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It is to be understood that this thing is not meant to be a proper Con report, but merely the impressions of a neofan at his first convention.
On Friday, April 12th, 1963, I set out for my first convention. It was a bright, warm morning. Earlier on Gerry Webb had come round in his car to pick up my taper which I hoped to be able to use. Then I picked up my suitcase, filled with clean shirts and TENSORs, and set off. I had been fortunate enough to obtain a travel warrant from the army, which took me from Ealing Broadway to Peterborough North absolutely free. When I changed trains at King's Cross, I scoured the countryside looking for an Indian Restaurant, for I was absolutely drooling in anticipation of a Madras Meat, not having been able to afford one since Christmas. However it appeared that there were no available Indian-type nosh houses in the area. So I went back to the station and caught the 1.25, telling myself what a wonderful meal I would have at Peterborough. I spent most of the journey reading TENSOR, and trying to tell myself that it wasn't really as bad as all that. Soon the train drew up in Peterborough station, and I made my way down to the street. As I set off down the road, on the other side I saw a group of people who had just got off the same train. Now was that Jim Groves or not? (At this point I'd better say that the only fans I had ever met up until this time had been Jim Groves and Ethel Lindsay). I decided not to go over as I might have been mistaken (actually it was Jim, and one of the others was Brian Varley). I asked about a bit, trying to find an Indian Restaurant, but in each case the people concerned said that they had never heard of one in Peterborough. What, thought I, can it be that there are some places so far from the stream of civilisation that they cannot boast of even these most essential of amenities? I had lost my copy of the East Fanglian Times containing the map, and the terrain seemed nothing like what I had remembered. However, after passing the thing about three times, I eventually found the 'Bull'. I registered for my room, and made with the unpacking. Then I ventured out and made my way down to the BSFA reception desk. The programmes had not yet arrived, so I lounged about the area. Suddenly a voice called out, "Are you Langdon Jones?" I looked, around and saw a young lady with a vaguely familiar face, I stood there in some amazement trying to think of who could possibly know me. It turned out to be Simone Walsh, who used to knock about with our little gang when I was about fourteen, I stood there amazed. Could this charming, self assured, attractive young lady (it's all right. Simone, I'm only "buttering you up " because your husband has a sub to TENSOR) be the adolescent kid I used to know? It made me realise with a shock how time can slip past when one is not looking. After a few questions on how the other members of our little group had been doing, I decided to explore the place a bit. I ended up in the fan display room. There I met Ethel Lindsay and Jim Groves, who were trying to turn out a page of forms on a little Emgee duper. I met more and more new faces and forgot more and more names, popping down now and again to see whether the programmes had arrived yet. I met Ella Parker who was sitting at the BSFA reception desk, and eventually received my programme. This was rather a funny procedure, rather like being doled put with army kit. One moved along the table and was given a program, a souvenir pencil, a badge and a little Easter egg. Which reminded me that I was hungry. I went for a meal at the 'Mayflower/fair?' with Max Jakubowski, and someone whose name I forget. Once back in the hotel I established myself in the bar, and waited for Gerry Webb to arrive with my taper. Gerry soon arrived with his girl, and soon after the gear was safely in my room, it was time for the programme to start. I'm afraid that my memory of the Con has degenerated into one big period of drunken pleasure, even if I was actually high for only one evening, I suppose the tiredness contributed to this memory-smearing. So all I remember of the first two items, which are marked in my programme as a Welcome at 8.00 and the Aldiss/Hothouse at 8.30, were various people being introduced, and trying to guess the last lines of various stories. Then there was an auction conducted by Ken Slater, who, incidentally looked nothing like I had imagined him, I had visualised a tall, stooped, old ex-army type. It was interesting to meet these people I had read about, and to see how much they differed from what I had