Errant Ramblings: Mitzi Szereto’s Weblog

Is it possible to love someone so strongly, so overwhelmingly, you’d be willing to sell your soul to the devil to have him?

That is the opening line to my short story from my anthology Hell is Where the Heart is from Getting Even: Revenge Stories. Having to repeat it again and again for the camera on Monday afternoon caused me to revisit a sentiment that has been amplified exponentially from the time of the story’s conception. But read it I did, for the planned filming of my performance reading was a year in the making. And, on a cold winter’s afternoon in London’s South Bank, it finally came to fruition.

It began over a year ago at the London book launch of Getting Even, where I planned to do a reading of my work. Because my story was so heavy on dialogue, I realised I needed to find a legitimate Cockney to perform the part of my character “Alf” the Cockney Devil, since I didn’t want to get any Dick Van Dyke comparisons being hurled at me (cor blimey Mary Poppins!). So I’d put out a notice on Facebook and voila, enter Bob Boyton – as Cockney as Cockney can get, and in possession of an accent that could slice through a jellied eel in milliseconds. Yup, I’d definitely found my Alf!

Judging by the reaction of the audience that evening, our performance went down a right treat – so much so that let’s just say I was made an offer I couldn’t refuse. Enter Paul Atherton from Simple (TV) Productions – a gentleman who kindly offered to film the reading. Well, I won’t say I got all starry-eyed and fancied myself as Lana Turner being discovered at the soda fountain at Schwab’s Drug Store (yes, I do realise I have star quality!), but I did imagine the video being watched on YouTube and anywhere else it was possible to upload it to.

Having lived for a time in El Lay, one tends to become rather blase about such creatures as actors. However, after an afternoon spent in various locations within the Royal Festival Hall – an afternoon consisting of back-breakingly hard work reading bits of my story again and again and getting them shot from various angles, I will never again be dismissive of those who have chosen or received the calling for the Thespian life. As if it wasn’t difficult enough trying not to flub our lines, we were forced to put up with Muzak playing in the background, espresso machines whooshing, cleaners banging and emptying bins, and individuals so stupid and inconsiderate that they couldn’t shut their mouths for two seconds when walking past what was clearly a film shoot. I mean, does the camera with the microphone sticking out of it not offer a tiny hint of what is transpiring? We were even interrupted by some daft old duffer asking why the door to the auditorium was locked. Um… probably to keep daft old duffers like you out! I nearly shouted. Instead I gave him my Hungarian evil (albeit myopic) eye, at which point he fell over dead with a heart attack. Well, okay, so maybe that isn’t what happened. But you gotta admit, it sounded pretty good.

After we finished the shoot, I went back with Paul to his flat to do some editing. Well, if the filming wasn’t labourious enough, just try editing it! To add insult to the injuries incurred courtesy of the Royal Festival Hall, the cable that was supposed to feed the film into the computer decided not to work. Fortunately another cable was secured – a nifty little red one – and after getting all the footage transferred into the computer and selecting passages to slice and dice, we found ourselves being further thwarted by technology when said computer, for some arbitrary reason known only to itself, decided not to automatically save the work it was programmed to save, and we had to start all over again.

By this time I was utterly convinced the project was cursed and that my tragic aura was having a negative impact on the equipment, and very possibly on Paul. I mean, the day had begun with a text message that pretty much shattered my universe, so why not have the film project shot to hell too? But Paul is nothing if not a consummate professional, thus when I left him late Monday night, he was still toiling away editing the video which, if no other mishaps occur, should be done and dusted by this coming Monday. And yes folks, I will post it on Facebook (including my group page and fan page) and MySpace and every conceivable place there is on this planet to post it, including here. I bet you can’t wait, huh?

Solo reading, Part 1: http://www.youtube.com

Outtake: http://www.youtube.com

Let me just say that rumours of my death have been greatly exaggerated.

It was like a scene from out of an Agatha Christie whodunnit: an old manor house, a howling wind blowing in from the raging sea, mysterious and menacing creaks in the night. Whispers of “Let’s kill the erotic writing tutor” could be heard emanating from dark corners – corners where hands might jump out at any moment to wrap around your neck.

Or rather MY neck.

