Fair! ...Enough!

Every year, Izmir hosts the oldest tradeshow in Turkey. Known simply as Izmir International Fair, its venue is the Kulturpark in the heart of the city. Running for a week from morning until way passed midnight, it swarms with locals as well as out of towners. This year, I decided to head down to see what all the fuss is about.

The first thing you notice is how incredibly busy it is. This is obviously a massive event in the Izmir calendar and people from all walks of life turn out to pay their 2TL to be a part of it.

The exhibitors range from TV channels to car manufacturers to olive oil wholesalers. Dolly birds trip around showing off mopeds to young couples, while slick businessmen eat waffles and ponder audio visual equipment.

After a walk through the trade section, we made a dash for the 'World Food' area. At first glance, it appeared a misnomer as the food stalls were divided into the famous cities of Turkey. There was food from Mersin, Gaziantep and even Aydin. I thought the world was bigger than this.

On closer inspection, however, I found Romanian, Bulgarian, Mexican, Italian and Chinese stands. Tucking into my Chinese noodles and fajitas, I started to get into the swing of the blaring music while food sellers danced waving paper napkins. 

After a few stuffed mussels, my friends convinced me to make the next stop the amusement park.

As a child I would visit Hampton Court fair with my friends every Bank Holiday. But, being a complete coward, I would always be the one holding the coats for my friends as they crammed themselves into gypsy-powered waltzers.

It wasn't until a 4-day motivational seminar that I had enough fire in my belly to try a rollercoaster for the first time. I headed to Euro Disney with some friends and boarded the scariest ride on offer. Despite screaming like a resident of Brokeback Mountain, this then paved the way for me to climb Kilimanjaro and, ultimately, sky-diving over Las Vegas. Nothing, however, had prepared me for the Izmir funfair.

This was where the action really was. I stood in awe as I watched scarved families barge their way through the crowds to fulfil the death wishes of their offspring. The greased pikeys who'd been lapdancing foreign pensioners in the tourist towns only days before were finally letting off steam on some of the most horrifying rides I'd ever laid my eyes on.

A friend pointed out a truth I'd been unable to admit to myself. "When you look at those responsible for your safety and the way the machinery rattles and rocks, the excitement is a very real sense that you may be propelled, waltzer and all, into a pomegranate tree."

Before long I was strapped into a ride and back to my camp YeeHawwing. Not satisfied, we got in line for the Magic Carpet ride. I watched the controller with a psychotic intensity as he pressed one button then the next, stopping only to take puffs on his cigarette.

We boarded and pulled the metal bar down over our laps. Soon we were off, swinging back and then forth. As my 95 kilo frame was ridiculed by the immense contraption as it jarred us higher and higher. A glance to my friends confirmed that we were all now in a state of silent terror. Gone were the smiles and the woops. We were now all clinging on for dear life and waiting for the ride to end.

Desperately trying to find something to anchor my obese frame, I lodged my shins under a metal bar. Though excruciatingly painful, it did offer a vague hint of security. The bruising on my lower extremities, however, is still a reminder of just how scared and desperate I was.

With all the poise and grace of four Parkinson's victims, we slowly trembled over to the Big Wheel to round off our evening with spectacular views over Turkey's 3rd largest city.

Yes, that's right. Forget the chocolate cigarettes of Hampton Court, this is Hoop-la for real packs of Marlboro Reds. I love Turkish funfairs.

Clever dick!

I think I'll try and get down there again before it ends for another year.

Izmir International Fair ...recommended!

Four Weddings and a Divorce

Yeah, I know. I've been away a while. I'm sorry.

Summer came and went (well, going ...slowly). It was a busy one as it is every year. It's strange that when you live in a holiday destination, you never really get to have a holiday. When I was living in the UK, I worked all year for my two weeks in the sun and went I went on holiday, I holidayed.

These days, I seem to spend my time pottering around the house, avoiding the blazing heat outside the front door. I've put up shelves and pictures and spring cleaned my brains out in preparation for the new school year. At last, it seems, I've buffed the flat as much as I can.

In late July, I took a trip to Poland with my great mate from the UK and topped up my bacon reserves.