imagined. Ken Cheslin I had imagined as a very tall thin anaemic type, Archie Mercer as a young, freckle-faced schoolboy (no reflection on your writing, Archie, I think it was the name in most cases that gave me a picture of the people concerned). The only person who turned out remotely as I had imagined was Jim Linwood. After the programme was over I had a look round the pro room, winning a very fine lavatory brush on a number machine, a sort of emasculated ERNIE, but, alas, no lavatory to go with it. There was a wonderful selection of artwork, and I would have hated the job of judging it. There was an interesting exhibit, stuffed miserably away in one corner, called 'The Artwork of Aldiss", This contained many examples of- well – 'interesting' work. Like an old sandal mounted on a piece of wood, and called 'Progress'. And a piece of dyed tissue paper, Izal, I'm sure, called 'Epidermis'. A rather new angle on Leda and the Swan was given by the title of another picture called 'A Problem in Genetics'. But there was some serious work there that I liked very much. Finally I went back to my room, and turned in at about 1.00. Next morning I awoke too late for breakfast. Cursing quietly to myself I shaved, got ready, then made my way downstairs. The programme started with a talk by Bruce Montgomery. I'm afraid I am pure robot in my outlook until about two hours after I get up, and so I remember next to nothing of this. I began to wake up during the next item, which was a talk by Harry Harrison, 'Sex and Censorship in SF'. Harry gave examples of things that had been banned by science-fiction editors, and then demonstrated them done to a much greater degree elsewhere. During the discussion that followed, John Carnell surprised me by an outburst in which he said that he considered 'bastard' a disgusting word. This seems to me to be a rather strange attitude for a magazine editor. Max Jakubowski, Jim Groves and myself want out to the Mayflower/fair?/ fly? which seemed to be full of fans, then wandered back to the 'Bull'. I had been warned by someone that if I recorded nothing else in my life again, to record Ted Tubb conducting the auction. So I got back from the May-thing with plenty of time to spare. However when I took my taper to the hall, it was full of people in fancy-dress and reporters. Quietly cursing the daily press I put my taper away, I wish I hadn't. It is useless trying to describe the thing, if you have ever seen Ted Tubb conducting an auction you will know what I mean. The highlight of this auction was when Ted was trying to convince us that the handful of crud he was selling was good radiation protection, "A few shillings will buy four inches of safety for the wife and kids" he said earnestly... After the auction I made my way to the fan display room. There I met some more people. It was wonderful meeting these people I had read about for the first time. To tell you the truth, judging from the fanzines I had read, I expected, as a neofan, to be a sort of social outcast. However, this wasn't so at all, I found everyone most friendly. I remember Ethel Lindsay saying that as it was labelled a fan display room, she'd jolly well have a fan display. So we all submitted to having little notices clipped on us; fake fan, fringe fan, active fan, super fan, neo fan and even, Godhelpus, non fan. The only trouble was, after all that, only one person came in the room to look at us, so we just had to sit looking at each other, I met Tony and Simone Walsh, who promised to give me a call in the morning so that I didn't miss breakfast again. Next there was an interesting slide show, conducted by Peter Hammerton, of the Lincoln Astronomical Society, which although very good, erred a little by underestimating the knowledge of the average sf reader. However, there were many beautiful slides, and the show was very interesting. Then I went out with Alan Rlspin, Diane Golding. and a shadowy figure that may or may not have been Jim Groves (my memory!) to the 'Great Wall' for an oriental-type nosh up, I had a highly inferior curry, and thought nostalgically of Madras Meat. On the way back Alan tried to buy a quart of beer, but strangely enough, the woman in the shop said she had never heard of beer sold by the quart! When we got back to the hotel, as soon as the bar was open I established myself therein, and managed to get a few words in to Bruce Montgomery, before Amis made his grand entry into the hotel. Then I made my way to the hall, where the fancy dress party was in progress. I talked for a while, competed in the soggy races, and then watched the fancy dress. It was quite a spectacular