Errant Ramblings: Mitzi Szereto’s Weblog

I often wonder if I have some magnetic force field operating around me that causes strange things to happen. I admit that I keep a rather low profile locally, since I don’t want hoards of fans queued up at my front door with copies of “In Sleeping Beauty’s Bed” for me to sign. (I prefer they do this in a bookshop, where I won’t be obliged to make them cups of tea.) But low profile or not, I only need to walk a couple of minutes from home before something odd transpires.

For instance, the other week I was heading to the post office when I happened on a busker and her dog. The busker, an Irish woman who seemed to think that I was also Irish (apparently I have an Irish accent), was playing guitar and singing, and the dog, who was wearing a bonnet straight out of a Jane Austen novel, was her devoted sidekick.

I guess I’m a soft touch when it comes to animals, so I put a few coins in the busker’s guitar case, slightly ashamed at the paltry offerings of the locals. Anyway, I got chatting with the woman, who was about to pack up for the day, and somehow from all this I ended up taking on the job of dog minder while she headed off to find a public loo. There I was, sitting on a bench with this dog in a Jane Austen bonnet parking her furry bum on my foot while all and sundry filed past. A few people offered me a friendly smile (I don’t think they were serial killers), including this guy I’d met earlier, who returned to pester me to join some new gym in town when I’d earlier told him that I was happy with the one I already go to – especially since his gym would have cost me double what I now pay.

When the busker returned, I was at last free to do my post office run, afterward heading off to the bank, where, along the way, I ran into an elderly lady I thought I knew from a writers group I’d given a talk to. (By “ran into” I mean on foot, I wasn’t driving.) Turns out it wasn’t her at all, but that didn’t matter, because she invited me to go Scottish dancing in Upminster (which is nowhere near Scotland, by the way). When I explained that I didn’t have a car and, although it sounded like good fun, it would be rather difficult for me to get to, she tried to entice me with tales of men in kilts, suggesting that perhaps I could find out what they wore beneath them. Well, I’d never been so shocked in my life! Okay, maybe I have. I think she just wanted to take me along as some sort of foil, and I probably would have gone, if she’d offered to pay for the taxi.

No sooner had I recovered from this adventure when yet another landed on my doorstep, for just the other day I was running some errands when, in the process of barreling toward the greengrocer’s, I was waylaid by a sweet little old lady with one of those push trolleys. She gave me a big smile and asked if I might offer her my arm so that she could get to a nearby bench to sit down. I saw a couple of old codgers seated there and, although I suspected her intent might be to chat them up rather than rest her elderly bones, I allowed her to borrow my left arm. (She didn’t much care for my right.) There we were, moving along at a snail’s pace and discussing that all-time favourite of English topics, the weather, when suddenly out of the blue she asks me why I think Jesus died.

Well, all I know is that I wanted to buy some of those lovely Spanish peaches before the season was over, therefore I was unable to shed any light on the subject of her query. Undaunted, she continued in what appeared to be a very concerted move to convert me to Christ, or at least drag me into a church. Okay, everyone’s entitled to their own gig and I respect that, but this was getting a bit much, particularly when we got to the bench and she made no effort to let me go – or to sit on the bench she claimed she needed to sit on. By the time she began fiddling in her sleeve for some of those Jesus pamphlets, I’d caught on to what she was about and made my departure before lightning struck me dead.

When I arrived at the greengrocer’s, I got chatting with the cashier and mentioned what had just happened, only to learn that a few days earlier she too had met with the very same elderly lady who had asked for her arm to help her get from point A to point B, only to be given the exact same pitch word for word. The cashier went on to say that a friend of hers had also met with this elderly lady, and so on and so on. Seems she was working the entire street! What bothered the cashier the most (she told me she was raised a full-on Christian, btw), was the degree of sneakiness and dishonesty involved, which she felt gave Christians a bad name. In fact, she didn’t believe the old woman was infirm enough to require assistance at all, and had merely been using this as a ploy. Indeed, we fully expected to see our doddering granny go jogging past the shop at any moment! We both concluded that we would very likely think twice before lending our arms to anyone. As for me personally, I never felt so cheap and used in my life!

The following day I returned to the High Street for a bit of grocery shopping and no, I didn’t see the elderly lady, but I did encounter a group of Native American Indians in full regalia performing tribal song and dance. Having by now learned my lesson, I didn’t stop to chat.