A couple of weeks later, I flew home to the UK for ma's birthday. Notice I'm using the word 'home' again in reference to England. It's a little hard to explain, but I'll give it a try.

Perhaps I needed time away, but my relationship with the UK changed considerably on my return this time. It was a stroll along the tree-lined banks of the Thames in my hometown of Kingston, when I realised just how beautiful the country is.

When you live in another country, you're forever reliant on other people. Especially when your grasp of the language isn't that great. Always asking for help with this and that slowly but surely bears down on you and creates an ever so slight feeling of confinement.

Turkey is a country where men, generally, make the decisions in a relationship. I'm talking about the day to day stuff; "which restaurant shall we go to?", "what film shall we watch?". Since moving to Turkey, I'd given up a lot of these decisions to the natives but on returning to the UK, I felt knowledgeable, decisive and confident again.

I'm probably coming across as a control freak but, believe me, I'm quite the opposite. It's just a little thing I noticed. A little thing that actually seeps deep into your sense of self-worth.

I feel I've forgiven the UK for whatever sins made me flee. I'm seeing it again with new eyes and appreciating what a fabulous place it is.

However, here's the gripe. Here are a list of things that still get on my tits about the UK:

1. Too many rules! The UK has gone regulation crazy since my departure. And what's worse, is that everybody seems to be policing these rules with ferocity. One of the things that's so infuriating and yet, is the charm of Turkey, is the lack of rules. You drive how you want, you sit where you want, you picnic where you want (I saw a family having a picnic on the grassy central reservation of a three-lane highway the other day. Surely there are better spots but who gives a shit?).

Notice the no-smoking sign. Why can't I smoke in this open air phone box? It has no door. My departure from the booth would cause enough air circulation to completely clear any residual fumes. I can guarantee, that should I spark up, someone would tap on the window and gesticulate for me to stub it out.

On a shopping trip one day, I was walking through an open precinct enjoying a smoke when a man in pseudo-police uniform came running over to me to point out, rather officiously, that I was in breach of the no-smoking law of the precinct (as there was a roof over a small section of the walkway). It was clear that this was his sole responsibility.

His speech meant that I had taken twice as long to pass through his pissy poundland ridden precinct and expelled twice as much carbon dioxide.

I said, in an overly nice way "oh I'm so sorry, where can I put this out?". To which he pointed to a drain. So litter control is not in his remit then. Cock.

2. The weather. It's still mental. Having to leave the house with sunglasses and an umbrella fucks me up.

3. Chavs. I hate pretty much everything about them. And I especially hate the fact that their influence is spreading into general society. From crocs to that slack jaw way of talking. Groups of middle-class white kids speaking in pseudo-patois, really gets my goat.

4. Heathrow Duty-Free closing at 10pm. Are you fucking kidding? It was like Supermarket Sweep trying to buy some aftershave. Having to beg a bloke at the door of Dixons to allow me 2 minutes to buy a netbook is something I've grown unaccustomed to. The Turks have the right idea; if you're thinking about spending money, you're always welcome. Anyway, I thought once we've passed through customs, we're in a no-mans land where time stood still? Not in England, clearly.

I know I'll think of more, but I better leave it there as the red mist is starting to descend.

In between trips to colder climes, I've mainly been attending weddings. The subject of weddings is on my to-write list, along with why poor Turkish people always where suits and why one turkish sport has a massive gay following in the West.

Oh, something I forgot to mention...

I bought the tickets for our flights to the UK through the Turkish Airlines website. BE VERY CAREFUL! In the small print, I hadn't realised that our flights were to be with a subsidiary carrier called Anadolu Jet. On realisation, I figured they couldn't be that bad considering Turkish Airlines had put their name to them. Wrong.

Turkish Airlines have really sorted themselves out over the years and I would even take them as preference over BA these days. The staff are friendly (usually), the food is superb (you even get a little menu to choose from), booze is free-pour and free, the planes are new... everything is lovely.

Anadolu Jet are a budget airline. OK, fine. I've flown budget before. EasyJet are great if you play by the rules; get to the airport early, bring your own food etc. Anadolu Jet, are sub-budget.

When the food arrived, we got a small roll (I mean small, see the pic), some water and a toddler's handful of pasta. I asked for a whisky, I was told they only had tea, coffee or orange juice.

