Errant Ramblings: Mitzi Szereto’s Weblog

Mitzi Szereto tucks into a deep-fried Mars bar

(Yummy yummy yummy I got love in my tummy…)

Glasgow. It evokes images of Trainspotting, Inspector Taggart, and heroin addicts. In fact, Glasgow has the highest number of heroin addicts in the United Kingdom. So what better place for me to spend a cold, rainy and windy Sunday afternoon in October?

Nah, I wasn’t skulking down some back alleyway in pursuit of a fix. However, I WAS skulking down the city streets in pursuit of something else: the infamous deep-fried Mars Bar. Yes, you heard it here first – they actually deep fry Mars Bars! Hard to believe, eh? Mind you, the Scots aren’t always known for having the most healthful of diets. Or at least not the Glaswegians. As someone who’s addicted to Walkers salt and vinegar crisps, I’m not going to cast any stones here.

My mate Ben (who’s technically from Kent, not Scotland) and his girlfriend Bex (who’s technically from Scotland not Kent) had never partaken of this fine delicacy – nor had I, for that matter (Scotland isn’t just famous for its beautiful landscape, you know!), so off we headed to Glasgow city centre, certain we’d have our pick of deep-fried Mars Bars establishments. Just to be on the safe side, Ben and Bex texted a slew of their Glaswegian friends, asking if they knew where we could make a score. Of the few replies that came in, most were downright offended by the query. It appeared we were on our own.

We wandered up and down in the wind and rain, our hopes dwindling by the minute as we encountered pretty much everything (including a woman peddling The Big Issue in song to what I vaguely recognised as a popular show tune) – everything but a place to get this treat. Hunger was overtaking us, but we persevered, opting to parlay what was supposed to be a late lunch into an early dinner. We (or at least I) had to have a deep-fried Mars Bar – and it was now a matter of life or death! Not wanting to disappoint his guest (ie me), Ben popped into a newsagents and bought a couple of Mars Bars. To be honest, I felt really let down; I thought he was going to fob off some boring uncooked Mars Bar on me to shut me up. I expected better, considering the incredible amount of hospitality and care I’d been receiving from him all weekend. I mean, this was the very same bloke who had a supply of Fruili beer in the fridge just for me, not to mention a bottle of Baileys Irish Cream for Teddy – the very same bloke who’d been cooking up some first-class meals for dinner and always making sure I had a cup of tea first thing in the morning.

I tried to hide my disappointment and loped along, angling my yellow umbrella so it wouldn’t be flipped inside out by the wind. Ben passed the two Mars Bars over to Bex in a rather covert fashion, whereupon she took off on a high-speed chase, with Ben and I struggling to keep up. The next thing I knew she’d dashed into an Italian chippie, leaving us stranded outside in the rain with matching expressions of befuddlement. I assumed the woman was buying an order of chips to tide herself over till our delayed dinner. Well, I couldn’t have been more wrong. Bex had a plan. And it concerned the Mars Bars.

Within moments she began to gesticulate at us wildly. We went inside to find out what she was on about, only to see her being handed a styrofoam container with what looked like two pieces of battered cod in it. Once again I felt let down. I wanted my deep-fried Mars Bar, and here Bex was palming off some lousy greasy fried fish on me. It was all becoming too much – the wind, the rain… and not a deep-fried Mars Bar in sight. Then suddenly it dawned on me. This was no order of fish and chips, this was the Holy Grail! Apparently she’d charmed the fryer at the Italian chippie into frying up the Mars Bars – and at no charge.

Off we went back out into the rain and wind, with me wondering when I’d finally get to eat one of the damned things, especially since Ben seemed to be holding the container a wee bit too possessively for my taste – and at this point I didn’t trust him as far as I could throw him. We ended up getting a reprieve from the rain outside the entrance to the Gallery of Modern Art, where at last we bit into our treasures, all of us expecting to be thoroughly disgusted. Au contraire! I was quite impressed. In fact, I’d eat one again right now if I could. Ben and Bex shared theirs, and I’ll admit to eyeing it greedily in hopes they wouldn’t finish it.