Six women and one man, all locked up for Literotica, an erotic writing weekend on the Isle of Wight. Sure, they looked so innocent and friendly on arrival. So who would suspect that beneath these civilised veneers lurked a bloodthirsty desire TO KILL? I myself suspected nothing. (Mind you, I rarely do.) I conducted my workshop just as I’ve always done, imparting a bit of professional and personal wisdom, and inspiring participants to write freely, to strive high, and to leave behind their erroneous assumptions that erotica is nothing but poshed-up porn. I could see I was winning the battle. These people were actually creating work that would have been equally at home in a respectable literary novel as it would in a respectable sexy novel. “Get rid of the top shelf!” I cried. “No more one-handed reads!” I cheered. And the crowd roared back, hanging on my every word.

So why should one of these nice people wish to kill me – and to kill me in one of the most slow and agonising ways possible – by poison? Was I too hard on them? Did I give too much homework? Did they take offence at my bear’s critiques of their work? Or indeed, was it even one of the workshop participants at all? Perhaps the mild-mannered Greek proprietor of our windswept country house was behind it. Now I’ve heard of not wanting to pay someone for services rendered, but come on – isn’t this taking things a bit too far? (Actually, I did kind of wonder why that plumber’s van hadn’t moved out of the car park for the entire weekend.)

I admit they were clever. They waited until after I’d signed their copies of Getting Even: Revenge Stories-(Christ, I knew I shouldn’t have brought that one along) – and The New Black Lace Book of Women’s Sexual Fantasies. Just think how much these copies would have fetched on eBay had their sinister murder plot actually come to fruition!

It’s hard to believe that the people with whom I’d enjoyed a friendly Saturday night pint at the local pub could, within only a matter of minutes, turn on me like that. I was fine up until then. Had they put poison into my untended pint while I nipped to the loo? Had they coated the rim of the glass with some deadly nectar so that when I raised it to my unknowing lips, I’d ingest the substance? Had someone truly NOT enjoyed reading their copy of Getting Even? I mean, everyone kept saying how they couldn’t wait to get stuck into it, especially the story I wrote. So what gives?

I suspect the physicist. As the only male in a group of women, he was already anticipating the worst from before he’d arrived on the island. Yet I did my best to make him feel welcome and comfortable. I even spent extra time with him chatting about such things as parallel universes and cloud computing as we sat drinking cups of milky tea. What more could I have done? Hey, was it MY fault that someone said (no it wasn’t me!) that all men are crap in bed? Okay, so I nodded to be polite. I mean, wouldn’t you have done the same if you’d been in my shoes?

As you can see, I survived the weekend, albeit quite the worse for wear. And yes, I’m booked again for yet another erotic writing workshop weekend next November. I wonder though if someone might be trying to tell me something. For on the final leg of my journey home, the man seated behind me on the train kept singing about Nosferatu.

Hmmm… I have been looking rather wan of late.

Teddy Tedaloo (aka McTedaloo)

Right, you’ve stuck it out this long, and for that I give you credit. Do you realise this is turning into a long-term relationship? Hey well, I’ve been told I’m a good catch, though don’t go getting any grandiose ideas here! (And that goes for my mystery texter with the baby oil too!) Let’s just stick to the blog posts for now, shall we? So (drum roll!) it’s on to the final installment in my Scotland series…

After a weekend of amazing scenery, Bondage Bob, and deep-fried Mars Bars, Teddy and I were dropped off at Glasgow Central in plenty of time to get the train back down to London Euston. I say “plenty of time”, but that plenty expanded exponentially due to the delayed arrival of our Virgin train. In a nutshell, I had a good hour to kill. And there’s only so many times you can keep going into The Body Shop to sample the balm, you know? I love balm. Good balm. If you want to court me, buy me balm. I don’t need diamonds. I just need balm! Oh, sorry, I’m digressing, aren’t I?

With my hands nicely balmed up, I headed over to the chilly platform, where I got into conversation with some lost Dutchman about the rubbish public transport system in Britain, which killed a bit more time until the big red Virgin train pulled in, spewing out its harried passengers so that this new batch of harried passengers could climb on. I quickly confiscated a couple of seats (Teddy prefers the window since he likes to look out at the passing landscape), and we settled in, my only worry being when to start on the packed lunch my mate Ben had prepared for me. We weren’t even half a mile out of Glasgow Central before our supposedly high-speed train came to a dead halt between a scenic pile of rubble and some grim tower blocks. We sat there admiring the view through our rain-streaked window (Ted wasn’t impressed), waiting for an explanation as to why we didn’t seem to be going anywhere.

