Errant Ramblings: Mitzi Szereto’s Weblog

Mitzi Szereto and Teddy Tedaloo (the "Norfolk Hayseeds")

My beloved sidekick Teddy Tedaloo and I are recently back from our first in what will hopefully be many visits to the wonderful county of Norfolk. When friends told me that things are a bit quirky in those parts, I knew it was the right place for us – and I wasn’t disappointed. Sure, I got a bit of ribbing about all the inbreeding and webbed hands and feet (the same kind of jokes you get about Wales, which is a beautiful place!), but I saw no webbed hands or feet (except on the ducks), and the locals I met were friendly, pleasant and helpful.

The plan was to soak up lots of local colour for a quirky novel I’m going to write, and soak it up I did in abundance! The quirkiness kicked off a few minutes before my train arrived at King’s Lynn, with my friend and hostess sending me a series of progressively panicked text messages informing me that she was stuck in the soap cycle at the car wash and could not get out. I ended up waiting outside by the taxis with some poor woman whose friend apparently forgot to collect her from the station, and we amused ourselves by watching the gulls deposit their waste onto parked vehicles until a car came skidding to a halt before me. My friend had arrived.

Well, I felt really let down, especially after all those text messages. I’d expected the car to be covered in soap suds like some giant bath sponge, but apparently my friend managed to make it into the rinse cycle, and hence to freedom. And off we went for a Magical Mystery Tour of Norfolk that lasted for several days and probably put a couple of pounds on me from all the eating I did (did someone say “pudding“?).

Mitzi Szereto and Teddy Tedaloo at a Norfolk pub

Now there’s nothing Ted and I like better than country and village pubs, and we availed ourselves of plenty while there. My favourite pub was in a village straight out of Midsomer Murders, replete with a local vicar drinking there… only he wasn’t a local vicar as I soon found out. In fact, he was a Welsh vicar with a parish in Essex. You figure it out. Even he thought it was a scream. It was in this quaint old pub where I found the perfect inspiration for my novel – and I sketched out the entire plot on a scrap of paper in between exchanging quips with the vicar, who was a bit of a comedian. It seems his parish is very near the part of Essex where the ferries go to the continent, only he said his parish was for “the incontinent”. I kinda got the impression he wasn’t too crazy about Essex when he told me: “I love everybody, but I don’t have to like everybody.”

The Norfolk Broads

Welsh vicars from Essex aside, you haven’t lived till you’ve gone to a pub with a black labrador that’s in season. We’d all just come from a lovely walk on the beach, barely missing being swallowed up by high tide, and were in the mood for some real fish ‘n chips (not sure what the lab was in the mood for, but let’s not go there). Anyway, there was this smaller male dog at the bar giving her the eye and, well… let’s just say he was interested and leave the subject before it disintegrates into non-family content.

Actually, forget about the horny dogs. You haven’t lived till you’ve been on a boat in the Norfolk Broads piloted by Ted. He’s a pretty good driver for a bear, and, in fact, he was a damned sight better at driving our boat than my friend (who continues to assert that I ran over a swan when I took the helm). But I had to get to the Broads and at least see what David Bowie was singing about in “Life On Mars“.

Teddy Tedaloo piloting a boat through the Broads

The only thing actually wrong with Norfolk (and there isn’t much) are all the Londoners coming in and trying to change it into a smaller version of London. There are quite a few so-called “celebrities” and other assorted riff-raff with too much money and no sense who descend on the county in their requisite Sloan Square attire, poncing about and trying to be all country-ish and “bishy-barney-bee” as they shop at the London clone shops and eat in the London clone restaurants (lovely old pubs that have been bought out and destroyed by the gastro craze and certain “celebrity chefs” who fob off their overpriced kibble on you). I have suggested putting barbed wire up to keep these Londoners out, or better yet, an electrified fence. I mean, if you want Primrose Hill, then stay in Primrose Hill!

Of course, coming home is never without its own excellent adventure, particularly when the train driver can’t be bothered to stop at my stop, or indeed, two of the previous stops, when they are ALWAYS scheduled stops. Just one more great mystery brought to you by British Rail. I had been so elated that for my journey home I wouldn’t need to schlep my heavy suitcase up and down countless stairs as I had to on the way to Norfolk (resulting in a slightly sprained hand), but not only did I end up at the next town up from mine, I ended up having to deal with stairs when I was forced to make the reverse journey back to my town. Thankfully my plight was put to an end when a young gentleman intervened and took over suitcase duty. I have often said there are no gentlemen left in Britain (especially in the London area), and I continue to adhere to that statement, therefore it was a pleasant surprise to actually find one (the only ones still alive are usually walking with zimmer frames). Mind you, this particular gentleman (not surprisingly) was from out of town.