show, but it was completely stolen by one person, A horrible monstrosity came into the room. It had a long, flowing beard, and was covered from head to foot in type¬written sheets. It was wearing a tall hat also covered with paper. It had various notices hung all over it saying things like, 'Unfair to Authors', 'Bring Back Books', 'Down With TV' (l hope the cameraman was watching), 'Wife and Three Typists to Support', and on the back, a cryptic 'No Smoking'. Someone screamed out, in hysterics, "It's Ted Tubb" and indeed it was. That was the best entrance I have ever seen. Later, I was wandering about the hotel when Ella told me of the party in her room. I managed to get a few square inches of space on one of the beds and watched the crowds of people pouring in the door. At one time, in this small room, there were fifty-three people. A fellow called Burn did some sort of strange dance in the centre of the room, after a little space had been painfully cleared. Then there was an amazing demonstration of the powers of hypnotism that left us all laughing/gasping. I remember Brian Aldiss bursting in and firing a gun, shocking me out of the stupor I had been falling into. Finally everyone began to depart, so I said goodbye, and left. It was a fine party, thank you Ethel and Ella. By now the time was about four in the morning, and as I collapsed into the bed, I consoled myself with the thought that at least I would be able to get a breakfast next morning. I awake at 10.15, rather too late for breakfast. I hurriedly got ready and made my way with the taper to the hall. The programme had not yet started, so I was able to get everything set up. Firstly there was a discussion on TAFF, chaired by Ethel Lindsay, during which several valid points were made with regard to altering some of the details of TAFF. Then followed the BSFA AGM, which I just could not face at that time in the morning. After a meal at the 'Great Wall', I wandered back to the hotel in time to hear an interesting talk by Geoff Doherty, during which I wished I was in a more cognizant state. Unfortunately the talk had to be cut a little for time was running out. I think this sort of thing should be put on at the beginning of a Con, so that everyone is able to muster a little concentration. Then followed the pro panel, in which the people had to be changed by shifts. This rambled on interestingly, There was an outburst from Mack Reynolds at the end, during which he condemned a remark made by Kingsley Amis earlier on. According to Mack Reynolds, Amis had sneered at a Russian sf story in which the aliens were assumed to be peaceful. However, I have got the remark concerned on tape, and upon playing it back I have found that Amis was not sneering at the fact that the aliens were assumed to be peaceful, but at the kind of logic that assumed that to have achieved space-travel they must be Socialist, therefore they were peaceful. Then there was the Gafia Show, slides presented by Eric Bentcliffe. After this I wandered round the hotel for a while, finding out, incidentally, that Tony and Simone had missed breakfast themselves. Then I went to see 'Metropolis', a very fine film, in which Archie Mercer co-starred with a fellow called Rotwang. The comments from the audience were enough to make this a really entertaining part of the Con. But, considering when the film was made, it really was an amazing thing, the sets were stupendous. By the time 'Metropolis' finished it was after midnight, and it was decided not to show 'Orphee' again. I wandered upstairs, and walked round the hotel talking and lounging about. I finally wandered into Mike Moorcock's party. Mike was quite worried as I had paid him some money for booze, and then hadn't turned up to drink it. However I got as much of my money's worth as I could. Later I wandered out into the corridor and found a party going full-swing there too, at the top of the stairs. I remember passing Ted Tubb as he was reading the palm of Gerry's girl and saying, "Ah yes, you are a woman of tempestuous passion,..,,," and the girl looking up at him, drinking in every word. For some reason things began to get a little blurry. I remember collaring a bottle from somewhere, goodness knows where. Max Jakubowski was sitting at a typewriter, staring at a sheet of paper containing the words THE SHAVEN SUN. Mighod, thought I, what a wonderful title, I eventually persuaded him to let me type out the story, I got very engrossed in this epic, and just remember being infuriated by some woman called Ina Shorrock, who kept saying, "Ooh, we haven't got one of those on our typewriter…" and pressing all the available