I bet you’re thinking that it’s only my local High Street where all these curious adventures take place, but it seems that no matter where I go, this magnetic force field of mine follows – even in the middle of Central London (or, in this case, beneath it). One night I was on a standing-room only underground train when I and several of my fellow passengers noticed a moth sitting on the handrail (at least it had somewhere to sit). The man near me was discussing with his mates what a moth riding the tube might eat, and I remarked that it was quite likely curry, since the moth was yellow. He agreed as to the logic of my argument, at which point several more people joined in the conversation. We then started taking guesses as to which stop Mr. Moth would get out at. I said Liverpool Street (turns out I was right). After so much speculation on the life of the Central Line moth, we were sorry to see it go, and when it came time for our little group to disband, we did so with tears in our eyes. (Okay, so maybe we didn’t, but we did part fondly.)

You’re probably saying that all this random weirdness must be some eccentric English thing, not a Star Trek-ian force field that has attached itself to me. Well, I’ve got news for you: it isn’t. Just wait till I tell you what happened when I ran into a bunch of Klingons in France!

If you’re an author, you have a certain expectation that your work will, at some point, be noticed and reviewed. And with online booksellers such as Amazon allowing for the bibliophile equivalent of Joe the Plumber to post their reviews at the click of a mouse, there’s more chance than ever that something you’ve had published will actually be reviewed by someone. Sounds good, huh? – all nice and egalitarian! Well, in theory, yes. In practice, however, it has its pitfalls…

Unbiased "customer" reviewer

…The main one being that an unbiased review by Joe the Plumber-turned-Reviewer may not, in fact, be so unbiased. One of the most recent and highly publicised examples of this involves historian Orlando Figes, who wrote negative reviews of his competitors’ books on Amazon. This sounds like something straight out of an episode of Inspector Morse, minus the murder and Oxford setting. Now imagine, if you will, the number of times this happens that we don’t get to hear about. I suspect it is not at all uncommon and has probably happened to most authors at some point in their careers, whether they’re aware of it or not.

I’ve had a handful of suspect reader/customer reviews myself, and the instant I read them a red flag went up, because they didn’t sound as if they were written by a layperson at all. In fact, I’d hazard a guess that they might actually have been penned by someone who either had a “competing” book out or who submitted work to me that I rejected. I’ve edited a number of anthologies and dealt with a number of egos, so believe me, this is not as paranoid as it sounds. There are just certain things that ring false, and after awhile you get good at spotting them.

So is it a personal attack or a way of trying to swing the vote away from a competitor by lambasting his/her book? Like, duh! Anyone who thinks it’s a touchy-feely love fest in the book business is living in another hemisphere, especially in this era of dwindling imprints and dwindling disposable incomes to pay for such luxuries as books. The expression “dog eat dog” didn’t come out of nowhere. Heck, I wouldn’t be at all surprised if whoever coined the phrase was a writer!

The point is, these reader/customer reviews are intended to be unbiased and absent of any agendas (or vendettas). Joe buys book, Joe reads book, Joe loves or hates book, then gives us his verdict by writing a review – at least this is how it is in theory. The key to having this process work is very simple and straightforward – unbiased book reviewing from the general book reading/buying public that is not subject to any outside influences. However, it seems that the purity of the process is becoming even more corrupted in ways beyond those mentioned previously. For example, what about authors/editors who give away free copies of their books to any Tom, Dick, Harry (or Joe) who will agree to post a review? Is it likely that someone who is handed a free book direct from the hot little hands of an author is going to write a review proclaiming that said book is total shite? The odds are they won’t, even if the book IS total shite. So much for that unbiased reader/customer review from Joe, eh? Now I’m all for self promotion (as we all know!), but this is crossing the line into the inappropriate – and I’m not sure how happy the average book buyer will be to discover that all those rave reviews posted by other “customers” were actually solicited in this manner.

When I look at reviews posted on Amazon or other sites, I tend to give more credence to those from legitimate and established publications and websites (ie Publishers Weekly, The List, Midwest Book Review, The Library Journal), professional book reviewers, and websites/bloggers/authors who have some sort of track record as book reviewers (and are accountable for their words by using their real names). Mind you, even so-called “legitimate” reviews can be laced with a bit of subjective arsenic. Professional reviewers have agendas too, and it isn’t unknown for them to trash a book for personal reasons.

Of course it isn’t only books that fell prey to this kind of thing. There are product reviews as well on these sites. Some time back I heard about negative reviews on various websites that were discovered to have originated from competing brands, which wanted to get one over on their competition. I’m sure it continues to go on, but again, the average consumer is likely unaware of it.

I am certainly not advocating the annihilation of reader/customer reviews. But when no one is guarding the hen house, how can you ever be entirely sure of their legitimacy? You can’t. The point is, take these reader/customer reviews with a grain of salt. Although the majority are probably kosher, rest assured there are some that are otherwise. So buyer beware!