At long last the train lurched back into service, doddering along like a little old man for a good twenty minutes until it picked up a more respectable speed. The explanation, when it finally came, prompted the entire car to erupt into laughter. It was the classic British Rail excuse – the one we’ve all heard about, yet always believed was a myth. LEAVES ON THE LINE. Now I’ve been through it all, including a delayed train blamed on a “fatality on the line” in Romford. Okay, I admit, if I lived in Romford I’d be tempted to fling myself in front of a speeding train, too. Having said that, it was also Valentine’s Day. Talk about a double whammy…. As for this delayed train, I was not at all happy about the fact that it would get me into Central London right at the start of Monday evening rush hour. The beautiful Scottish landscape I’d left behind was fast fading in my mind’s eye. However, just before we crossed the border into England, I saw one last rainbow from out of the train window. And this time I made a wish.

With each place it stopped, our train became more and more packed with passengers. Bits of luggage were shoved everywhere and anywhere, dangling precariously above our heads and sticking out into the aisles, which made trips to the loo a challenge. We held onto our seats as if they were made of gold (which in a way they were). Poor Teddy was clinging by a thread to his window seat, growling at anyone who so much as even glanced in his direction. You’d think Virgin Trains would allow for the high number of passengers on their west coast route by adding additional cars. I’ve travelled this route a lot, and it always ends up standing-room only in either direction. One time I had to sit on my suitcase in the snack bar, another time by the loo. In fact, I once saw a woman so desperate for a seat that she actually sat on the toilet. I mean, we’d all paid for a seat, so why couldn’t we all GET a seat? I tell you, if there was ever a reason to do another volume of Getting Even: Revenge Stories…

To add some comic relief into the fray, the little electronic signs above our seats didn’t kick into gear until well into our journey, sparking off chaos when nearly all of them suddenly announced “Reserved” (omitting such pertinent information as reserved from where TO where) – whereupon those of us who’d laid claim to a seat early on had to embark on a game of musical chairs. Still more comic relief came in the form of a new passenger who kept dragging her suitcase up and down the aisle as she hunted for her reserved seat, passing it again and again and asking everyone if they knew where seat number 58 was. I tried to contain my laughter, as did the fellow seated across the aisle from me as she passed seat 58 for the fifth time, eventually abandoning her quest and moving on to the next car, suitcase in tow. Seat 58 steadfastly remained where it was, empty and very likely snickering at the woman’s folly. As I munched on some nuts, I worried if the smelly fellow with his smelly dog whom I encountered on the journey north was going to end up on my train again on the journey south. Fortunately he didn’t appear. In his stead, we were blessed with the company of a marathon nose blower who got on somewhere between Warrington Bank Quay and Crewe, and this Pavarotti of the nasal passages regaled us with a series of wet arias that seemed to be never-ending in their length and frequency.

After this interminable journey, we finally arrived in London (late of course) – a place where I’ve often felt that if I ever fell down in the street no one would even notice. After a lovely weekend of being looked after and cared for, the sudden shock that nobody is there waiting for you at the other end can be quite overwhelming. This wasn’t helped by the fact that the weather was awful, with great gusts of cold wind and rain pissing down. Not the nicest welcome home, by a long shot. To make matters worse, the stairs leading into the tube were slippery and dangerous as hell. If you’ve ever taken the London Underground, you’ll know that everyone is always in a big bloody hurry to get somewhere (or nowhere). I can’t tell you how many times I’ve imagined myself crashing to a broken heap at the bottom of the stairs and being stepped over as a mere nuisance to the flow of foot traffic.

I will say that returning on this dismal autumn day had a brief moment of redemption when, as I gingerly made my way down the stairs, a young man suddenly appeared at my side, asking in a heavy London accent if he could carry my suitcase (and no, he didn’t steal it!). Frankly, I was gobsmacked. For a moment I thought I might be in the wrong city, until I got on the tube train – and the first language I heard being spoken was Russian.

Yup. I was back in The Big Smoke, alright!

