Hey Fatty Boom Boom

Well it’s official. My 11 days in an all-inclusive paradise has resulted in me being the combined weight of Barry White and Demis Roussos. These guys may have been morbidly obese but at least they could hold a note. The only thing I can hold is several large chicken kebabs simultaneously. I swore an oath to myself that I would not become a stereotypical Englishman abroad at an all-inclusive establishment and eat my bodyweight every half an hour. So much for broken promises, I am eating like a condemned man who has been given the dubious request of having anything he wants for his last meal before being strapped to the Electric Chair and cooked himself. You see these US prison documentaries where the killer – who has normally murdered his whole family and some – always seem to have the same dietary requirements. It’s a variation on burgers, fries, fried chicken, steak, washed down with coke (personally, I would politely ask for a triple rum with the coke considering the circumstances) and an ice-cream dessert. For me the only thing that’s condemned is my waistline. I soon won’t be able to fit into any chair electric or otherwise if I don’t rein in my elephantine appetite. Roll on Friday when I return. It’s Slimfast, Ryvita biscuits and stomach crunches for the rest of the year.

BAYRAM

Last Tuesday was the first day of the Bayram Festival across Turkey, which lasts for nine days. My understanding from the locals is that in this period you sacrifice a lamb and other animals as a gift to the poor and disadvantaged. It’s a form of charity giving. I could not help reflecting on this national celebration whilst watching the England versus Poland match. Roy Hodgson would have been the “sacrificial lamb” for the British press if England did not win and qualify automatically for the 2014 World Cup. Finally, England played to their potential and really did not look in any trouble throughout the match. I thought Hodgson was brave and innovative in his team selections especially the picking of Andros Townsend. I suppose the manager is right to play down English prospects at next year’s tournament. But not me! The side have as much chance of winning the competition as any other European team. You first heard it here folks – England will win the World Cup (most probably beating Brazil 2-1 in the final). I am so confident that I am going to put a monkey on (£500) an England victory. Unlike those poor lambs giving their last rites during the Bayram Festival – my monkey will still be in very rude health with a World Cup winners medal draped around its neck come Sunday 13 July in the iconic and newly built Maracana stadium.

Disco - The End Of A Beautiful Affair

The 17 October 2013 may well go down in the annuals of night clubbing history. It’s the date I have decided to hang up my Jam shoes, put away my tailored-made Egyptian cotton disco shirt and retire my dance moves to the Bournemouth Retirement Home for Disco Dances. Before doing so I am determined have my dance moves (that I like to think have inspired a generation of like-minded clubbers)copyrighted. I don’t want some upstart in 20 years hence purloining my painstakingly choreographed moves (hours practised in front of mum’s mirror) for his or her own benefit. Why you say that specific date. Well to answer your question it is my last full day in Bodrum, Turkey. I think its fitting almost poetic that I dance my final night away on foreign soil as my innovated dance crazies have brought pleasure and enlightened many across the globe. I am returning to the biggest open club in Europe the Halikarnas Nightclub. My first time was less than auspicious. It was there I fell victim to two 50 something ladies from Germany. Hansel and Gretal as I now referred to them, wanted to perform acts on me which a porn actor would decline in the strongest terms. The universal question which has grappled, befuddled and stumped philosophers over a millennium is when are you too old for disco. Similar to sporting icons like Sachin Tendulkar, Maradonna and Muhammad Ali, I may have carried on a few more years than I should of possibly damaging my well-earned legacy in the process. I suppose you have inkling when the Gods of disco signal its time to moonwalk towards the exit, when you are smooching with a gorgeous woman who afterwards introduces you to her mother who is even younger than you are. Thanks Charlotte and mother Debra for showing me a great time. Moreover, it knocks your confidence when the Turkish locals keep referring to you not as Lewis Hamilton but as the Formula One’s dad. Its time to take up other pursuits befitting my age - lawn bowling and croquet should be right up my street.

