Turkey Street, Jack and Liam move to Bodrum

Chapter Five - A Christmas Carol

We breezed past the hoi polloi like minor celebs and fast-tracked into the business class lounge of Bodrum Airport. Liam was less than impressed. It was the last few days of Advent and he was longing for Hark the Herald and a dressed Norwegian spruce straddled by a startled fairy. Our upgrade had come courtesy of Air Miles and our elevation to posh had raised Liam's expectations beyond all reason. The place looked like it had been styled by World of Leather and the much anticipated complimentary fodder turned out to be a narrow selection of local spirits and a bucket of dry croissants. We opted instead for coffee on tap and a two-man white leather pouffe. Liam looked around for a dollop of celebrity. Clare Balding would have done. The funny looking one from Little Mix, even. He took a sip from a chipped porcelain cup and spat it out.

'So this is it. Luxury. Vile coffee and nobody famous. Things can only get better.'

Things got marginally worse on the short hop to Istanbul, a frenetic hour that passed in a flash with a rushed slurp of flat bubbly, microwaved snacks and an assortment of fixed grin waitresses. Still, the brief stopover at Istanbul's Atatürk Airport offered a visual feast of pick 'n' mix travellers, a heady blend of shiny business suits and ethno-religious finery.

Liam fixed his gaze on a troupe of silver-bearded oddballs wrapped in glo-white togas, milling around like extras from The Ten Commandments.

'Oh, Moses, Moses! Why of all men did I fall in love with the prince of fools?'

'That's a question I ask myself every single day of my life, Liam. Cut the biblical shit, you're no Nefrertiri.'

'And you're no Charlton Heston, more's the pity.'

'They're not even Jewish.'

'Look at the beards, look at the sandals. Think plagues of Egypt, think murderous asps.'

'The asp was Cleopatra, Liam.'

'But I am the Pharaoh's daughter and this is my son!'

'Just to be clear, Liam, when we get Christmas out of the way, you're dumped.'

Istanbul's faux Ottoman business lounge was up a notch or two from Bodrum but the leather luxury was more Las Vegas than Topkapı Palace. Disappointingly, the coffee was still vile and the limitless booze still limited. Liam passed the time by constructing a baby Jesus from pieces of cinnamon swirls while I dipped into a selection of international newspapers. The British choice was confined to The Times and the Daily Mail. Clearly, only Middle England travelled Club Class. Once on board, Turkish Airlines pulled out all the stops, delivering us to cattle class seats and disguising the gruel by slopping it into miniature china crockery. Liam took a shine to the toytown cutlery and contemplated sliding it into his man bag. When his spoon failed to puncture the nuked plum sponge and bent in half, he quickly thought better of it. The much vaunted entertainment selection was an obscure disaster movie that may as well have been subtitled Bad Acting on a Runaway Train, Everyone Dies Except Denzel Washington and when everyone started to die except Denzel Washington, we considered pulling the emergency cord.

'Ding Dong Merrily on High,' muttered Liam.

'Oh, come on, we've got the high,' I said, grabbing champagne from a disapproving trolley dolly. 'Let's work on the merry.'

The flight to Heathrow was our last chance to grab time together before the Christmas offensive and we made the most of it. Liam ordered Jägerbombs to accompany the fizz and by the time the Boeing had touched down, we were sated, horizontal and ready for the Queen's Speech.