A Goose in Turkey

Those half-Asian-half-European women are the hottest in the world, so when a bloke I met in a pub told me about a city that’s half in Asia, half in Europe, I knew I had to go there. Next thing I know, I’m in Istanbul, Turkey, marvelling at what is a bloody great city. The sprawling metropolis is divided between the two continents, and as a result the clash of cultures and ethnicities is truly dizzying (or maybe that was just the dozens of kebabs I’ve eaten over the past few days).

Istanbul is a bloody big place, with more than 15 million inhabitants (making it almost twice the size of Wyong), so there’s something interesting to see around every corner. The most popular tourist sites are in the Sultanahmet district, and include the Blue Mosque, Basilica Cistern and this really hot chick called Fatima who dispenses handies behind the local kebab shop. They’re spectacular and worth going to, but a word of warning – the Turks don’t allow alcohol inside the mosques and enforce a strict dress code. I had to guzzle my can of Efes and cover up my Bintang singlet and ripped Stubbies before going inside.

The mosques stand regally beside the Bosporus, which is the dividing line between the continents and where the locals go to swim on hot days. From the look of the water I reckon it’d be more sanitary to go down on Candice Falzon, but chubby little Turkish blokes don’t mind diving in. It was a bit of a freak show, and I saw some doodles flapping around in the breeze that would scare Elton John straight. There were no hot babes in bikinis swanning around, though, so I didn’t waste too much time hanging with the boys by the water.

If you’ve ever wondered what it feels like to be a slice of meat crammed into a doner kebab, head along to the Grand Bazaar market. It’s the best place for pirate DVDs, snazzy suits, and Turkish confectionary that will rot your teeth out, but it’s also the most overcrowded market on the planet. The crowd doesn’t walk down the narrow alleys, it swarms, and there’s little choice but to push grannies and children out of the way as you flow along. After that, I wouldn’t be surprised if I’m pregnant. Ahmet, call me!

Istanbul’s wild mixture of influences means there’s some areas that look like they’re straight out of Paris one of the non-shit Euro capitals, with delightful coffee shops and up-market restaurants. There are also parts that are third-world shitholes, with a surprising amount of people walking around without their full compliment of limbs. I even saw one poor bastard without nose! He was standing there by the Galata Köprüsü, drinking can of Coke, trying to look cool, with a gaping hole in the front of his face. How did he smell? Terrible!

If the sight of blokes with missing body parts doesn’t put you off your food, you’re in for a treat. The Turks love their tucker, so there’s shitloads of restaurants and they’re all cheap and good quality. A couple of dollars gets you a plate piled high with chicken, beef, rice and salad, with an icy cold can of Coke to wash it down (because they don’t sell beer in most restaurants for some dumb reason). Heart attacks, obesity and not being able to fit through doorways seem like minor inconveniences when eating your way through Istanbul.

As for the women, the divide is as big as anything else in this city. Around 15 per cent of them are beautiful and slim and dressed nicely, whilst the remaining 85 per cent are older than time itself, seem to have subsisted on kebabs and lard, and wear bags on their heads. I’m all for ending the oppression of women, but I have no desire for them to come out from under the burkhas.

A long day on Istanbul’s busy streets caused me to really work up a thirst, so I hit the bars around Taksim. There are plenty of them, they’re cheap, and the beer’s cold enough to freeze a platypus’s lips. I was enjoying my fifth schooner of Tuborg and watching the rain tumble down when a tubby, sweaty bloke sat next to me and wrapped his flabby arm around me. He smelled like he’d eaten a bad kebab the night before and not changed his shorts since.

“I came halfway round the world to get away from you pricks,” he slurred in a thick Kiwi accent. “Nah nah, jus’ kiddin’, I love youse Aussies. Well, at least when youse ain’t fuckin’ wombats! The name’s Derryn, but you can call me Derryn the Dude.”

And that’s how I met Derryn the Dickhead.

Derryn hung around like bad case of herpes. He kept trying to kiss the barmaids, and every time one of them walked past he slipped his cock out of his shorts to show them. Luckily, it was too small and shrivelled for them to notice.

I used every excuse in the book to get rid of him. I told him I had an early flight, my dog needed walking, and faked a heart attack, but he wouldn’t leave me alone. I even told him Split Enz are a pack of poofs and Sam Neill couldn’t act his way out of a paper bag, and he just giggled and ordered another round of beers. When I finally cracked the shits and walked out, Derryn the Dickhead was right behind me, with his ballsack hanging out the bottom of his shorts.

I was lurching through the bustling streets, trying to lose the Kiwi cockhead, when a big-titted Turkish woman leant out a window and tapped me on the shoulder.

“Güzel bir türk kadını becermek ister misin?” she asked, and I felt like I was getting sunburn from her breath. After seeing my confused face, she asked again. “Do you want to fuck a beautiful Turkish woman?”

I was about to say thanks, but no thanks for the kind offer, when a familiar arm draped around my neck. Derryn looked at the prostitute with love in his eyes, rifled around in his pockets for a handful of Lira, then held them up to the woman. Her moustache twitched when she saw the paltry number of coins.

“How much sex can I get for this?” Derryn asked.

“About two inches,” huffed the hooker.

“Alright, baby,” Derryn cheered as he swaggered in the brothel. “Can I get change?”

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