Turks Love Their Football

My aim last Friday was to watch the England match at 10pm Turkish time and then stroll down Bar Street in Gumbet, dancing the night away in celebration of an England thrashing of Montenegro. I readied myself to venture down Bar Street until I located a suitable Irish theme pub to view the match. There must be an Irish theme pub in every street in every part of the globe. If there was a nuclear holocaust the only thing that would survive would be cockroaches and Irish theme pubs. However, what curtailed my plans was the hotel’s animation team. All were fervent supporters of the Turkish team. They persuaded me that the England match was a forgone conclusion with England easily routing the opposition. The more pulsating affair would be the Turkish match between Estonia. Convinced, I stayed at the hotel hoping they were right. It was not just the animation team, managers, bar staff, front desk receptionists, cooks, waiters, anybody that wasn’t working in those two hours were crammed into the hotel conference suite to watch Turkey’s crucial world cup qualifier. The problem I had was the commentary which was not surprisingly in Turkish. In reality the pictures along with the facial and body contortions, the screams of delight and anguish from the hotel’s employees was enough to give you a good gage if Turkey was doing well or not. The place erupted when the second goal went in to secure a two nil victory for Turkey. A beautiful woman who vaguely resembled actress Sophia Loren was unable to contain her emotions and gave me a big kiss on the cheek. That was the best result of the night for me! The animation team and I celebrated the win feasting on Turkish Delight and Efes (the local beer). I was delighted for my Turkish brethren, which was made even sweeter when I knew that England swept away Montenegro as rightly predicted. Looking forward to watching both teams at next year’s World Cup.

Black Boris Becker of Bodrum

Since the emergence of Scottish wonder Andy Murray I have taken an active interest in tennis. So much so I even paid for private lessons. I now consider myself a player of modest ability. Therefore, I was pleased that the Bodrum resort had a number of tennis courts. Great, I thought. I would bring my racquet with me and play a few friendly games with fellow travellers. No such luck. All the courts were monopolised by German holidaymakers. The Dutch, the English and even the Russians did not have a look-in. I turned up on court, racquet in hand ready to play, but was turned away. It was only the misfortune of a lady who pulled her hamstring that they needed somebody, anybody to substitute for her. I was in the right place at the right time. Thankfully, the German tennis hierarchy were suitably enamoured by my serve and volley technique that I was invited to join their league. For a non-German this was a true honour. It should be noted that these guys who arrived more or less at the same time at the hotel as I, had in that short period set up three leagues of differing ability, with promotion and relegation. They were organised and took their tennis deadly seriously. These Germans had no interest in grabbing the best located sun beds by the main pool or/and beach before anybody else. They were here to play tennis from dusk till dawn. Admittedly, some were able to do both – they were the true multi-taskers. Presently, I am near the top of the third tier of the Tennis Bundesliga (as its known). My aim is to get to the holy grail of the first division. I am reasonably confident of achieving my quest. The reasons for my optimism is that almost all the players are over 55, have had numerous hip replacements between them and one even as an artificial leg (but Hans has more mobility on a tennis court than most people half his age with two legs and he is my main adversary stopping my progress to the top tier). I am fondly referred to as the black Boris Becker. I keep thinking that the only thing we have in common is our penchant for dating beautiful black women. Even that is extremely tenuous; as Boris is a trillion times more successful in that pursuit then I ever was or ever will be. Now I have to come up with a plan in beating Hans. What would be Andy Murray’s strategy in overcoming a 70 year-old one-legged German – I dread to think.

WHY DOES EVERYBODY HATE MUSLIMS?