keys. Still, I unintentionally got my own back by confusing her with Inchmery. At last I perfected the epic to my own exacting satisfaction, and cried, "look everybody!" There was silence. I looked up, and found that I was completely on my own, I picked up the typer and staggered downstairs to the lounge. There I found Mike Moorcock, Max Jakubowski, Ron Bennett and Ted Tubb. I gave the typer back, and collapsed into an armchair, I looked at the window, through which the light of dawn was greyly shining, and I thought with satisfaction, "well, at least I'll get breakfast tomorrow." There followed a drunken (at least on my part) conversation on the merits of Bradbury. Suddenly my memory of the conversation cuts off completely. I was manhandled into wakefulness by Ella Parker. The lounge was full of light, and people, I looked desperately at my watch. The time was 10.30. I made a valiant effort to arise from my chair, and finally made it, I staggered slowly and weakly up to my room and glanced into my mirror, shuddering. A pair of black-rimmed, bloodshot eyes, set in an unshaven, pale face, glared malevolently back at me. "Never again,' I muttered to myself. Well, this was it, the final day, It was very sad, making my way round the hotel, watching everyone packing and leaving. I got packed up, wandered round saying goodbye to a few people, and soon the time came for me to go, I didn't want to leave, in fact I delayed so long that I only just got onto the platform of Peterborough station as the train thundered in. I travelled back to King's Cross with Brian and Frances Varley, Jim Groves, Ted Forsyth and Ted Ball. And that was my first Con. Roll on '64. |
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- (from LES SPINGE #11, June 1963) ---- VALERIE PURNELL:
Ah yes, Peterbro';
Ah, nostalgic memories -
A Con highlight
I don't know that Ella
Say, who remembers
And the corridor party ------- ARCHIE MERCER: FROM MY UNCONVENTIONAL NOTEBOOK Being some highly personal recollections of Peterborough in '63. PREAMBLE The notebook from which these oddments have been taken is about as unconventional as you can get. A conventional notebook exists, has a corporeal being. Mine doesn't, and hasn't. Which is an excuse for a title if nothing else.
THERE WERE A LOT OF GOOD PEOPLE AT THE CON Ken Slater for one, who has given up a lot of his time these past months (including earning time) in order to organise things. The result was first-class. Ella and Ethel, of course, who threw one of their open parties to which the attendees flocked fifty at a time. Whenever they saw a free square foot of floor space, Bruce Burn and Maxim Jakubowski squatted down and Russian-danced against each other until both fell over. Another time (still the same party) Eric Jones tried to hypnotise somebody - I forget who. He stood there behind him repeating over and over; "You are falling backwards ... falling backwards ... backwards". As I happened at the time to be sitting on a window ledge straight in front of a wide open window, I'm rather glad it didn't work out properly. There were, of course, several outstandingly Good People who couldn't make it for personal reasons. These included Peter Mabey (winner of the Doc Weir Award which he well deserved) and Jill Adams (for whom Jim Groves deputised nobly as a Long Arm of the B.S.F.A. Treasury - Collections Dept.).
THERE WERE A LOT OF NEW FACES, TOO. Far too many for me to remember, for the most part. Lang Jones who seems to have sprung from Ella's head as a full-grown trufan, is more memorable than most for that reason. To any of the rest of you who may be reading this, my apologies. From the first night onward I managed to have just enough to drink, and just enough sleep, to become an almost perfect case of walking euphoria. I wouldn't know, but I felt akin to the mescalin takers one reads about. In some ways my senses were perceptibly sharpened, in others they were dulled. This matter of names and faces unfortunately falls into the latter class. But whoever you were, I enjoyed meeting you. A specific sub-category of new face is the newly-acquired wife. Here I single out Wendy Freeman. She's not very big - she admits to four-eleven-and-a-half, and is the only person of either sex I ever remember hearing admit to under five foot - but what there is of her is simply bubbling over with fun. Keith says his recent gafiation was not entirely on her behalf - the exigencies of service life (he's in the Air Force and they keep moving him about) are also to blame. But if it had been, it would have been entirely understandable. As it is, I'm glad Keith's back - and Wendy with him.