Ian Somerhalder with his mate Teddy Tedaloo

I’ve been invited to speak at the upcoming Social Media in Business Conference in London on the subject of social media for creative artists, and it’s really got me thinking (I do indulge in this on occasion). As the “Queen of Facebook” (according to Wikipedia and my hapless suitor Mark Zuckerberg), not to mention author and editor of numerous books, blogger for “Errant Ramblings” (you’re reading it now!), creator and presenter of Mitzi TV, and the mother to my famous bear Teddy Tedaloo, it’s probably safe to assume that my name carries a bit of clout. You can find me pretty much everywhere on the internet. Heck, I’m a social media goddess!

I have thousands of fans, friends, followers, tweeters, and stalkers from nearly every country in the world, running the gamut from authors, poets, tech geeks, musicians, pensioners, estate agents, educators, students, actors, film producers, social media gurus, doctors, lawyers, Indian chiefs, journalists, politicians, pervs (see “politicians”), exiled Communists, serial killers, PR people (see “serial killers”), dead rock stars, and teddy bears – to your aunt Tilly from Temecula who no one ever talks about since the cops dug up her back garden and discovered all those bodies. (But hey, they got great wi-fi at Quentin, so she’s always wired and ready to go – well, at least until they strap her in the chair.)

Sounds like I pretty much know everybody, right? Then why is it with all my contacts, not a single one has responded to my request to fix me up with Ian Somerhalder? Yes, I mean the very same Ian Somerhalder who plays the dishy but nasty vampire Damon Salvatore in “The Vampire Diaries“. What exactly is going on here? Where are all these people I’ve cultivated and made so happy with my many posts, tweets, rants, and raves? You know who you are, so don’t even try to wrangle out of it.

Fine, so you retweeted me a few times – big deal. But what have you done for me lately? Where are you when I really need you? I’m beginning to get Jewish mother syndrome here. I do so much for you, I sacrifice, oy oy oy.  Yet the minute I ask for something, everyone runs to the hills. (Hey, wasn’t that a really bad Iron Maiden song?)

Am I supposed to believe that with thousands of people at my electronic beck and call, not one of them will show their appreciation for all my hard work and sacrifice by having a word in Ian’s shell-like? Okay, I do expect flowers, but he doesn’t have to go all out and blow his entire pay packet on them. (I’m not one of THOSE girls.) But heck, if I’m willing to offer up my tender neck, I expect him to be enough of a gentleman when he sinks his teeth into it. On second thought, tell him to ditch the flowers. Some nice chocolate will suffice. Let it not be said that I don’t have my priorities right.

I’d always vowed never to get involved with an actor. Having served some time in Los Angeles, let me tell you that you can get weary of actors very quickly. And they don’t necessarily make the best waiters either, despite popular opinion. Could be one reason why there are so many sushi bars in LA – you don’t need that many waiters to staff them. The thing is, you can’t always predict or control whom you’ll fall for. Actor, bus driver, binman… It’s in the lap of the gods.

As for Ian, I think we’d be really great together. (Sorry, Mark!) And, even more importantly, Ted likes him. Ian’s a big animal lover and, although his love seems to focus more on cats and dogs, Ted’s pretty certain he can win him over with his ursine charm. In fact, judging by that photo of them together, I’d say it’s already working! (Mind you, I just hope that Ian’s not trying to use him to further his own career. You tend to get that with these artistic types.)

So Ian, what time are you coming to get me?

Check out my latest interview at Eden Fantasys, where I discuss writing, blogging, Mitzi TV, erotica, my new book In Sleeping Beauty’s Bed: Erotic Fairy Tales, the publishing business and, of course, being a social media maven! There’s even some advice for aspiring writers.

“Mitzi Szereto is best known for writing which mixes classical elements with current trends. How does combining the past with the present inspire Mitzi’s creative process? How does she see the erotic genre evolving in the future?”

Click here for full text of the interview.

Mwah-ha-ha!

I guess that depends upon whom you ask…

An interesting debate is going on about the issue of self-publishing. Now I’m not referring to vanity press publishing, I’m referring to bypassing the traditional route to publishing – and therefore avoiding such obstacles to success as literary agents and submissions editors (or their assorted lackeys), who appear to operate as the sole arbiters of taste for the entire world’s book-reading public.

So what exactly is self-publishing? It is taking control of your product and seeing that it actually gets published. This generally happens via electronic books (e-books) and print-on-demand (POD) publishing platforms, both of which are available at little to no cost to authors. These very same platforms are now being utilised by traditional print publishers such as Random House, who have discovered that they can continue to sell their back-list and dead-wood titles without spending any money, not to mention flog additional copies of their more viable books – again, without spending any money. Sounds like a good deal, eh?

Then why is there such a negative connotation placed on authors who also choose to follow this same road? I guess in this case, what’s good for the goose is not necessarily good for the gander.