My girlfriend reclined her chair and the right side of my chair went with it. This meant, we were pretty much spooning for the rest of the journey. Thank god the bloke on my left didn't fancy a snooze.

I guess I would have seen the warning signs if I'd compared the Turkish Airlines ads with those of Anadolu Jet...

How Turkish Airlines is supposed to make you feel.

How Anadolu Jet actually makes you feel.

You'll be glad to know I managed to get us back onto Turkish Airlines for the return trip. Not through conventional channels, of course. Despite emails and calls to Turkey, it took all the strings I could pull to get us back on a decent airline. Believe me, without a connection fairly high-up in Turkish Airlines, it would not have been possible. This, unfortunately, is just the way things go in Turkey (even if you're in England).

Right, I better get on with that article about the homo-erotic sport. I kiss you!

Pedicuriosity

To celebrate the end of the school year, I thought I'd treat my tired feet to a well-earned pedicure. You wont believe it, looking at my immaculately groomed appearance, but I've never actually gone in for any kind of foot treatment before.

Pedicures and manicures are something that Turkish women have almost weekly and I vividly remember women visiting the home of my aunties to sharpen their talons. So I called upon the advice of my girlfriend to set me up with her beautician.

From the outset, it was clear that this wasn't really the norm for a Turkish man and that any nail work would have to be given under the cloak of darkness. The local salon is patronised by covered masses of religious women. A place where they can throw off their scarves and get a 2 hour perm, just so that it can be covered back up again before returning to the outside world.

"When a woman with a scarf has her hair done, we pull down the blinds so that no one can see" said Hulya (the woman I'll now refer to as 'my pedicurist').

The only way I was going to get my heels shaved was either for her to visit me or for me to visit her after hours.

A time and location were set and we headed off for the rendezvous.

Hulya welcomed us warmly and we sat and gossiped for half an hour or so (well actually, I just sat and listened and hoped my feet didn't smell while the girls chewed the fat - probably best to rephrase that).

Rising from her seat, Hulya stated it was time to get my feet into some water. Promptly she arrived with a bucket of warm water and I soaked my little piggies while the gossip continued.

I think we're going to need a bigger bucket.

After a while she sat in front of me and invited my foot onto her lap.

The etiquette with a Turkish pedicure is that you bring your own weapons of torture. This may well be the case internationally but being a pedi-virgin, I will run the risk of stating the obvious.

I'd complained of a painful big toe and before I'd finished my sentence she confirmed "oh yes, it's cutting in here". With that she snapped away with her (or rather, my) nail scissors. Hacking into anything that could cause an obstruction.

Taking a sharp, flat, metal thing, she then proceeded to gouge into the 'meat'. Cleaning and scraping while I winced and gibbered about women's pain thresholds.

There was blood, some tears and some plums! Yes, she brought me a plate of fruit. It helped!

All that's missing is the semi-nude harem lowering the strawberries into my mouth and this fantasy is complete.

I think the weirdest part for me was when she started cutting my toenails. It's always been such a private thing. Even the sound of nail cutting creates a similar response to the sound of someone emptying their nostrils. But why should this be? It's not exactly a taboo region of the body.

For whatever reason, I felt mildly embarassed during this stage of the proceedure.

Next came the tickling. I giggled like a girl (though girls are probably immune to it) while she shaved me feet with some kind of abbrasive bastard stick.

Then came a moment of pain swiftly followed by intense pleasure. The pain was the arrival of the omnipresent lemon cologne poured over the open wounds but before I could reel off some choice profanities, she had begun a cream foot massage that left me cross-eyed.

When I'd come to my senses, she uttered the words "sihhatler olsun" (a wish of health blessed upon the newly groomed - after a shower, haircut, shave, pedicure, armpit trim, Hollywood wax). We dragged ourselves into the kitchen and ate sunflower seeds, watermelon and smoked cigarettes until the early hours when we decided to let poor Hulya try to forget about the ordeal she'd suffered and get some rest.

What was the price of this intense pampering? Despite my pushing, she refused to accept payment. It was her first time treating a man and she made up all kinds of reasons for not accepting money. I hope she enjoys the tray of baklava I'll send her tomorrow when my girlfriend goes for her weekly visit.

