Istanbul 3. Notes from a bar at Sultanahmet.

The old dog wandered wondering. What was he hoping for as he dodged across the road, avoiding cars, crazy motorcyclists and trams? Perhaps a tasty snack from the waiters at the Barron Ottoman?

They stroked him.

The kebab man cut, folded, served; ignored the old dog.

He came my way though fish was not on his agenda this evening.

So many old dogs; men clinging to the last vestiges of reality. Retirement, see the world; die.

Just then a woman passed carrying a spare arse; buttock enhancement surgery or too many pies?

The delicious gypsy girls also meandered by, beauty with stealth, ready at any moment to rid me of my wealth.

Rumi came by too, telling tales of life in the Tavern. Whoever brought me here must also take me home. Beer flows but nobody wants to eat. Who is this God?

Where is the Old Dog now?

Drinking in this Tavern, searching for his soul. Julie tells me we should all save our souls; I tell her it is a quote for Fairy Hanny in the next adventure on Uranus.

Nobody laughs.

Somebody’s strict daughter ambles by, completely covered, yet I catch a glimpse of Converse on her feet; appropriate reality, the antithesis of western hatred. Headscarf and Hard Rock Café T-shirt.

Who is this God?

Is it Satan?

The Djinn?

She is caught between a hard rock and a place.

Next to mosey on by, Natalia, wearing a head scarf to avoid tempting men with her beautiful blond locks. Tight jeans displaying succulent rump, Desmond Morris explaining courtship rituals; brassiere manufacturers please note.

Too many converse, contrary, opposition party’s.

East meets West.

Cliché meets cliché.

Back comes the woman with the spare arse, rear projecting shelf of gluteal fat. Perhaps the overflowing buggy explains the growth.

Where now Madam?

Acceptance; men like a bit of flesh to hold onto, they don’t really like the skinny birds.

Or the angry birds.

Condescending Englishman, patronising tourists and locals. I am not a tourist, I am visiting friends.

Denial?

It’s a river in Egypt.

I love Kazakhstan

Well I have been living here in Almaty since January and it is a beautiful place.

It has the second best prettiest women in the world – Liverpool Judy’s always win.

But I have to laugh at some of the names I have come across recently.

There are ladies called Karlygash, Nazgul and Nurgul. Plus a young man called Jamshit…

So I have played a little with some of the family names; some of these are real but I invented most of them – great source of names for a comedy writer.

Smugulitova

Rustibeava

Kunysheva

Slopitova

Tchukitbakova

Takalukova

Slopysheva

Shezadeva

Gerimov

They will find themselves in various short stories or novels soon. Alongside the German onanist Helmutt Schmacher…

Istanbul 2. Reflections and an Introduction to Rumi.

I think a hangover makes jet-lag so much easier to bear.

Eventually I arose Monday morning and decided to do the tourist bit, so headed to the City centre in one of the many millions of taxis that constantly patrol the streets.

Don’t get into a taxi and ask for ‘Haggia Sofia’ even though the tourist books call it that. To the locals, and the big new brown tourist signs, it is ‘Ayasofya’. I’m still not sure if they are referring to the actual former Church of Saint Sophia, the Church of ‘Holy Wisdom’; or it is just the area around the church/mosque/museum.

It strikes me that many churches in the UK, especially in Silly Suffolk where I live, have become museums as nobody goes to worship there anymore. I find it quite offensive to be charged to visit the great cathedrals in Britain. After all they were made by the blood, sweat and tears of men striving for the greater glory of God. To me it’s a museum with an entrance fee or it is a church; you can’t have both unless you want to expose the hypocrisy behind the Business of Religion.

Fate took me in on Monday to discover the ‘Museum’ is closed. So time for my own explorations. First thing was to get brunch at the ‘Green café’, a fantastic little outdoor café sheltered by trees. It is just to the west of Saint Sophia; great place to watch the world go by.

From there a walk up to Sultanahmet, along the old Mese way, a route through the City for more than two thousand years. The modern trams and motorcycles clunk along streets pounded by footsteps of Legionnaires, Crusaders and Saracens, mechanically oblivious of the souls of the past. How much blood has run down these streets?

