Clement’s Köy Erection

Clement popped a bottle of sparkling rosé and filled three long- stemmed fluted crystal glasses lined up in a neat row on an sterling silver salver.
I raised my glass. “I take it we’re celebrating?”
“We are rather. I’ve some very exciting news and I’m simply dying to tell you.”
Liam was nervous. “So, what are we drinking to, exactly?”
“I’m moving.” Liam’s eyes lit up.
“I’ve found this simply idyllic place.”
“In Yalıkavak?” I asked.
“In the hills above Selçuk.”
“Selçuk?”
“It’s a completely authentic Turkish village, Jack. Simply divine.”
“A Turkish village? A köy? The genuine article? Are you mad?”
Clement was ‘emotionally and spiritually drawn’ to the ‘real’ Turkey. He wanted to live alongside the ‘simple folk’. He wanted majestic, time-honoured traditions and strong family values. He wanted the Turkey where women worked the fields, men drank tea and boys practiced adultery. He was tired of suburbia and the “ghastly, tiny-minded little people that populated it.” So, Clement would become an emiköy, one of those rare hardy emigreys who roughed it in the country. He’d found a semi-derelict cottage at the heart of the village and would rent it from a local farmer. The shack came complete with magnificent mountain views and a flock of shitting chickens roosting in the salon. Clement planned to restore this piece of old Turkey with the help of local artisans, tradesmen whose skills had been passed down from generation to generation. That hadn’t been our experience of Turkish workmen, but that mattered little to Clement. Fate was fate and he would hear no negativity from us or anyone else.
“Are you sure you know what you’re taking on?”
“Mr Mistoffelees loves it. You should be happy for me, Jack.”
“I am, but what if you get ripped off? You’ll be up köy creek without a paddle.”
“That’s the problem with England today.”
“Huh?”
“There’s no trust anymore, no integrity, no faith.”
“What’s that got to do with anything?”
“In my day, people respected their elders and betters.”
“Indeed.”