Anyway, I’m really looking forward to getting a start on my new novel, and I might at some point need to pop back up Norfolk for an inspiration fix. And who knows, maybe I won’t leave!

Mitzi Szereto slums it on a BMW motorbike

Okay, anyone who’s seen the latest Mitzi TV video “Born To Be Wild” can probably figure out that I’m a bit partial to motorbikes. In fact, some of the happiest times I’ve ever had were riding pillion when I lived in LA. Those were the days, flying along Pacific Coast Highway on the smog-tinged ocean breeze! (I’ll omit details of how I once drove into a wall in Beverly Hills while actually driving one of the things. Well, at least it wasn’t a wall in Compton!)

I guess it was inevitable that this subjugated desire of mine should once again rear its ugly head. Being the resourceful lass that I am, I put the word out that I wanted a ride.

An invite was soon forthcoming.

However, things never quite go according to plan – at least not where I’m concerned. What started off as an autumn Saturday afternoon motorcycle ride into the English countryside ended up landing me in the midst of what appeared to be a camp of survivalists in rural Essex.

Mitzi Szereto as Tank Girl

Now Essex is known for many things; survivalists aren’t usually the first thing that comes to mind. Chavs, footballers, footballers’ wives, bleached blonde hair and fake orange tan (see footballers’ wives), Essex girls, white stilettos (see Essex girls), West Ham supporters, holidays in “Ibeefa” (see Essex girls), the highest rate of marriages in the UK (and the highest rate of divorces), and a sledgehammer accent (innit?) that can strip the paint off metal – these are the things that have put Essex on the map!

Oh, yeah, and Jamie Oliver. Now he’s the kind of Essex boy you’d want to bring home to mama. In fact, he’s probably the only Essex boy you’d want to bring home to mama, unless you fancy your mama being besieged by copious uses of the “C” word, which is bandied about by these finely reared Essex lads as often and easily as one might ask for a cup of tea.

Anyway, I was dead excited about my scheduled ride into the country on the back of a BMW motorbike wiv my new m8 “Mister G” – gun runner, rapper, and drug cartel kingpin from the West Country. But as the day drew near, I began to suffer a twinge of anxiety. Bad enough I’d just read a news article about a motorcyclist in Scotland who ended up in hospital after colliding with a sheep. Apparently the guy sustained a lot of injuries, however, that didn’t stop him from being billed by the local council for damage when his motorbike caught fire and melted a portion of the road’s surface.

The sheep died.

Then I kept getting SPAM emails from some insurance company in the UK that specialises in road accident coverage. Was somebody trying to tell me something?

We weren’t even ten minutes into our ride when we passed through a village with a preponderance of funeral directors, not to mention a cemetery located conveniently close by. Another sign? Was I teasing the Grim Reaper by daring to do something I might actually enjoy? I realised later that the village had a very large population of elderly folk. Hey, you’d think they’d figure out not to move there, what with the high mortality rate. Sort of like that TV show “Midsomer Murders“. Why do people live there when the murder rate is something like 85%? I mean, how dumb can you get?

I decided to get a photo of me slumming it on a BMW motorbike, so we pulled off the road into an area that looked for all intents and purposes like a family campground. However, rather than pup tents and screaming tykes, it looked like we’d landed in the midst of a military coup. Tanks, weaponry, army boys with rifles – with the only tents in sight army-issue with camouflage netting. I kept expecting Charlton Heston to appear holding up a rifle that could kill a charging buffalo as he muttered something about “from my cold dead hands”.

Oh, yeah, he is dead. Guess that gun thing didn’t work out too well for him after all.

As for the survivalists, something wasn’t adding up. First of all, the men I saw didn’t look as though they were cast members from the film “Deliverance“. Second, I didn’t hear any banjos. In fact, the one major thing that gave a hint that something wasn’t quite kosher was an old phonograph playing The Andrew Sisters. Turns out it was just a harmless gathering of retro-military aficionados camping out for the weekend.

I’m now looking to recruit someone with a Harley so I can have another pillion ride. Though after this visit to the Twilight Zone, maybe it might be wiser to hit Kent?

On second thought, maybe not. It’s south of the river. And as any proper Londoner will tell you, you just don’t go south of the river!

Mitzi Szereto recruited by NRA (From my cold dead hands...)