going to be all that convincing, nor indeed was thirty eight
but perhaps forty eight might be okay. I saw a neighbour in my corridor
and led the conversation to that of age. I asked her how old she thought
I was and she replied, “You’re certainly no older than sixty”. That
remark marked the end of me taking in her post ever again. So I decided
on registering the truth of 59. After several trips to the biscuit tin I
lowered the age to 58, later fifty seven and by the time my head hit the
pillow I was 40, well to be honest, 39. That wasn’t really a lie as my
mental age was considerably younger and they hadn’t actually stated
‘physical age’.
Physique:
Shit; this one was tough as the visual is impossible to negotiate. I
gritted my teeth and wrote:
Height:
5’9”
I always believed that I wasn’t really overweight; it was more of a case
of my legs being too short for my weight, so I registered 5’10’, later,
5’11 and finally 6’
Weight:
220 lbs
No way was anyone going to reply, so I went down in units of 2lbs until
I reached a healthier 180lbs. What’s 40lbs between friends! It wasn’t
really cheating, as when I weigh myself simultaneously leaning against a
wall I was not far off.
Other:
No bum
Big tummy
Man tits
This was unbearable! No need to go into this sort of detail, so revision
led to:
Athletic (I do paddle in the local pool weekly)
Muscular (True; underneath the flab and if you dug in deep enough there
are just loads of muscle and sinewy bits
Good pecks (Who ever said pecks had to be hard?)
Interests:
Curry
East Enders
Shortbread biscuits
Jeremy Kyle
Chips
Judge Judy
Cheese straws
Wife Swap
This list, I guessed was not going to do the trick so metamorphosed
into:
Politics
Society
Philosophy
Literature
Classical music
Physics
Ancient Greek
Hmm, maybe not such a good idea, far too pontsy, so I settled for:
Sport (Watching ‘Dancing on Ice’ qualifies, surely?!)
Fashion (I have a new pairs of Crocs)
Clubbing (What I would like to do to those bastards who ripped me off in
Turkey)
Having fun (Fantasising strangling those same bastards)
Travelling (To the Chinese take away)
Occupation:
Retired
That one was easy, or was it? Retired conjures up visions of Saga
holidays, varicose veins, pruning rosebushes, drinking Ovaltine before
bedtime, waiting to die. No way! I’d have to refer to my pre retirement
activities, so drafted:
Mental Health practitioner; trainer in Social Care. That would put
anyone off. I needed something non threatening, something butch and
active like Truck Driver or Builder.
Okay; done:
Profile: Dave
Hi!
I am a thirty nine-year old fashionable truck driver with movie star
looks. I am six feet tall and weigh 180Lbs with an athletic body, pert
bottom, six pack and distinctive pecks. I enjoy working out in the gym,
having fun with my mates and doing the club scene. I love nothing more
than driving across Europe on my Harley Davidson.
I would like to meet someone totally bonkers who would believe this
shit.