Mitzi Szereto and Teddy Tedaloo at Loch Lomond (Yes, Dorothy, that's a rainbow coming out of my head)

What began as a rather tedious train journey north to Glasgow (you just knew I’d work a train in here somewhere!) turned into a visit to a magical and mythical landscape – the kind of landscape that makes you confront the superficiality of what most people refer to as “Life” – i.e. that pissing away of days, weeks, months, and years in the pursuit of money to show others just how successful you are… and boozing, to show others just how popular and entertaining you are. At the end of it you’re left with nothing but regrets and lost time, because you’ve learned too late what’s really important. But that’s a subject for another day and, perhaps, another blog.

Meanwhile, back to the train. It wasn’t all that bad until we got about halfway up the west coast route, whereupon our increasingly crowded Virgin Trains car gained two new passengers: a very smelly fellow with his very smelly guide dog. Okay, I can forgive the dog – he smelled like wet dog, so be it. But I cannot forgive a human being living in the 21st Century who’s unwilling to clean either his body or his mouth. The fact that I was sitting downwind of the dog’s arse didn’t make things any easier, though at least it occasionally cloaked the stench of its owner’s breath, which had begun to permeate the entire car. As if the gentleman didn’t make his presence known by smell alone, his mobile phone (which, as one would expect from being on a train, continually went off) had as its ringtone a Tarzan yodel. Yes, I said Tarzan, as in King of the Jungle. Perhaps the fellow aspired to smell as if he actually lived in the jungle, too. Thank god I had the brief distraction of a text from a number I didn’t recognise, the message suggesting that I “get it on” with its sender and a litre of baby oil. I didn’t reply. (Considering the pinched nerve in my neck that I woke up with, I’m now wondering whether I should reconsider this offer.)

Fortunately, everything faded to a hazy memory upon arriving in the amazing land of lochs and castles and rainbows known as Scotland. Teddy (my bear) and I were invited up for the weekend by my friend Ben (whose mum happens to be a big fan of my Getting Even: Revenge Stories – smart woman!), and a change of scene was just the tonic in what had been a very upsetting week. Being Scotland, the weather was bound to be temperamental, and we expected to be thoroughly drenched on our Saturday excursion to the coast. And yes, there was a bit of rain, but there were also stunning moments of sunshine, clouds, and a multitude of rainbows that inspired me to make a wish, providing I had any hope left that wishes can come true.

We first stopped off in beautiful Loch Lomond. One of the most famous of the Scottish lochs (though not the one Nessie lives in), it’s a place where you can imagine yourself holed up for days on end, if not years, with that one special person in your life, not caring about the rest of the world with its collapsing economies and endless greed and transient human relations. (Oh, I forgot – they call this “Civilisation”, don’t they?) In this romantic setting, my friend Ben and his girlfriend Bex had each other. As for me, I had Teddy (who now prefers to be known as Teddy McTedaloo) and a pervy text message promising, if nothing else, a hell of a lot of baby oil. I had to feel bad for dear old Ted, since he had to suffer the indignity of being hung in his backpack from the hook on a toilet cubicle door while I had to spend a penny. He’s a forgiving bear though, and we more than made it up to him as we continued on our scenic road trip, which terminated in the coastal town of Oban.

Where we met Bondage Bob.

I take it I have your full attention now. It’s bad enough that even my own mother was urging me to find out what a Scotsman wears beneath his kilt, but I have to contend with you lot as well! You’re just dying to know who Bondage Bob is, aren’t you? You’re probably imagining all sorts – me dressed in shiny black latex from head to toe, swinging my cat o’ nine tails as I mete out your punishment for being a very bad boy (or girl). Hey, calm down!! You couldn’t be more wrong about the kind of relationship my friends and I had with Bondage Bob. You see, we made the acquaintance of our new friend at a little fishmongers stand at the seafront. Initially we opted for some mussels and scallops to take back home and cook up (my mate Ben’s a cracking chef!). However, not finding anywhere suitable to have a light meal at that in-between hour, we returned to get some cockles, langoustines, and a crab sandwich, deciding to have an impromptu picnic in the car. As we began to make our way back to where we’d parked, Ben determined that we needed a lobster, so we returned en masse to the very same fishmongers, who by this time treated us like family. Enter Bondage Bob, who derived his moniker from the fact that his front claws were bound in a decidedly kinky fashion.