I called into a bookshop, purchased a ‘History of the Middle East’ and ‘Selected Poems of Rumi’ – I was in the home of the Sufi’s so Rumi was a must!

On up the hill, past Churches that are Mosques, Universities, The remains of the Arch of Theodosious, large lumps of marble lying prostrate since AD 740 when the city was shattered by an earthquake; another reminder of our insignificance – who the hell was Theodosious? Will there ever be an Arch erected to honour Swifty?

Forum_Theodosius_Istanbul_March_2008_(1)

On this route I witnessed my first street fight for years. There was a row of taxis touting for business and I am guessing that one of the drivers was trying to queue jump. There were shouts, then pushing and shoving, and then no doubt some of the words were Turkish expletives, then crack, a fabulous right hook. End of fight really. Forget all of the Hollywood screen fights. Trust me if you ever get one solid punch in the face then it is game over; probably with a fractured jaw or cheekbone. I remember breaking my little finger during a bit of free style sparring in a karate session as I caught my opponent a glancing blow to his hip. John Wayne should have been dead in every bar fight!

There was a need to visit the Grand Bazaar again, though I know it is full of tourist tack and overpriced souvenirs. I treated myself initially to the Book Souk as I love the name; plus there is a Philatelist or two buried away in some of the shops. Then through the fake Armani jeans, Tommy Hilfiger Shirts and Burberry Hats. Inside is different as there are some genuine leather shops – but bargaining is the key. Always offer half of the stated price and move on from there; if you feel really confident offer one third of the price!

Back down the hill to a pavement café, doors open onto the street; beers and a seafood dish and a read of Rumi.

Great start; the first poem is called ‘The Tavern: whoever brought me here will have to take me home.”

I know that feeling…

 

Istanbul 1 : Getting Lost and finding Old Friends.

Atatürk Airport 9.30 pm on a Saturday night. Check papers, work your way through customs, throw off the term spent in Kazakhstan. Greeted by an old friend and guided to his Gaff. Meet the charming new partner; fantastic dinner with lovely wine.

But then out in the City by midnight looking for a bar that might be showing some World Cup football. I will call it football as I find the term soccer somewhat condescending from the Septics.

Chris somehow managed to get us home by 4 am, which due to the time difference with Almaty my body considered it was 7 am.

‘Hey Mr. M we’ve been awake for 24 hours again,’ it cried out to me as I collapsed into bed.

By 10 we were up and on the go again. First breakfast, as the hobbits would say, consisted of a cup of black coffee, followed as usual by a triple – S. Then into a taxi to head for second breakfast/brunch at a café down by the docks not too far from the Dolmabahçe Palace, a magnificent symbol of opulence built by the 31st Ottoman Sultan Abdulmecid. By that I mean he built the Palace not the café; though I’m sure even Sultans sometimes wish they could get away from it all and go for a pint with the lads.

‘Alright Sultan how’s it going with all the affairs of state, political intrigues, bribes, battles and beheadings?’

‘Fuck that, just get the ales in will you!’

Unlike the Sultan I was able to sit anonymously within the café and order a breakfast starter – one litre of Efes beer. Chris of course had one too! Then the next part of this splendid breakfast fair comprised two more litres of Efes; then two more; then two more. ..

It was a time for reflection. Last time I had visited Istanbul I was married; I used to say ‘happily married’ but my definition of happiness has moved on a long way over the years.

History.

History oozes from the pores of the City Streets.

Greeks; Romans; Byzantines; Crusaders; Ottomans; Turks; and everyone else in between and before and to come.

Football too, permeates the atmosphere; the new stadium for Besiktas under construction one hundred and eleven years after their formation, adding to the summer dust of this great city.

Sadly when I think of football and Istanbul I think of murder. Two fans from Leeds murdered; two fans from Chelsea stabbed; riots after local Derby matches. For many young Turkish men football is followed with a religious fervour.

Chris and I discussed this as the litres of Efes flowed. For my sins when I am in the UK I go to watch Everton or Ipswich – similar shirts and places where I have lived! COYB! Arriving at either Goodison Park or Portman Road thirty minutes before kick-off the ground will contain a few youngsters with their grandfathers, or increasingly, grandmothers. Then 15 minutes before the start of the game the ground fills and the chanting begins. Not so for football fans in Istanbul. The ground is full hours ahead of the start time, maniacal chanting, threats to the opposition fans, coins being thrown and bright red flares being lighted; I suppose you could call it pre-match entertainment slightly less formal than that organised by the Septics.