I was invited by the guest relations manager to dine at one of the hotel’s speciality restaurants. This resort is well-known for its Turkish cuisine. My table was between two couples either side of me. Being in such close proximity it was natural that a conversation would be sparked about our stay in the resort, experiences of travelling and life back in England. One pair were in their mid-forties. They resided in High Wycombe but the man worked in London as a black cab driver whilst his wife was a stay at home mother of four daughters. The other couple were of similar age. Both were born and bred in Yorkshire and proud of it. The guy reminded me of what a typical Yorkshire man would be. Geoff Boycott, Fred Truman, Michael Parkinson and with a few Monty Python sketches on Yorkshire stereotypes thrown in the mix. The evening was going swimmingly – with all the males confessing our love for football and England’s chances of reaching the World Cup next year. For some unknown reason the topic of our conversation turned to religion and the belief that large swathes of England is being taken over by Muslims. This is not forgetting that we were presently in a Muslim country, having our chicken kebabs served by Muslim waiters. The taxi driver spat out that some parts of High Wycombe were being overran by Muslims. His wife added that now it was impossible to see her local GP due to a massive influx of foreigners in the area (mostly Muslims). Her GP was Dr Khan – the irony was lost on her. The Yorkshire man retorted that he had to move away from Bradford after the riots. He felt a foreigner in his own country. Crikey how many times have I heard that expression – more times than I have had hot Muslim curries. Then he propounded about Asian grooming gangs who preyed on vulnerable white girls. He said if that was the reverse whites exploiting Muslim girls there would riots on the streets. The other three nodded in vigorous agreement. I manfully tried to reason with them but not even the combined legal skills of Rumpole, Kavanagh QC and Perry Mason would have of stood much chance. Their minds were closed to any sensible debate or discussion. I left the table with indigestion and a little more pessimism about the future of multiculturalism in the UK. I drowned by sorrows in Baileys or at least the Turkish equivalent of it. Branded drinks are not included in the all-inclusive package. Later that night I ventured into Gumbet and hit the most popular nightspot the X-Club. Amongst the crowd I spotted the Yorkshire couple. They were bumping and grinding with the best of them. Their moves were more ghetto than Yorkshire Dales. I must say they may hate Muslims but they can certainly move their arses up north.

Bodrum - Beautiful By Day, Beastly By Night

Entering my third day in Bodrum, Turkey. Crumbs it feels like I have been here for three months rather than 72 hours. This maybe an indication of how much partying I've done in this short timeframe. For someone who is on the wrong side of forty that's rather good going if I say so myself. Even before my suitcase was delivered to my room I was already carefully planning my first night-time activity in the country. Dinner (it was Turkish theme night naturally), a few mojitos in the hotel bar before catching the bus and the 25 minute journey into Bodrum. Travelling from the airport to my four star resort you instantly recognise that this is a beautiful part of Turkey - the Aegean Coast. You undoubtedly see why millions flock across Europe and beyond to spend time soaking up what this exquisite part of Turkey has to offer. I was hoping the nightlife would leave me similarly awestruck. I was aware that the month of October the tourist season was coming to a close and the nocturnal entertainment would be sparse. Notwithstanding that, my friends told me that there was only one place to go - the infamous Halikarnas nightclub. A massive complex with a capacity of holding 3000 party people. It was Monday night turning into Tuesday morning but the club was reasonably packed with a cosmopolitan crowd. The local beer was expensive at over £3 a pint. After consuming two I was bold and confident enough to make my way smoothly onto the gargantuan dance floor. I was throwing some shapes and contorting my body in the only way that a former 'Soul Boy' from South London could do. As I was getting into my rhythm doing the butterfly, a mainstay of my dance repertoire, I was attracting some attention - unfortunately, the wrong type. My friends and family have always told me that I have an unusual gift of attracting fat middle-aged women with foreign accents. This time it was no different. The two friends from Bavaria were in their early fifties, both divorced and plainly had over indulged in sauerkraut and currywurst. Their broken English was just about audible over the sound of RnB that the DJ was bumping out. They were types who, now free of commitment from needy husbands, would jet off to the Caribbean and pay to have flings with beach boys with big you know what! These Fraulien were devoid of shame - and who would blame them. We chatted, danced - I showed them how to do the 'bump'. They were impressed. Impressed enough to make overtures to me which I politely refused. Has it come to this where I become the meat in a super sized German sandwich. Thanks but no thanks! I headed back to the hotel frustrated that I could not have bumped into Heidi Klum (Seal you lucky bastard) and her best friend Claudia Schiffer. Tucked comfortably in my double bed just before 4am, I reflected on the last 12 hours. Indeed I met two contrasting sides of Bodrum - the beautiful and the beastly.