Errant Ramblings: Mitzi Szereto’s Weblog

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 tucks into a deep-fried Mars bar

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!

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