The consensus seems to be that traditional publishers dislike authors who employ these forms of self-publishing. It kinda makes you wonder if maybe they’re seeing the writing on the wall. I mean, if more and more authors go this route, there will be less books on offer to publishers – and less books means less revenue. Just think: what if authors decided to avoid the endless hassle and rejection of dealing with agents and publishers and opted instead to do it themselves? Can you imagine if Stephen King told his publishers to go take a flying leap and went into full-on DIY? Imagine how much money his publishers would stand to lose (and how much more he would make!). Oh man, doesn’t it just get your mouth watering?

Granted, Stephen King has a name; he doesn’t need to worry about his books sitting all lonely and unloved in a corner of a bookshop near the toilets. Not a lot of authors are as fortunate as he is. They need to rely on their publishers to push their material into the public arena, to actually SELL it. Err… hang on a minute, did I say “sell”? Aye, there’s the rub. How many publishers put forth any real effort on actually selling a book? Sure, each book gets a marketing budget, but more often than not, it’s barely enough to buy a pack of chewing gum. And don’t think just because you have a big publisher they’re going to break the bank to promote your little book – not when they have to earn back all those ridiculous advances they’ve paid out to their so-called “star” authors.

Now most people who know me know that I work my backside off promoting myself and my various projects. Heck, if I don’t do it, who will? So when my efforts start to get attention from the right people, I expect those who handle “marketing and publicity” to at least follow through when I place leads into their laps. After all, I’ve pretty much done their work for them, right? What I do not expect is to see these leads ignored because said marketing person’s either continually out of the office and not replying to phone and email queries, or just can’t be bothered to do his/her job. For example, awhile back I found out that a television producer had been trying to find me and not having any luck. He later informed me that he’d pretty much given up hope after three attempts to contact one of these aforementioned marketing persons for information on where to reach me (his phone calls were never returned). He finally had his assistant Google me, which resulted in my email address.

So much for the advantages of traditional publishers and their marketing and publicity departments.

One of the main arguments used against self-publishing (which tend to be put forth by traditional publishers) is that self publishing will diminish the quality of books on offer. Really? Have you been down to your friendly neighbourhood bookseller lately and seen some of the crap on offer? I mean, did someone actually wake up one day and decide to publish say, Katie Price‘s scintillating series of memoirs or autobiographies whatever in hell they are? Whether they sell or not is besides the point, especially when the argument these publishers are brandishing about is that the “quality” of books and literature on offer will be severely diminished by these nasty evil self-publishing authors.

I talk to a lot of writers, and I mean published writers, who’ve been there and done that in the traditional way – only to see all their hard work go nowhere (that’s if they even get a book deal). Many of these writers are now realising that they can enjoy a very high royalty rate in this self-publishing game – and they don’t have to share the pot with any literary agent either. Not only do they get to control their product, but they can avoid a lot of ulcers arguing with book editors over editorial changes that may (or may NOT) improve the work. Sure, they may have to work harder to get the word out, but is that any worse than seeing your “baby” being neglected and shunted aside? – only to later be told that it didn’t sell very well, if at all? Well, of course it didn’t sell. No one made any effort to sell it!

The point is, the days of self-publishing have changed. No longer is it your senile old granddad publishing his war memoirs to give the grandkids at Christmas. You’ll be seeing more and more talented and name-known authors going this route, as traditional publishing continues to push more and more talent away from their doorsteps in lieu of publishing more and more tripe they can’t sell in their endless game of robbing Peter to pay Paul.

Well, perhaps Peter has finally had enough!

There’s a lot to be said for being a bin man. Now I’m not trying to use sexist terminology here, but I’ve yet to see a lady bin man. Anyway, “bin man” has a better ring to it. So, for aesthetic purposes, let’s continue with the masculine title.

I’m often approached by people who tell me that they want to become a writer and ask me for advice on what to do. (I generally tell them to go buy a gun and shoot themselves.) They get this child-like glazed-over look in their eyes, no doubt envisioning all those wining and dining New York City lunches with high profile agents and book editors at Tavern on the Green. Oh yeah, Tavern on the Green went bust, didn’t they? Ah well, considering the fickle and transient nature of the publishing business, you’ll be lucky if your agent or editor springs for a Big Mac and fries!

Which leads me to the point of this blog missive: if you had to choose between a career as a writer and a career as a bin man, which would it be?

I can hear your answer already, you poor deluded naive soul. Though who am I to burst your bubble? But may I, for a moment, plead the case for the humble and unappreciated bin man?