With Bondage Bob inside his cosy plastic bag of ice, we drove off to find a nice spot to park along the seafront outside of town, whereupon we commenced to partake of our picnic of cockles, langoustines, and crab sandwich. As we ate, we plotted strategy for an invasion of one of the seafront homes (remember, this is the land of castles and invaders), the plan being to usurp the residents so that we could move in and create an internet start-up in what Ben (a techie) aptly christened “Silicon Bay”. Scarfing down my share of seafood in the backseat, I ended up with several wet spots on my jeans from the cockle juice (oi, watch it!), the pads of my thumbs turning into pin cushions thanks to not always successfully managing to peel the prickly langoustines. Their remnants I discreetly dropped out of the car window, leaving a telltale heap of shells on the road across from the multi-million-pound homes facing the sea. Let’s just say that we literally hightailed it out of there before the locals rang Inspector Taggart (there’s been a murr-durr!).

As for Bondage Bob, he’d gone from the beautiful Scottish seaside into the grimy boot of a Vauxhall Vectra, then onto the floor of the front seat by Ben’s feet, only to be relocated to the floor of the backseat by me and Teddy. Don’t think he was neglected though; Ben offered him a square from a Galaxy chocolate bar, which I ended up happily eating. After all this, not to mention our car nearly colliding head-on with a lorry, it was no wonder Bob was not looking so great by the time we got home. It was suspected that he was dead, though I was still assigned to go online to search out a way to help him meet his maker without too much emotional trauma. I’d heard that if you massage a lobster, it goes into a trance, so there could have been yet another use for that baby oil! It turned out we didn’t need either the oil or the wooden mallet Ben had bought at Tesco. Because deceased or not, Bob boiled up a right treat and did himself proud, despite his rather Shakespearean end. (Alas poor Bob, we knew him well.)

I’m now wondering if maybe I should’ve stayed in Scotland. It’s possible my friends and I could have made a go of that start-up in “Silicon Bay”. And who knows? Maybe I might have found some lovely Scotsman to carry me over one of those amazing rainbows. Aye, a wee lassie can dream, can’t she?

Bondage Bob awaits his fate

Bob groovin' to the Red Hot Chili Peppers

Boiled Bob

Bondage Bob, a distant, but fond memory

Okay, let’s get this straight: I’m a car person. I started driving when I was just a wee lass of 15. I’ve always gone everywhere in a car. Having spent a bit of time in California, particularly in the hardcore car culture of Los Angeles, I can definitely say that I often feel as if I’ve had my legs cut off living a car-less life in Britain. It’s not that I’m “green” – rather I’m simply too skint to own a car. (Subliminal message: buy more books buy more books!!!!!!!!!!!!)

Which relegates me to the glorious dregs of public transportation, where you can experience a lifetime’s worth of experience just trying to get home from an evening out. Mind you, not all experiences are worth having. I mean, living in a cave with Osama bin Laden isn’t an experience I’d wish to partake of. I wouldn’t care to shack up in a cave (or anywhere else for that matter) with Robbie Williams either. Or George Clooney. Or Nicholas Cage. As for Andrew Garfield (oy, such a nice Jewish boy!) … now you’re talking! And let’s throw in Jamie Draven while we’re at it. If Osama still insists on lurking around, we can always get him to make the kebabs. But that meat had better be Halal!

Right, so where was I? Oh, yeah, trying to get home. I can write a book about this, believe me – and who knows, maybe one day I will. Perhaps another in my Erotic Travel Tales anthology series. Erotic Travel Tales on British Public Transport – now there’s a catchy title. Or how about Erotic Tube Tales? Err… no, better scrap that one! Speaking of which, I always need the tube (London Underground to you non-Brits) and the train to get home. Note that I’m not factoring in the bus in this discussion, since I tend to avoid them now that I’m living in the Greater London area. I’ve had my fill of psychotic drivers who slam on the brakes in a standing-room only bus, then sit back and enjoy the mayhem. These early-release programmes from prison just don’t work, in my humble opinion.

