Errant Ramblings: Mitzi Szereto’s Weblog

What’s a girl to do when her own bear upstages her?

A bear who hogs the limelight – it’s a problem I’ve had a number of times. Bad enough he blew me out of the water on Mitzi TV, not to mention pretty much knocked me off the page in the Sunday Telegraph a few years back. And it’s getting worse. Who do you think received an invitation last week to do a photo shoot in London? No, not me, but – you guessed it! Teddy. Like, what’s up with that?

I tell you, it never ends. He even steals my friends on Facebook.

Of course I had to agree to this caper, since I knew I’d never hear the end of it. So I packed a few changes of outfits for him (at his insistence) and what does he do? – sticks to his favourite red jumper and jeans. Here I’d been schlepping this stuff all over the place, only to end up not even needing it! Okay, I didn’t want to make a fuss; I admit the colour contrast between the red of his jumper and the black of my little vest top worked out quite well from an artistic perspective. Hey, I’ll give credit where credit is due – Teddy certainly has an eye for what works from a design perspective.

Which brings me to the London Underground. (How’s that for a nifty segueway?) I realise I haven’t had a good rant about the public transportation system in Blighty for awhile, and I didn’t wish to neglect this fertile subject. There’s nothing like a summery Saturday afternoon in Londoninium: the sun’s shining, there’s a nice breeze, people are happy (or at least their usual dour expressions are brightened by the sun, giving the appearance of “happy”). You figure hey, it was a productive day, we had some great photos shot, and we can get home early enough to chill out and fix a salad for dinner; there’s even time to stop off in Brick Lane for some Bengali sweets, since it’s practically around the corner from Whitechapel Road. What can possibly go wrong?

Dare you ask?

Thinking I’d save myself the hassle of passing through Liverpool Street station with its teeming mass of manic commuters who take delight in mowing you down at warp speed, I opted for the District line to Mile End, where I’d change to the Central Line to Stratford. I’d done it on the way in – easy peasy! It made perfect sense to do the same thing on the way out. Well, there’s no fool like a fool who travels on the London Underground. An ominous feeling began to take hold of me as our train sat for nearly ten minutes at Whitechapel station, with swearing and shouting Chelsea supporters (I presume they won) in the next car. Finally an announcement came on saying that we were waiting in order to “even out the gaps between services.” (At least there weren’t any leaves on the line or – considering it was the Underground – dead rats.)

At long last we lurched back into service. I rose from my seat in readiness to propel myself and my important passenger out the door at Mile End. Alas, that ominous feeling returned in full force when we sped past what appeared to be a station platform packed with commuters, our train barrelling deeper and deeper into the darkness beneath East London. The electronic signboard inside our car claimed the next station was Mile End. Well, if that were the case, Mile End should have been renamed Ten Mile End. And then we arrived.

In Bow.

Did I want to go to Bow? No, I didn’t want to go to Bow. Did Teddy want to go to Bow? Not that I was aware of. Fine, whatever. I figured the driver was probably some descendant of Jack the Ripper and was tormenting us by skipping stops. Being resourceful, I climbed the stairs and made my way round to the other side so I could catch another train heading back in the direction from whence I came. Made sense, right? Well, it did until I finally managed to decipher a garbled announcement informing us that Mile End station was closed due to a “passenger incident.” Now this could be anything: a suicide, an attempted suicide, some nutter pushing someone in front of a tube train…

Well, if someone wasn’t dead, I sure as hell felt inclined to help them on their way.

An official (loose usage of the term) from London Underground told me I could walk to the Docklands Light Railway. “Two minutes!” he claimed. If so, it was the longest two minutes I’ve ever experienced – and I’m a fast walker, especially when I have the safety of my bear to consider. Bow isn’t exactly … errr… Holland Park. It’s amazing how many friends you can make in London when you’ve been done over by public transport. I found a kind young gentleman who escorted me to the DLR, and he too, was wondering why two minutes seemed to be lasting a lifetime. As we waited on the platform, we marvelled at the fact that the DLR method of timekeeping jibes with any form of timekeeping known to man (or woman). The electronic signboard claimed seven minutes to the next train, but by everyone’s watch, it was more like fifteen. Funny, that.

To pass the time of day, my new friend entertained me with a tale of how he’d been late for work because a pregnant woman decided to suddenly give birth on the underground train he was riding in. His boss wasn’t having it, however. It was only when an article finally appeared in a newspaper featuring a beaming London Underground worker holding a baby that he got back into his boss’s good graces. Soon others chimed in with their tales of woe…

… until the DLR train arrived to ruin our fun.

Ted and I got home safely, albeit hungrily. It was 9:30 pm before I sat down to eat my salad. (I’d been reckoning on no later than 8 pm.) To be honest, I was so exhausted I barely managed it. Oh, well, who needs all those faddish diets with weird berries when you have the London Underground? The problem is, I’m not even on a diet!