I'VE HEARD OF NEOFANS, BUT THIS IS RIDICULOUS Actually it's nothing of the kind, but perfectly reasonable. People will get married and have children - in fact one is given to understand that the future of the race depends on it. If a married couple with children both wish to attend a Con, then they have two alternatives - to bring the kids, or leave them behind, And more and more fannish couples are doing the former. At both Harrogate and Peterborough, the Shorrocks have brought two of their four with them - the oldest and the youngest, the former to look after the latter. And if that sounds like child slavery to you, then obviously you don't know the Shorrock family. Janet Shorrock manages to get her full quota of enjoyment from the weekend, largely in the company of Susie Slater - also a veteran of two Cons now. The Bulmers brought their two little girls, but these were never seen far away from one or the other parent. Harry Harrison and his wife brought one of each - a boy Tod and a girl toddler - who seemed somewhat shy but still ran happily about the hotel. Sundry other juvenile fannish progeny showed up from time to time; in fact I can't recall having seen so many fannish offspring in one place before. I remember on the Monday morning passing along the corridor on the way to my room, to find It entirely blocked by a mixed quintet racing along it on hands and knees, comprising Janet and Alan Shorrock, Susie Slater, and the two Harrison kids. Then they crawled into one of the bedrooms, and vanished from sight. I hope to see them all there again next year, and more like them. (Look who's talking - I've always reckoned I don't like kids. Perhaps it's got something to do with the fact that when I don't like a kid I probably don't care for at least one of its parents either.)
FOOD, ANYONE? The Great Wall Chinese Restaurant was invaded by a huge horde of ravenous fans, for whom there was no room. The Liverpool mob (mighty eaters and drinkers to a man - or woman) were at the front, and as many of them as possible were accommodated in a hidden alcove that was apparently kept for emergencies. A quartet of Cheltenham and ex-Cheltenham fans annexed a single table that happened to be vacant at the time, and several London fans had already fissioned off to take space at the other end of the room. That left three of us - John Roles, Humph, and me. John had somehow got left over from the Liverpool lot, Humph perhaps hadn't been able to make up his mind in time if he was Liverpool or Cheltenham for the occasions and I'm always different anyway. The two Johns (Humph's a John, though it's difficult to think of him as one) sat down at a nearby table where the couple who had the other two places were almost finished, and I went and sat by myself until things altered. So I sat and sat, gazing now round the other strange faces at my table, glancing now and then at the John table to see how the stiffs were progressing. They weren't. They finished their coffees and lit cigarettes. They had their smoke. Then very, very slowly and methodically the young man got up, fetched the girl's coat, and put it on her. Then he went back to drag out a shopping bag or something from the back. Then at long last they ambled on their way. I got up and whipped across the room and into one of the vacant seats. "It's just like the FAPA waiting-list," I commented. The Minister Grill (or the Monster Grill or the Grinster Mill, I could never make up my mind which) was part of a pub, and on a Sunday boasted but one waitress who was as a consequence run off her feet. I trailed in at the back of a Cheltenham-oriented sextet. There was a table for six vacant, with (due to the layout of the place) no possibility of adjusting this maximum. Caught again. So I sat down at the next table, which boasted Mike Moorcock, Ted Tubb, and somebody else whose name I forget. They had already ordered, when the waitress brought their stuff I managed to get my order in, and was away from the place by the time the Cheltenham table were starting on their first course. If only I'd been able to get hold of one of Brian Burgess's meat pies, I'd have been making no complaints against the weekend's cuisine.
VALERIE PURNELL, ANYONE? Val is rather a striking hybrid. To describe her in a nutshell (if she'd fit) one could almost say that a cosmetic face hides a cosmic mind. Outwardly, she is every bit the typical late-teenage 'femme fatale' such as one sees on every street corner any week-end. Once one gets talking to her however, it soon becomes apparent that she's anything but - it's just that for some reason (possibly protective coloration) she likes to look one. Her face may not be her own; her mind certainly is her own. Anyway, she's attended two Cons in succession now. If only somebody could get her interested in fanzines, she could easily prove a Very Good Thing.