Since we were already at the Gallery, we decided to go in to get a break from the weather. At least it was free and dry and we were able to regain our energy for what was promised to be an authentic Scottish meal. And what better place for an authentic Scottish meal than an authentic Irish pub replete with authentic Irish fiddlers playing in a back room and a surly authentic Scottish waiter who ignored all the patrons? Of course being an authentic Irish pub they were out of Irish stew. I didn’t care, since I ordered a plate of haggis, tatties, and neeps in whiskey gravy (though I didn’t get a buzz off it). I also stole some black pudding off Bex, and it proved to be surprisingly tasty, unlike a nasty version of the stuff I’d once tried in the Lake District. A pint of McEwan’s took away the pain of life and left me a tad glassy-eyed, therefore I considered having another, except I knew I’d end up needing the loo.

At this point I’m not entirely sure whether I should write an erotic tale about Glasgow, if I end up doing a fourth volume of my Erotic Travel Tales anthologies. I might need to return for another of those deep-fried Mars Bars and see if inspiration hits!

View the rest of the photos in my “Glasgow” folder on: Flickr

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Mitzi Szereto in Camden Town

Ever have one of those days where you know that if you stay home you might very likely chuck yourself out from an upstairs window? Well, that about sums up last Sunday. Therefore I decided to go to Camden Town for the afternoon to distract myself and scout out some bargains, despite the fact I hate to shop (though necessity prevails). As a starving writer and a woman who refuses to give in to the moneyed gentlemen she’s met over the years who’ve offered to keep her in high style (though as we all know, there’s no such thing as a free lunch), I’m not in the leagues of Bond Street or Harrods; there are no Prada handbags or expensive designer dresses in my closet. So it’s Camden Town for me, though many of the shops there are still out of my reach! (Let’s get my Amazon Kindle books and short stories selling, alreet?)

The day began in a manner that made me wish I’d stayed home, despite the dire temptation of the upstairs window. My train journey into the city consisted of having to listen to the Essex geezah behind me making and receiving endless calls on his mobile phone, most of which were of him threatening his mate with dire consequences if he didn’t cough up the 450 quid owed him when he got to his house. Okay, fine, it didn’t affect MY life, save for the fact that his language was highly inappropriate at half past eleven in the morning (just as it would have been at half past midnight). Mind you, it seems the majority of men in Essex cannot speak without every other word being an obscenity, most of which are particularly offensive to women. If you’ve ever encountered any Essex males (usually visible in a crowd by their West Ham shirts), I’m sure I need not elaborate.

Things really heated up when the fellow seated across from me (whom it was later revealed was an American tourist to our fair isle) decided to take a photograph of the landscape outside the train window, which apparently was directly in the range of Mr. Geezah’s personage. Well, Mr. Geezah took none too kindly to what he construed as a photo being taken of his fine Essex self, and things began to turn nasty. In caveman-speak, he laid into the fellow, demanding to know if he’d been photographed and why, which escalated into a threat to take the camera and smash it (and, I gather, smash its owner’s face as well). The exchange went on for a good fifteen minutes, in between more phone calls as to the whereabouts of his money. Finally we were left in peace when he exited the train – no doubt to pursue the poor bastard who owed him the 450 quid, as somehow I doubt he was heading off to a late Sunday service.

I eventually made it to Camden Town, which was bustling with people out for a day of posing, shopping, and eating. Is there a recession on? If so, I saw no evidence of it in Londontown. Mind you, I was hard-pressed to actually see any actual English people buying anything – the only ones who seemed to be taking out their wallets were Spaniards, Italians, and Russians. Oh, and me, who by a stroke of luck did manage to snag some bargains, which included haggling a market trader down by 25 quid on a purchase. I’d managed to recruit a friend along to play mule by carrying my bags and preventing me from going psycho in the crowd (I don’t “do” crowds). Happening upon a pub that served Fruli (my favourite strawberry beer) on tap didn’t hurt either. I suppose I got in my friend’s good graces when I naysayed his potential purchase of a rather pricey belt made up of bullets that looked like something from out of a spaghetti western. The thing looked fabulous dangling from a wire, but it quickly lost its appeal when worn. Although his intention was to wear it to heavy metal gigs, I was certain he’d end up being arrested as a suicide bomber before he’d even made it through the door.

I’m now wondering if maybe I should’ve bought the bullet belt myself, and possibly a gun to go along with it. It might come in handy next time I’m on the train…

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