There are many advantages to being a bin man. First of all, there’s the obvious: a steady paycheque. Depending on which country you live in, there are some good benefits too, such as health insurance for you and your family and a nice pension plan. Of course, if you’re living in America, the government will probably take these things away from you in order to bail out fat-cat bankers. But I digress…

Another advantage to being a bin man is that no one’s likely to rip off your ideas because they lack the talent, creativity and ability to come up with their own. (Forget that “intellectual property” bullshit; it won’t hold up in court.) Having said that, if you in your capacity as bin man suddenly develop some innovative new method to carry or empty bins, it could happen – and all the other bin men will be jumping on the bandwagon (or rubbish truck) doing the exact same thing. But let’s leave that for now, since bin men don’t need to live off their royalties!

Oh, yeah. And that’s another good reason to choose the litter-strewn path of a bin man – no royalty payments. Bin men are paid a set amount per week or month, and there’s no fluctuation in that number unless a pay rise (or cut) has been implemented. As for writers, when (or IF) your royalty payments turn up, they might look a tad peculiar, as in never actually accruing any earnings above the advance which was paid out (usually barely enough to pay the gas bill). I’ve had discussions with other writers on this very subject and they all say the same thing: they rarely see a penny in earnings after they’ve deposited their very tiny advance cheque (and some writers don’t even get an advance!). Yet go on Amazon or phone your local Barnes & Noble, and they’re always out of stock and having to reorder your books. It kinda makes you wonder if some of these publishers have Mr Bean doing their accounting.

Obviously, the issue of royalties means that you’ve actually been published – and to be published, your work needs to be seen by the right people (and by right people, I mean a real editor or agent, not some ditsy college intern who thinks she’s Carrie Bradshaw). Bin men don’t need to worry about their work being seen by the right people. They empty the rubbish and that’s it, they’re done. Writers waste time and energy and money submitting their material to agents and publishers, only to have it not even properly considered (let alone read) or completely ignored. (And yes, Dorothy, that includes solicited submissions.) Bin men also don’t have to swallow down that great big gorge of vomit every time they see some hack who can’t write his or her way out of a paper bag being rewarded with book deal after book deal as effortlessly as a rat drops turds.

Am I suggesting that the majority of writers are treated like shit by those who seek to profit from our labours? I’ll let you decide. But let’s face it, there are far too many of us around, and our sheer numbers alone do little to inspire respect from those who have control over our livelihoods. We’re like the cast of a spaghetti western – you can shoot down as many of us as you want, yet still more keep popping up. Come to think of it, maybe we’re like those zombies from Night of the Living Dead.

To aspiring writers, I recommend the Martin Amis novel The Information. Flawed or not, it deals with the grim realities of the publishing business and “life” as an author. More importantly, however, it deals with the celebration of mediocrity which, I’m sorry to say, permeates every aspect of our culture, not just the literary spectrum. Also read my blog posts Aren’t We Just Precious: Writers Who Live in Ivory Towers about author ego and book promotion, and Fairy Tales Can Come True (Well, Maybe if They’re in a Book), which touches on the odds of even getting published at all.

So why do we writers do it? Because we’re sick and twisted, that’s why. And maybe because we don’t want to (or can’t) live like the rest of society. Perhaps it’s our inability to conform that keeps us banging our heads against brick wall after brick wall. Indeed, we’re true renegades.

…Or true masochists.

Teddy Tedaloo flying Virgin Atlantic

Well, yet another visit to the old country has come and gone. And it wouldn’t have been complete without the usual stupidity of airline passengers crammed onto a flight that lasts too bloody long. It just gives you one more reason to despair of the human race… as if we needed any more!

Even before takeoff, this Virgin Atlantic all-nighter from Miami to London Heathrow seemed destined to provide endless hours of entertainment (and I’m not talking about the little video screens we had at our private disposal either). A game of musical chairs from start to finish, we had a cast of characters to rival any Carry On film.

First of all, we had a flight attendant who was a dead ringer for English comedienne Catherine Tate. The only thing she didn’t do was point at her ginger-fringed mug and say “face, bovvered?” She was kept busy trying to sort out a pair of Italian passengers seated in the row in front of me, who were evidently having difficulty fitting into the space allocated them, despite being given bulkhead seats. One guy was as tall as two American basketball players placed head to foot, the other looked as if he’d just eaten Luciano Pavarotti for lunch (and probably had).

Add to this recipe an old Muslim lady who, right at the moment of takeoff, suddenly decided that she wanted to change seats, thereby prompting a severe reprimanding over the loudspeaker. For the entire flight she kept waddling past the new set of passengers seated in the bulkhead seats formerly occupied by the Italians. Back and forth, back and forth, she spent more time on her walkabout then she did on her arse. If she wasn’t teetering past someone, she was pestering someone to get her handbag down from the overhead bin. Why she couldn’t take charge of it herself is anyone’s guess.