I MET MACK REYNOLDS For many years I've had a 'thing' about Mack Reynold's stories. It wasn't just that I didn't enjoy reading them. It would be more true to say that I enjoyed not reading them. And as I'm only in fandom for enjoyment after all, I sooner or later did the obvious thing and stopped reading them altogether, and was far happier for it. Thus, when I heard that Mack was to be present at the Con, I wasn't precisely enthusiastic. I took the news stoically. I'll leave him alone, I thought, and he'll leave me alone. I'd still go to the Con, even if Randall Garrett was scheduled to appear. And that seemed to be that. Except that that wasn't. Somehow I found myself on the Friday (I think) night as one of a small bunch in Mack's room, drinking his spirits sitting in on the edge of a conversation which he very much dominated. Dominated not through big-headedness, but simply because what he had to say about things in general was eminently worth listening to.v Damn it - Mack's not only a Good Man, he's a nice man. There should be more like him. Next time I come across a story of his, I'll read it. And I'll even be prepared to like it.
THE DAN MORGAN/DON COWLAN ALL-STARS The Fancy Dress Party on the Saturday evening was accompanied by a portly middle-aged quintet under the name of 'Don Cowlan's Band'. For an hour or three they sat there bashing or blowing away according to type, while the odd couple took the floor or left it alone. Their playing was all that was to be expected of a dance-gig combo - adequate but perfunctory. They were what they were being paid for, and nobody was paying them to like it. All of a sudden there was a stir at the back of the room. Somebody was unpacking a guitar-case, and then Dan Morgan stepped matter-of-factly up to the musical end, sat down, and began to play. The difference could be felt immediately. With Dan leading (yes, the Dan Morgan),the band swung into a happy hour of mainstream jazz that proved entirely satisfying to those who still remained - including this traddie.
THE TRIUMPH OF TIME - The postponed after-hours unfinished business meeting was an experience unique in my recollection, and an object lesson in sheer cussed persistence. The main business left unfinished from that morning (Sunday) was the question of who would run next year's Con. We had a site - same place as this year's. We had certain offers of specific assistance - including one from Ken Slater, who could not have been blamed in the least if he'd insisted on a year's complete relaxation after all the work he's put into this one. But so far nobody had come forward to accept responsibility for general coordination, which those with experience agreed was the king-pin of the whole setup. The meeting was, in effect, chaired jointly by Ken Slater and Bobbie Gray - Ken because he was this year's Con Chairman, and Bobbie because she'd been conducting the BSFA business meeting. It started half an hour later than scheduled (people were eating) and gradually snowballed as more and more fans crowded into the little lounge, many of them quitting 'Orphee' (which, though I didn't see any of it myself, I understand called for considerable devotion to fandom on the part of those leaving it) in order to be in on the deliberations. And we argued and we argued and we argued. We argued round in circles, in fact. Somebody would say something, suggest somebody's name perhaps, or ask a question. The suggestee would decline "on the grounds that...", or the question would be answered, Ken or Bobbie would complete the circular argument and start again in the same place as before. More suggestions. More regretful refusals. More questions. And somehow the shape of the circle would subtly shift, as Ken (or Bobbie) started the argument again - from (if it were possible) a slightly different side of the same place. And suddenly the circle was broken. Some subtle shift in the formula some illumination sparked by a casual but pointed interjection from somebody, had left open a way out of the circle. And Tony Walsh - may much egoboo accrue to his name - had agreed to accept the job. If he hadn't, I think we could easily have been there all night. I understand they elect Popes the same way. But I'm damned if I can remember a word that was said - or by who.