The other week while waiting on a train platform, I observed a young couple arguing heatedly over the controversial subject of mayonnaise. And yes, I mean that creamy white stuff you slather onto bread when you make a sandwich. I edged discreetly away from the pair, concerned there might be bloodshed. I mean, a discussion of mayonnaise would surely have propelled even a peaceful chap such as Mahatma Gandhi into the ranks of ASBO status. Things soon calmed down, however, when the fellow nearly broke into tears, proclaiming to his woman in a sledgehammer urban London accent that he wanted to be the best he could be for her (a rather syphilitic-looking specimen), and that he was concerned for her health (bit late for that, mate!). I almost wept I was so moved. Well, no, actually I didn’t.

The night would later reach a climactic crescendo as I walked home from the railway station and happened upon a quartet of lads with pint glasses in hand, whereupon two of them (the lads, not the pint glasses) proceeded to urinate the lager they’d been consuming all evening against some unsuspecting trees. (I’ve heard of taking the piss, but this is ridiculous!) They didn’t seem bothered about me, although that’s probably got more to do with the fact that I don’t look like I belong, since I don’t go around with my arse (and the bit wot goes in front) sticking out from under my skirt or my boobs falling out of my top or – the ultimate giveaway – staggering about shriekingly drunk on heels so high they’d give a normal woman (or trannie) nosebleed. Nope, I’m definitely not one of these fair English maidens who end the evening unconscious in a gutter with an all-new strain of STD incubating in their loins.

Now I suppose I could regale you with some tales of true horror, but that wouldn’t be fair. After all, it’s not all gloom and doom in the big bad world of British public transport. Why, I’ve even had my fair share of romance on these journeys, and that doesn’t include eavesdropping on couples indulging in sweet-talk about Hellmann’s or being felt up in a crowded tube train – which luckily has never happened to me and likely never will, since I AM the woman who edited Getting Even: Revenge Stories remember? Anyway, one time there was this rather curious fellow across from me on the train making quick work of two large tins of lager who kept insisting I listen to the music playing on his iPod, as I was sure to “love it”. I told him I only love Staind. He seemed to believe my love would extend to the song he was playing (and perhaps to him). It didn’t. He was crushed. Bad enough I’d broken his heart, but when he got off the train at the same stop as me, well… let’s just say that I walked pretty darned fast up that hilly road home!

Then there was that proposal of marriage from a rather cute bloke who, in an empty train, decided to come sit near me (thank god for CCTV), only to spend the next few minutes gazing at me all starry-eyed. He finally blurted out something about my being a very attractive woman (so who am I to argue?) and pleading with me again and again to please please let him kiss me. He later called out to me to please please wait as I hurried along the station platform to the exit – and consequently, away from his matrimonially minded clutches. Last I heard he was heading off to Southend (or Sarfend as it’s known round ‘ere).

I admit London is probably the place to see and experience it all (whether you want to or not), but that’s not to say other cities in Britain are lacking in travel weirdness. The strangest (well, it’s a toss-up since it’s ALL pretty effing strange) was in a Leicester taxicab, where the driver held me hostage outside my flat as he begged me to let him take me out to dinner. He insisted he could make me happy; apparently he knew what I needed in my life and he could offer this to me – and I should give him a chance to prove himself. I gotta admit, that would’ve been one hell of an offer if he hadn’t been so keen for us to move to India – though I reckon it would’ve been a lot more exciting than Leicester. He wrote his mobile number on the back of the taxi company’s card, then grabbed my hand, not letting go until I promised to call him. Funny that he didn’t waive the fare though. Now THAT would have made me happy.

Gosh. I do hope he’s not still waiting for my call…

Mitzi Szereto with Aaron Lewis

Mitzi Szereto with Johnny April

Mitzi Szereto with Mike Mushok

Mitzi Szereto with Jon Wysocki

Yup, I figured I’d rope you in with that headline! I bet you’re imagining all sorts now – wild nights filled with endless amounts of Jack Daniels, weed, blow and, of course, sex. I mean, we are talking about the big bad boys of rock and roll (and the little erotic writer), aren’t we?

Well, the joke’s on you, baby!

I am speaking of the American alternative rock band Staind who, as many of you probably know, happens to be a major musical passion of mine. Several months back I secured a ticket to their gig at the O2 Arena (opening for Nickelback… arrgghhh…), then out of the blue on Tuesday night I received an alert on Facebook that they were playing a special gig at the Hard Rock Cafe in London on Wednesday night to benefit breast cancer. I couldn’t believe my luck when I was still able to get a ticket.