Hulya is a lovely lady and clearly very good at her job. If you're in the Hatay area of Izmir and fancy a pedicure, drop me a line and I'll give you the details. Please though, ladies only. I don't want anyone getting the wrong idea.

Right, I'm off to take pictures of my feet for my Facebook profile.

Another brand that wont get a UK franchise

I was sitting having a tea in a patisserie in Selcuk the other day when I noticed its name.

"Bum Bakers" ...I refuse to grow up!

And to prove it, here's a song.

Camel Cock

I regret the words I spoke last night to my friends in Ankara. "Oh Turkish buses are the best in the world. They make up for the trains. If only England blah blah blah..."

These words were uttered just minutes before boarding a Kamil Koc service from Ankara to Izmir. It was going to be my second experience (counting the trip out there on Friday) of a long-haul bus ride.

So why the regret? Let's start at the beginning...

Some friends were getting married in the Nation's Capital and we needed a way to travel the 579km. I'd driven before but I no longer have a car and, if I did, I fancied a more relaxing means of transportation.

The planes were expensive because we were booking late. So ruling out trains (which are never considered anyway) the only other option was the bus.

Unlike the UK, 8 hours on a bus isn't a big deal to Turks. Izmir to Istanbul or Ankara is a perfectly acceptable alternative.

We headed down to the Kamil Koc ticket office here in Hatay and spoke to the young chap behind the desk. He made me wary from the outset by talking about how "everyone will tell you that Kamil Koc is the best". So why do you need to tell me?

"Oh you're better off coming back at 1am and you'll arrive 10! Lovely!"

Fuck you, that's the middle of the day as far as the thermometre is concerned and I'd rather be safely at home by then. I know your game, mate. You want me to get on the shit-mobile because you can't sell those ungodly tickets. The 10pm bus is going to get people in to work on time and is a breeze to sell. Shove it, I want the 10pm.

"These are techno-seats! There's a TV with lots of different films. USB slots for your movie-filled flash disks. So much leg room, you can do your morning pilates..."

Oooooo USB. Now you've got my attention!

"Coming back, I'm going to give you the best seats on the bus. These two at the back, recline like a bitch and you'll not be disturbed by anyone. You'll sleep like babies until you reach Izmir."

Oooooo USB! OK just give me the tickets!

Boarding the bus to Ankara, we were sat just in front of the middle stair well. Not bad at all. The leg room wasn't amazing. The USB port was... well you know when you buy the cheaper model of something and they annoyingly use the same template for all so you can see where all the better functions should sit but they're blocked off? That was the USB port. Blocked off.

I did the British thing and kept quiet and tried to doze off. Not a chance. I don't sleep on vehicles unfortunately. My girlfriend, however, could sleep on a bike so I watched her instead.

After 4 hours, we arrived at Afyon; the home of sucuk (Turkish garlic sausage) and marijuana. We had a glass of tea and got back on the bus. We arrived, we went to the wedding. Lovely.

Coming back was a different matter. There was a bomb scare at Ankara bus station which meant nothing more than people were running around like headless chickens.

We made our bus with no time to spare and climbed on board. The time is 10pm. The World Cup Final started at 9:30pm. Now, I'm not a football fan but I do like the World Cup and I was hoping to fucking watch it on the bus!

"No signal" came a message on my screen. I called the teenager who serves tea and asked what was going on.

"No football, sorry" I nearly threw my undrinkably hot Nescafe over him.

Then a nudge from my girlfriend and she points to the screen. Game on! We've got signal and we've got a final and we've got ...half time. Bollocks. Oh well, at least we've got something.

Spain wins. Hurrah! That'll teach Robben to run around crying about every little knock.

Time for a doze but ...wait ...it's really hot in here! My legs are burning. There is also a strong smell of burning.

We call the spotty bastard back. "What's going on, why is it so hot?"

"Well, you're sitting on the engine." came his patronisingly obvious reply.

"But they told us these were the most comfortable seats on the bus!"

"Nooooo, you'll never be comfortable at the back". Duh!

Oh jesus no! You mean, I've got 7 more hours of this hamam?