I’ll admit that I was none too chuffed with my seating arrangements either. Oh, I had the aisle seat in the centre section as requested, however, Teddy did not have his own seat. Clearly, this could not be allowed to continue, especially considering there was a spare seat at the other end of our row. Alas, neither of the two blokes seated to my left were amenable to shifting down a seat, despite my explaining that Ted did not want to sit on the floor. (They obviously didn’t realise they were dealing with a celebrity and co-star of Mitzi TV.) Instead they suggested that once we were airborne I move two rows back, where there was one lone passenger with three spare seats. They tried to pacify me with some chewy sweets, which I accepted, though that didn’t solve the problem – which was securing Teddy a seat.

Unlike the ever-waddling Muslim lady, I waited until we were safely airborne and the fasten seat belts sign was switched off, then popped back to check out the situation in the 3/4 empty row. Well, the bitchy queen holding court there informed me that the flight crew had told him he could have the entire row to himself so he could sleep. Indeed. Perhaps he was related to the Queen as well. Not wanting to get into a bitch-slapping session, I let it go. It was going to be a long flight, and I didn’t want to get into a fight only a half hour into it. Instead I renegotiated with my seat mates, and went round to the other side and took the empty seat, with my companions shifting one seat over, thereby leaving the seat next to me free for Ted.

Peace at last. Well, except for the South African flight attendant who kept making announcements that no one listened to. Things finally got quieter after everyone had chowed down their airline meals and did the post-dinner run to the toilet. Although Mrs Waddle continued to do her waddling and handbag thing, the stupidity on our international flight finally began to lessen…

…Until it came time to make our descent into London.

The seat belt sign came on, and we were instructed to do the usual thing: return our seat backs to their upright position, put away our tray tables, shut off any electronic devices, get rid of pillows and blankies, and get the hell out of the toilets. Of course, there’s always someone, isn’t there? Sure, Mrs Waddle continued to be as stupid as possible, though by now we expected it. However, it appeared she had fierce competition. One row up and to my left sleeping silently like a bomb waiting to go off was a young female with ears like Eddie Munster. She had slept through the entire flight. (Don’t you just hate these people???) The flight attendant had to wake her up to alert her that we were preparing to land, despite the fact that anyone with half a brain would have realised this, sleeping or not.

Mind you, I did say half a brain. Well, this dozy twat had no brain. When she finally roused herself from her catatonia after several promptings from the flight attendant, she dug out her cavernous sack of a handbag and proceeded to apply makeup to her vapid unwashed face. This went on for a good half hour. I couldn’t help but notice her dangling seat belt, which had remained unfastened throughout the majority of the flight and continued to remain thus, despite our imminent landing. I figured she would eventually fasten it after she finished trying to instill some character into her characterless face, but I was wrong.

Five minutes before we were due to be on the tarmac, she dug out some paperback novel that I could only categorise as “Bint Lit”, judging by its cover, which consisted of a woman’s high-heeled legs kicking into the air and the word “Girl” in the title. (Who says you can’t judge a book by its cover?) Her seat belt continued to remain unfastened as she became heavily engrossed in some tale of a female protagonist who was likely as brainless as herself. Guess she thought she was on the tube. I kept hoping we’d hit severe air turbulence at the last minute so she’d bang some sense into her empty head, but sadly, our pilot did a cracking job of setting us down at Heathrow.

Damn.

This wasn’t the end of it by a long shot. Just as we were getting ourselves sorted to deplane, this airhead suddenly realised that she still had a ton of crap she needed to return to her handbag, so back went all her makeup, the fine literature she’d been reading, and god knows what else – I’d not seen the big Italian in hours, maybe he went in there too. Then she started to put her shoes back on. People were leaving the aircraft and there’s Miss Bint still mucking about with her shoes. It just beggars belief, dunnit?

I’ve never wanted to slap anyone so much in my life. Between her and Mrs Waddle, who was slowly waddling up the other aisle and doing one hell of a job of delaying everyone behind her, I was ready to scream. If it weren’t for the fact that I’d ordered a taxi, I might’ve stuck around for a fight. But I wasn’t in proper form, not having slept a wink for the entire flight. Besides, I had an exhausted little bear with me.

I think I need to take a break from flying for awhile…

Well, yet another Christmas has passed and if you’re anything like me, it tends to bounce right off, leaving not so much as a dent. However, even us expat Scrooges can’t avoid some of that “Christmas cheer”. I’m speaking, of course, of the one kind of Christmas cheer that can turn even the most mild-mannered librarian into a berserk axe-wielding psychopath ready to slay anyone who so much as looks in their direction.