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Yes, it’s that time of year again. Spring is on our doorstep, flowers are bursting into bloom, the sun is shining (at least some of the time); those heavy winter coats can finally be put away. A long holiday weekend is on the horizon – the Easter Bank Holiday weekend, which starts on Good Friday and runs through Bank Holiday Monday. Plenty to do, lots of places to go. A perfect time for some Erotic Travel Tales, if you’ve a mind to book a trip out of town.

Well, just try to bloody get anywhere!

The sadistic stooges who run the public transportation system here in Great Britain (and, more specifically, its overcrowded capital London) prefer to hold many of us hostage in our homes rather than allow us to actually go anywhere and maybe, just maybe, derive a few minutes of enjoyment from this bleak joke we call “Life”. Oh, they may not wear balaclavas, but they’re as mean and unscrupulous as any band of hostage-takers you’re ever likely to encounter. Who needs the IRA or Al Kaida when we have these railway charmers in our midst? Foolish little me for making plans for Good Friday for what sounded like a fun night out in Brick Lane consisting of several live bands plus some rather interesting-sounding beer. Easter Sunday held the promise of a cracking good Sunday roast lunch at a city pub with a bunch of American expats, no doubt followed by still more pubs and invariably a discussion of British immigration policies and teeth.

And I was really looking forward to it too.

Well baby, it ain’t gonna happen. Why? Because this weekend is going to be chock full of engineering work on the rail lines, including those of the London Underground. Weekends are usually fraught with this sort of thing at various locations throughout Greater London and beyond, but when it comes to bank holiday weekends, they really get out the big guns. Now it isn’t completely impossible to get where I need to go, but when the routing takes on all the proportions of a clandestine attack on a major world leader, it’s time to call it a day. Both events I’d planned to attend take place in the city, near London Liverpool Street station – generally an easy commute by train, 35 minutes or so. Not this weekend, however. The trains from where I live will not be running past a certain point, meaning I cannot get to either Liverpool Street station or Stratford East London (where I could catch the tube). If I were to even attempt such a journey, I’d end up on some convoluted acid-trip of a route which would take more than two hours one way for what should only be a half hour. And let’s not even talk about whether I’d be able to make it home at night.

Fine, I’m resourceful; I figured I’d be creative and find another way that, although inconvenient, would not be quite as inconvenient as what the National Rail website was proposing I do: I’d get off the train at Romford and change to the Romford to Upminster line, then catch the District line tube from there into the city and directly to Aldgate East – perfect and right where I needed to be! Not the most convenient or ideal routing, but do-able. Well, the District line at Upminster also isn’t running, thereby cutting off yet another large sector of the population from the city. I wasn’t beaten yet though. The C2C train goes from Upminster into the city – so I could still get that train from Romford to Upminster, then catch the C2C and get off at West Ham, where I’d catch the District line to Aldgate East. Hey, not so fast, madam! The Romford to Upminster line isn’t running at all, and what should normally be a short hop on this particular line would now take nearly two hours via, of all places, Southend (no wonder the National Rail website had an ad for the local Holiday Inn posted right above the train routes). And this time frame doesn’t even factor in the other legs of the journey.

Looks like I’m not going anywhere. This reminds me of those deadly virus movies where they isolate whole segments of the population so they don’t spread the disease and infect others. Seems like a hell of a lot of people from the Eastern edge of the capital out past the M25 will be stuck at home this Easter weekend – or not going anywhere near London anyway.

I find it interesting that many third-world countries manage to maintain, upgrade, and expand their rail systems without causing serious disruption to its residents, so why can’t Great Britain? As for our European neighbours, I can’t imagine the French, Spaniards, Greeks or Russians putting up with this crap. There would be rioting in the streets, politicians would be hung from the branches of trees and publicly neutered with a dull knife. Over here in Blighty they only seem to get the fighting spirit when their football team has lost – or, for that matter, won. Sure people may moan a bit, but then they go have a cup of tea, and the rail fares continue to spiral upwards for what has become an increasingly eroded level of service.

But don’t worry, be happy! The Olympics are coming to London, and those of us who live east of the city will be made to suffer even more than we already do just so the tourists who come here to spend their money can enjoy a state-of-the-art British public transportation system (now if that isn’t an oxymoron I don’t know what is) – with nice places to wait out of the cold and wind (been to the train platforms at Stratford lately? Perfect for catching pneumonia!), and nice shiny trains that aren’t reeking with the stench of greasy chips, or littered with the gnawed-over remnants of fast food, empty beer bottles and ripped-open condom packets (I don’t even want to think about where the contents of said packets have ended up).

I don’t know about you, but I wish to make a complaint! http://www.youtube.com

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I guess they don’t call it a “mosh pit” for nothing…

…as I found out on Monday night.

My Massachusetts lads were back in town again. Now if you don’t know who my lads are, we’re talking Staind, who have become somewhat of a grand musical passion of mine. Seether was opening for them, and I happen to like them too, although not with the same fervour which I reserve for Aaron and the boys.

Luckily, my mate “Alexi” is mad enough to queue up at gigs hours in advance in order to secure a good spot at stagefront. When I arrived at The Forum in Kentish Town at half past 6, I heard my name being called out – and there they all were, my mates from the Staind Hard Rock charity gig last September, including Steve the Headbanging Glaswegian, who’d given me that drumstick Aaron Lewis signed for me.