A QUESTION OF BARONY I suppose the whole thing's pretty trivial anyway, and its genesis certainly was. I was sitting with a married couple (who shall be nameless) when it occurred to me to suggest - quite logically from the conversation - that the man should inscribe his convention-label with the title "Baron". "But he's not," said, the wife immediately and emphatically. Now in ordinary mundane company, such a remark could expect to be greeted by either sniggers or shock, depending on who was present. However, the way she said it, it was neither salacious nor snigger-worthy, but a statement of simple fact delivered entirely naturally and unselfconsciously by one who had good reason to know whereof she spoke. It still looks terribly trivial now I have it down on paper. But its significance to me is this: when one's friends can say that sort of thing in that sort of way, then one is indeed amongst friends. See you all next year anyway, same place, same time, ok? And London in '65. ------- KEN CHESLIN: I remember how impressed I was with the complexity of staircases and corridors at the Bull. At least twice on the first day my room vanished (well, more or less) and I was sore puzzled on subsequent occasions. For example, when I was hunting for room 258, which I'd left to forage for food just a few minutes before, it seemed as if some villain had replaced it with room 158 (Shorrocks or Slaters room I think). 258 eventually reappeared, and I squeezed back in to join Ella, Ethel and what appeared to be the remainder of the con members. Well, maybe not quite all of them, it wasn't all that big a room. But a count did produce 53 people and this party was the root of a jest at the showing of METROPOLIS the next day. The hero, see, is determined to share the plight of the workers (who have to suffer underground factories and living quarters) and descends to the depths to be with them. At one partic¬ular door he pauses for a moment, then opens it. With the opening of the door vast clouds of steam billow out, in an extremely alarming fashion, and this was greeted by cries of "Oh my Ghod, it's 258!" etc. And as some 53 of the people at the film show had been in 258 they well appreciated the sally. The slide show, given by a couple of the Lincoln Astronomy Club members, was pretty good. The slides were the main item of interest of course, particularly the ones by Bonestell, and no doubt the commentary would be very interesting to people less versed in the genre than the SFictional audience present at the time. It was rather amusing to note the narrators simplification of terms - his plugging of the "black sky means no air" theme - but otherwise he did a pretty fair job. Harrison was a scream, again. This time he was on about the peculiar ideas of censorship in various prozines, with special reference to SF prozines. Harry makes the kind of...um...speech?, .that has to be listened to, participated in, to get the full benefit. Half the fun is in watching his antics and expressions. The fancy dress was, to me anyway, rather disappointing in numbers, considering the number of fans present - and the judging seemed, again to me, to be all up the creek. The lad who won the first prize deserved it though; he was one of the Manchester lot - one of a bunch of four. His rig-out was fairly conventionally a future-man type thing... but what really made it was the fact that he'd coloured his face and arms rather skillfully with some red greasepaint, or something similar which made the whole effect utterly fantastic. Tubb came rushing in just about as the whole fancy dress parade was disintegrating. My Ghod! He was glorious! He'd gotten himself an old shroud (I think)and stapled crudsheets all over it, and a topper festooned with signs like "Wife & 5 typers to support", "Down with TV","Read more Books" etc., and this, along with a fiercely bristling false beard created quite a spectacle. Reminded me of a holy hermit type, about to belt a few fat priests with his staff, or like that. Quite marvellous. Actually when Tedd and Iris Tubb came up to the Pen the Friday after the con there was some talk about asking the next con committee if they would like to organise a tourney at Peterborough next year. We figured that we could organise something along the lines of the Gloucester battle royal. But with a prize of some sort for the Victor, something that would be worth fighting for, something worth winning - such as an ATomillo. There are quite a few other things, Dave, that I fondly remember about the PeteCon, but so many of them can't be transcribed into words. The kind of atmosphere that pervades a con that's going well, the electric air of a pun or a lie swapping session, and the thundering buzz of a crowded room at 3am in the morning. You know how it is, you've been to a Con, do you think you could explain it to anyone who has never been to one.
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