No, I’m not talking about that great British tradition Sir Cliff Richard and his oh-so-happy bowel-loosening Christmas tunes. I’m referring to yet another great British tradition: the vomit-inducing endless playing and replaying of the 1970′s Slade hit single “Merry Xmas Everybody“, featuring the vocals of one Noddy Holder, whose voice could strip paint from metal, not to mention turn human eardrums into tinsel. Oh yeah, it doesn’t get any worse than this. No matter where you go or what you do, you can’t avoid it. In the words of my hair stylist, “It’ll get you sooner or later.”

Ominous, eh?

Indeed. And no one seems to be immune to this menace either. You can tell that things have really deteriorated to Night of the Living Dead sheer terror stage when you observe Muslims, Jews, Hindus and Sikhs all tapping their toes to this musical malady that is being blasted from the sound system in every shop, petrol station, hair salon, kebab house, and newsagents throughout the United Kingdom from November till New Years. Where’s George A. Romero when you need him? Come to think of it, where’s Dirty Harry? (Do you feel lucky, punk?)

The strange thing is, everyone seems to hate this bloody song, so why does it keep getting so much airplay? I guess it’s like traditional Christmas pudding – everyone hates that too, but just try finding one family Christmas dinner in Britain where it isn’t being served. It’s analogous to fruitcake in America, which works brilliantly as a door-stopper or laxative, but bears little resemblance to a proper dessert. I doubt even death-row inmates are forced to endure such punishments.

As for Noddy Holder, he has a lot to answer for. Though I suppose if I were back in the USA, I’d be driven to wall-biting insanity by Bing Crosby‘s “White Christmas“, which offers up its own special brand of nausea, albeit with a more American flavour. Oh man, some people just won’t die, no matter how much you might want them to. I suspect it will be the same with Noddy Holder.

Which leads me to the whole point of this blog post. There’s only one cure for this malady which strikes Great Britain every year at Christmastime and sends millions of its inhabitants gagging and heaving to the nearest gutter or toilet – and that’s to rid this island nation of the great menace itself. And yes, folks, it can be done!

We have to take matters into our own hands. After all, do you see Amnesty International coming to our rescue? Hell no. We’re on our own. So that means we need to take drastic action against this musical pestilence lest it rears its ugly head again next Christmas (and you just know it will!). So what I’m proposing is this: the Death to Noddy Holder Fan Club.

I urge you to take up arms now and enlist. Who knows? If we band together in battle, we might be lucky enough to spend Christmas 2010 with one less agony to endure. So let’s see some of that fighting spirit that made Britain great. It worked during World War II – it can work again!

The full unadulterated evil of this menace can be found here. Watch and listen if you dare! http://www.youtube.com

Mitzi Szereto and Teddy Tedaloo at London bears and friends soiree

Don’t worry, you’ve not accidentally stumbled into the Queen Vic to get a right old bollocking off Peggy Mitchell.

On the contrary, we’re talking strictly upmarket here. Indeed, the society event of the season has just passed. I’m speaking, of course, about the “Kristmist pinteded and fooded meetup for bearz and frendz”. Only a select few were invited to this exclusive London soiree arranged by Teddy Tedaloo, my bear and the talented Production Assistant Extraordinaire at Mitzi TV.

The event was organised via Facebook and attended by such London luminaries as Fred (a rambunctious chimp who can’t hold his liquor) and his human; Winston (a well-behaved dog) and his parents; Diane (who for some inexplicable reason had forgotten to bring Angus the penguin); and a mutual friend Geoff, who’s the only person in town I can get into a lively London-bashing conversation with.

Teddy Tedaloo with Winston and Fred

Everyone met up on a rainy Saturday afternoon at a cosy pub tucked away off a main road in Maida Vale near Little Venice – a wise locational decision on Ted’s part, considering the Christmas shopping mayhem in Central London, along with what was threatened to be the biggest climate control protest to ever hit the city (whether it was or not, I’ve no idea). Being holiday time, Ted lucked in with two really posh bars of chocolate, which I’m hoping he’ll share with me. Mind you, so far he’s not made any move in that direction, though I live in hope.

Teddy Tedaloo and all his mates

It was decided that we needed a group photo to commemorate the occasion. Well, count on a man to sort things out. Geoff found the drunkest person in the pub to take it. After I explained to our photographer several times that he needed to push the little button on top of the camera halfway down to focus, then press firmly to capture the image, I began to suss that this geezah was no Ansel Adams. He eventually sat in a chair and proceeded to balance the camera on his nose, leaning so far back that I was certain he’d topple over and crack his skull (which might’ve been an improvement). Had he broken my camera I’d have decked him big time. Mind you, I should’ve decked that rough-looking barmaid who directed some rather rude species-ist comments our way. Good thing it isn’t customary to tip in pubs, or the beyatch would be down the soup kitchen. Having said that, she probably wouldn’t be unemployed for long. Peggy Mitchell would probably hire her, since the woman has just the right amount of “dead common” to qualify for a downmarket East End boozer!

