When I was six years old, I was circumcised. It's one of my earliest memories. It's not a pleasant one.
They call it a Sunet in Turkey and it's marked, naturally, with a party; a Sunet party. They like to celebrate, the Turks.
Even the removal of a terrified six-year-old boy's foreskin is an excuse for a party. I liked the party. I was less keen on the circumcision.
My Nan paid for it. She insisted every good Turkish boy needed to be circumcised.
"Will it be painful, Dad?" I remember asking my father, as he ruffled my hair and tried to pretend that it wouldn't hurt and that, instead, it would make a man of me.
I knew, though. I knew he wasn't telling me the truth.
They gave me an anaesthetic, thankfully, but I remember vividly lying on the operating table with a huge screen over my midriff so I couldn't see what they were doing. All I remember was a bandage the size of a baked
bean can.
You might think you can imagine how painful that was but you can't. Not really. It was agony. The agony lasted for days.
When I first played for Turkey, the other players gathered round in the changing room, pointing at my old chap. They wanted to know if I'd had it done, if I was "a good Turkish boy".
So I showed them. They nodded their approval. And that was that.I can safely say that I've never shown my penis before, or since, to a group of approving young men, but, if nothing else, it seemed to help the bonding process.
I have a young son today. He will know all about his Turkish heritage. He will be a good Turkish/English boy – but he won't go through that.


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