Anyway the ‘breakfast’ litres continued to flow as my belly continued to grow!

Sometime in the late afternoon we prepared for the main event of the day. Apparently Chris was going to dinner with members of his department to celebrate the end of the school year. So onto the ferry, not across the Mersey, but across the Bosphorus, to dip a toe into Asian Turkey. I know we went for dinner somewhere and I chatted all night. I remember gorgeous streets, cafes, bars, restaurants and stunning women. Then a ferry back, to eventually fall into bed, jet lagged and pissed.

No idea what time we got home, though I knew I had the good fortune to be able to stay in bed the next morning.

What a great breakfast!

The sayings of DC Jason Beaver

Sadly young Beaver is not the smartest detective at the picnic. He misquotes though I’m not sure if it is deliberate or not…

Water off a Dutch back.

No pockets in a crowd.

Daft as a bush.

You can lead a horse to water but you can’t make him think.

Too many cooks spoil the pudding.

He who laughs last, laughs last.

A stich in time saves mine.

All good things must come to amend.

All that glitters isn’t cold.

If you make your bed you’d better spy on it.

As you so-so shall you weep.

Beauty is only skin diver.

Beauty is in the eye of the cuckolder.

Better the devil you know rather than sorry.

Crime doesn’t play.

Excretion is the better part of valour.

On First encounter with Rumi.

Sitting, watching, pondering, wandering.

Istanbul bookshops and bizarre bazaars; favourite city,

Oozing my childhood testament from every pore,

City battered and beaten and rocked to its core.

“Simon! Simon! Phillip wants your money, pay up or die!”

Armies marching, marching, marching; did you hear that Mr March?

Constantinople; Byzantium; Istanbul.

Three Cities in One, like Jerusalem.

Three in one – there’s an idea.

But there is only one God.

Papal Bulls hit the Templars.

No decrees, though actually Nisi and Absolute.

Two degrees – well done old chap; I’d rather do the three degrees.

I watched as the stray dog described my mood,

Mooching, searching, lost; hoping for any sign of affection.

Affectation – can I borrow you pen?

Highlighting and delighting;

Whoever brought me here will have to take me home!

You moan, “she left me,” “he left me,”

Twenty more will come.

Why do you stay in prison when the door is so wide open?

The waiter serves Fish – ‘I caught it myself’.

More beer.

Drink all your passions and be a disgrace.

Malaysian man comes up short after buying £100 penis enlarger online… but gets sent a £5 magnifying glass with warning ‘Do not use in sunlight’

A vain Malaysian man who ordered a penis enlarger online was stunned when the device was delivered – a magnifying glass!

To add insult to injury the magnifying glass came with an instruction that would at least prevent the man from causing injury to himself.

It read: Do Not Use in Sunlight.

The victim of an elaborate scam, which cost him the equivalent of £100 for a £5 magnifier has been named only as Ong, the chairman of Malaysia’s customer complaints bureau, Mr Seri Michael Chong, told The Star newspaper.

‘As you can imagine, he is feeling rather disgruntled,’ said Mr Chong.

The deflated and embarrassed customer has not come forward to reveal who he ordered the penis enlarger from.

‘The unfortunate gentleman is just one of many who have fallen victims to these kind of misleading scams,’ Mr Chong said.

‘Men and women are equally vulnerable to these scams. Three people lost a total of more than £15,000 to these scams this year alone.’

The man has refused to come forward and name the company he bought the enlarger from. Lawyers say he is unlikely to get his money back due to the dubious nature the business

Online tricksters, he said, lure their victims by selling their products at a low price and very often the items never get to their customers.

Lawyer Alex Kok said that unsatisfied customers who wished to sue online criminals would find it difficult to do so due to the dubious nature of the business.

‘It is especially hard if there is no proof of purchase, such as receipts.

‘We wouldn’t know who to sue or where and how to sue them,’ he told the paper.