Unfortunately, a brawl broke out between Ted and Fred, no doubt resulting from too much Cornish ale and some testosterone-infused cross-species rivalry. I tell you, you ain’t seen nuffink till you’ve seen a bear and a chimp go at it in bare-knuckle fighting. (Like, who needs “Fight Club“?) Ted was throwing jabs and hooks that would’ve made Muhammad Ali sit up and take notice! To be honest, I knew Fred would be trouble the moment I saw that chavvy bit of bling he was wearing round his neck. One of our party (whom I won’t mention out of concern for his/her personal safety) suggested that he might’ve been trying to get a bit funny with Ted; apparently the chimp isn’t averse to a bit of action, the likes of which I dare not mention in mixed company! Winston sat quietly at the sidelines, remaining well out of the mayhem and observing the fracas with cool canine amusement.

Teddy Tedaloo and Fred pass out from too much exertion and ale

Thankfully by the end of the evening, everyone was friends again, though that gobby barmaid better not get near any of us in this lifetime, I’ll say that much.

Will we do it again? You betcha! In fact, we’ve already got RSVPs for the next “pinteded and fooded meetup”, which will take place sometime early next year! Though it’s unlikely we’ll be returning to the same pub. For one thing, that barmaid really got up our noses.

For another, we’ve been barred!

Teddy Tedaloo and his mates sober up for the journey home

Police videotape of the pub brawl between Ted and Fred

Shanklin, Isle of Wight

Now I ask you, what better weekend to head to an island off the southern coast of England than a weekend predicted to be filled with gale-force winds and slashing rain?

Being Britain, you can never count on the weather or, for that matter, the weather report. However, this time the Met Office didn’t lie. It was everything they’d predicted and more. Good thing I was headed to the Isle of Wight to teach a writing course, not rooftop yoga! Despite the ominous warnings, the crowded ferry ride from Portsmouth Harbour to Ryde wasn’t nearly as exciting as I’d hoped. In fact, it was highly uneventful. We didn’t sink.

Rude local drink

I’m pleased to say that this year the island was really geared up for my arrival. They’d even brewed up a batch of some special stuff in honour of Literotica, my erotic writing workshop at the Old Grange. Hell, I was lucky to get the last bottle – apparently they were flying off the shelf at the local shop (which isn’t just for local people!).

Yeah, I know: everyone thinks I schlep down to the Isle of Wight every autumn just to teach my Literotica workshop. The truth is, I actually go there because I adore the local pub in Shanklin’s old village. Oh sure, I do find some time to teach, but I live for Saturday night when I’m done for the day and can go chill out with a pint of real ale and listen to some live acoustic music.

This year I was disappointed to learn that my usual pint of Village Idiot would not be happening; apparently the brewery had gone bust. So I opted for a very agreeable Caledonian ale, which had somehow made its way from Scotland all the way down to the Isle of Wight. Those Scots are robust folk, I’ll grant you that. Must be all that haggis.

It seemed the pub was expecting me. Heck, I should’ve brought along copies of my new book “In Sleeping Beauty’s Bed: Erotic Fairy Tales” and had a book signing! My usual table situated right next to the musicians was empty and virtually had my name on it, so I settled in for the evening, getting up close and personal to the lead singer/guitarist, whose repertoire this year was far better than in previous years. He also looked far better too. Not quite sure why that was, but hey, who am I to complain? The sight of his nicely bulging… umm… tricep as he strummed his gee-tar was a right treat after the rather mediocre pub meal I hadn’t particularly enjoyed. Unfortunately Vampira, his apparent girlfriend, was hovering around like the proverbial vampire bat, putting a damper on everyone’s evening!

Despite the musicians finishing up an hour earlier than scheduled, we were in it for the duration, and yet more Caledonian ale kept appearing in front of me courtesy of one of the workshop participants, a lively Irish lass who clearly didn’t want me to leave. And the sudden downpour outside wasn’t exactly encouraging me either. However, with the music over and Teddy waiting impatiently in our giant bed back in our room, I was getting edgy. So too, were the pub staff, as tables were suddenly being polished right in front of our noses, chairs set upside-down on table tops, and lights switched off.

Like can we take a hint or what?

Teddy Tedaloo decides to go boating

And so passes yet another Literotica erotic writing workshop on the Isle of Wight. I wonder: will my regular table be waiting for me next year at the village pub? Will the same musicians be there entertaining the punters? Will I get guff off the bear for returning to our room so late?

Guess I’ll have to wait till autumn 2010 to find out.