So off I went on the frequently unreliable London public transport system, reckoning on an interminable evening of standing for hours needing to pee and having nothing to drink and no one to talk to. Well, I couldn’t have been more wrong. Okay, so we had to queue outside in the ever-increasing cold till 7pm, and I was already panicking that I would lose a good spot inside because I’d need to nip to the loo the moment I entered the venue. I made the pierced lads in front of me swear they would save me a piece of floor, only to lose them once I got inside. It turns out I didn’t need them anyway. With complimentary pink fruity “virgin” cocktail in hand, I ran to the loo, did what needed to be done, and made my way to the head of the gathering crowd, using the excuse that I’m short to secure a place of honour right in front of the stage. I then proceeded to get comfortable and strip down to my Staind vest top (yes, the very same one that was waylaid in Denver the other day), using the lad on my left to hold my jacket and the one on my right to hold my drink.

As the Hard Rock crew came past with munchies (usually neglecting us poor sods at stage-front), a little party started up, consisting of me, the tattooed Glaswegian headbanger next to me, his lady friend from Essex (who was so kind as to buy me a bottle of Corona), and a slew of foreign students from India behind us. We had a gay old time chattering away, singing Staind songs, and exchanging names and emails. This went on for nearly two hours, since the band seemed to be occupied somewhere doing something (eating at McD’s?). Then finally at 9pm – the moment we were all waiting for! Alas, I forgot what it’s like to be directly in front of the speakers. Eh? Huh? What did you say?

I got caught up in the excitement of being up close and personal with my Massachusetts lads and ended up jumping about and screaming and singing along to “It’s Been Awhile” and “Outside” (two songs I die for) and occasionally hugging the headbanging Glaswegian, his friend, and the Indians in my joy at being there. (I’m sure there are photos of my disgrace in several cameras, including those belonging to band’s roadies). When the 50-minute set ended, requisite souvenirs were handed out to the audience, with the Glaswegian securing three Vic Firth drumsticks, one of which he gave to me, saying I “deserved it”. And it was definitely one the drummer had used – it’s generously stippled with the evidence.

After the gig, I went outside with my headbanging mate, who said he was going to try to meet the band. Having nothing to eat at home, I decided to hang about for the hell of it. Well, never did I expect to end up meeting the entire band, not to mention getting my photo taken with each of them. (I hadn’t even brought a camera – my new friends, who’d suddenly increased to include a musician, were kind enough to be my Alfred Eisenstaedt.) Lead singer Aaron Lewis even signed my drumstick. In all honestly, I can’t remember ever meeting a bunch of more down-to-earth guys who, at least from my observation, are refreshingly removed from bullshit celebritydom and really only seem to care about making art and taking it to the people. (Isn’t that what music is supposed to be about?) I only wish I’d asked Aaron to say hi to my bf on the phone, since a couple of people were handing him their mobiles.

Fortunately on the way home something prompted me to take the Jubilee Line to Stratford, for as I found out after I arrived, the Central Line had been shut down for the rest of the night due to some glitch or other. That’s the thing about London – you’ll be in a great mood, then turn into Jack Nicholson in The Shining when you can’t get to your destination. I often feel like I’m plotting war strategy when I go into the city, checking online that the trains and tube lines I need are running and that no one is striking or working on the lines… yet it’s usually in vain, since anything can happen despite one’s best-laid plans. Armed with drumstick in hand, I wasn’t the least bit concerned about my safety walking home from the train station after midnight. I held it clutched in my little hand, ready to use it as a prostate stimulator should any local yob take an unwanted fancy to me. Needless to say, I arrived at my door unharmed, save for the ringing in my ears.

Had I known how the evening would turn out, I’d have taken along a signed copy of one of my books to give to the band. (Wonder if they’d prefer Getting Even: Revenge Stories or The New Black Lace Book of Women’s Sexual Fantasies? I’m now beginning to think I should’ve had the rest of the guys sign my drumstick rather than playing favourites with Aaron. I’m also thinking I should’ve hit them up for a commission or, at the very least, be placed on the Staind payroll. Because thanks to me, a lot more people have heard of them. Hmm… Maybe I’m in the wrong business. I might need to have a friendly word in their shell-like when I’m at the O2 tomorrow night.