The USB didn't work again. The stupid tart in front of me kept her seat reclined so the table was at a slant, making it necessary to hold my red hot Nescafe with tears in my eyes. My TV was the only one that I could see that was not getting a clear signal. And our seats didn't fully recline.

By the time we reached our half-way break, I had taken off my shoes and socks, rolled my trousers up to my knees and lifted my t-shirt into a crop-top yet the sweat was still pouring off me.

My shoes had almost melted, the packed lunch we'd brought most certainly had. The tepid fart coming out of the aircon could not be directed usefully. All this combined with a lack of sleep, didn't make for a pleasant journey.

By 6am, we were in Izmir Bus Station looking for the service bus home. "We're not going where you want because of road works". But you picked me up from there didn't you? "You'll have to get on this one and make your own way from there". Anything else your company wants to do to us today?

We struggle on with our luggage and sit down and wait a long 15 minutes for the smelly, sweaty transit van to cough into life. "Just so there's no mistakes, this bus is going to Bornova". Mistake!!!!

The git had put us on the wrong bus. "Oh you want the service bus  just pulling out there". STOP THAT BUS!

Throwing our bags out of one and onto another, whilst ignoring the tuts from idiots, we were finally going home.

We get off at the last stop and hail a cab. "We're going to Hatay". We say exhausted but relieved.

"Where's that then?" Are you serious? Oh god, this is never-ending.

"It's back over there!" I say frustrated. He then proceeds to reverse us into a ridiculously busy roundabout. Only milimetres away from a fatal collision with a local bus, he decides that reversing is too dangerous and opts for driving forwards ...the wrong way round the roundabout.

Here I am, finally. Sleepless and furious. I'm writing this publicly to spread the word that, based on this one experience, Kamil Koc are a shower of shit and should be avoided at all costs. They are rude, useless, ignorant, have no desire to please the customer, lie to get custom, leave their passengers stranded and are generally an enormous pile of shit.

If I can be bothered to ever take a bus again, I'll try someone else. Any recommendations welcome.

Thank you for reading and remember:

Seker Bayram

I've just had a visit from Bayram Bey - a man with a yellow canister strapped to his back. He smiles a lot and sweats even more and, for the price of a glass of coke, he fucked the nervous system of every creepy crawly in my apartment. He's my new best friend and I'm looking to add him on Facebook.

This dude knows his cockroach from a hole in the ground and gave me a brief insight into the life cycle and purpose of various things that scuttle in the night. Here's the scoop people!

1. Cockroaches like humid places with water that doesn't move much. Washing machine outlet pipes are popular, for example. Block such pipes with a plastic bag, it'll both stop the smell and close the door to cockroaches.

The cockroaches that are causing me bother are the "American Cockroach". They come, wander around the bathroom, realise they can't live there, die then startle me to the extreme of squealing like a pre-teen. Twats.

The kind that wait until I'm asleep before eating my biscuits are known as the "German Cockroach"...

2. The 'Kalorifer Bocegi' (literally 'central-heating bug') or 'German Cockroach' are smaller and, though not as prolapse-inducingly scary as the American variety, are apparently more to be worried about. Big black cockroaches can't live in your house and prefer to lie back and wait for the bright light. The Germans wait until you're asleep and lay their eggs (and their beach towels) on everything you own. They're quite happy in your kitchen so you need to go for their nervous system.

One problem with these buggers, is that when you kill them, they expel their eggs. 15 days later, the eggs hatch and that same poison wont effect them. A shoe, however, will.

3. I've always thought of cockroaches as useless creatures whose only function appeared to be to keep me regular. Bayram Bey, however, put me straight... "The sewage pipes in Izmir would get blocked were it not for rats and cockroaches scuttling through the shit and keeping it moving". Nice work guys! I have trouble believing that their sole purpose on this earth is to clear our pipes.

For the time being, however, my house appears to be cockroach free. Bayram Bey, I love you and your yellow canister of joy.

Honest packaging

You remember when Dove ran that campaign of 'real women' with 'real bodies'? Yeah, I know, they weren't really 'real' were they? They had no varicose veins or eye bogies.

Well I was looking for some pants to ease the chaffing of obesity when I stumbled across this vest. This is the antithesis of aspirational marketing. Do-Re-Mi Vests, I salute you.