The heavy steel barrier was swung open for royalty to step through (that royalty being me of course!). And there in the freezing London night, we stood waiting for the venue’s doors to open, having a gay old time snapping pics and engaging in lighthearted banter. I even found a fellow Hungarian in the queue whose smile, when he found out my surname (and knowing its meaning), grew ever bigger. Not sure if anything else grew bigger – that would be a topic for another blog post!

Once inside, I managed to secure a place at the stage right in front of the barrier and right in front of the mike stand reserved for the lead singer – no one save for the security guys and the professional photographers could get any closer. This was going to be great. Or was it? To be honest, I nearly didn’t go to the gig at all, then pretty much decided to on my flight back to Blighty the other day. Having seen Staind back in September, I had misgivings about how I’d react and yes, I’ll admit that when they performed “Believe” I lost it and cried. The song has particular meaning to me, and when it was first released I really DID believe.

Still, it was worth it. I mean hey, when a bloke in the audience shouts out “I love you, Aaron!” you just gotta know these guys are good. Talking about love, I was certain I felt the little Scottish lad behind me pushing his erection into my bum (no it wasn’t Steve!). I figured he was just caught up in the excitement of the gig and the mosh pit (and having my fine self right there in front of him). I didn’t want to make a fuss, as he did seem like such a sweet lad, but enough was enough. It was then when I realised it was probably the box from my earplugs, which I’d stuck in my back jeans pocket. Guess that accounted for the wee laddie’s rather unimpressive… umm… stature?

When Seether first came out, I thought the mosh pit would be a breeze. Yes, I’d been warned by my mate who’d gone the night before that the Birmingham crowd had been a bit wild, but these spoiled Londoners shouldn’t be too bad. I felt confident I could stick it out – and stick it out reasonably unscathed. More fool me! Everything was fine until Seether launched into what lead singer and hair-dye afficionado Shaun Morgan referred to as “a love song.” Well, guess what that love song was? “Fuck Me Like You Hate Me.” This sentimental little ditty set off a near riot, and I had images of myself at A&E with broken ribs and a punctured lung. Talk about Dying For It…

This hysteria continued off and on, and I began to hope Seether would finish their set and go back to South Africa on the first flight out. Having been to two Staind gigs already, I thought conditions would improve. I should have known – the lads always get into some of their heavier songs at live gigs (I’m dying to see Aaron do an acoustic show). The moshing began in earnest and, despite signs at The Forum warning that crowd surfers would be ejected, so did the crowd surfing. At one point I had to duck down so low I was nearly on the floor as the very same lad once again sailed over our heads, with the crowd control guy dragging him out of our way. I’m not sure who I wanted to get away from more – the surfer or the crotch of the crowd control geezer, which was right in my face. I can only imagine what this scenario looked like to those who couldn’t tell what was happening.

Of course there’s no greater climax to a good evening out then the commute home. As usual, I’d checked the National Rail website in advance to make sure I wouldn’t be stranded. The only glitch in the system from what I could see was that I’d have to change overground trains at Stratford. I left Kentish Town dying of hunger and in plenty of time to get home, only to arrive at Liverpool Street station to find it virtually empty of people, and no sign of anyone working there except for some bin men who were ready to go home. According to the electronic board, a train was about to depart within minutes to Stratford, but it didn’t say which platform. I ran up and down, seeing no such train. I realised I’d better get out of there and quick, so I raced back to the tube (where I’d just come from) and jumped on the Central Line to Stratford.

Fortunately, there was a train scheduled for when I arrived, but not only was it to be on the wrong platform, but I’d have to stand in the cold for another 30 minutes for it to turn up. I made friends with an irate journalist from the Times, who blamed all these transportation cock-ups on the London Olympics. (All I can say is that I’d better emigrate the hell back out of here before 2012!) We killed time by chatting on the journey home as our train kept stopping for no discernible reason outside nearly every station, with us sitting and sitting as the hour grew later and later. (I’d like someone to please explain to me how I could leave Kentish Town just after 11pm and not get home till half past one. This journey shouldn’t have taken too much more than an hour.) As I despaired of ever seeing my bear again, I heard the sound of angels. Some passengers seated nearby were listening on their camera to the exact same music I’d heard earlier – we’d all come from the same gig!

Anyway, at least I got to hear about the journalist’s night out in the West End, which consisted of seeing an updated version of Romeo and Juliet which, unbeknownst to her and several other members of the audience, was a hiphop hodgepodge of the old version. According to my new buddy, the original cast had walked out due to the musical’s financial woes, leaving the new cast to read from scripts. Apparently most of the audience had walked out too, save for three old ladies, one of whom finally hobbled out of the theatre on one crutch.

And people wonder why I’d rather go to a gig than go to the theatre.

See the rest of the photos on: Flickr

Staind video I shot: http:/www.youtube.com

Seether video I shot: http://www.youtube.com

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