SHIELA BARNES
This year's EasterCon at Peterborough was my first-ever Convention. I thoroughly enjoyed it, despite the fact that I had been looking forward to it so much that it seemed it could not possibly live up to my expectations. About half way through, I suddenly realised it wasn't at all an anticlimax after all.
My overwhelming impression was one of friendliness and interestedness on the part of all the fans there. Even when parading in fancy dress, I felt perfectly at home.
The programme was very well planned except for a rather long gap on Sunday between the "Tribute to Nova" and E.C. Tubb’s speech. This was unfortunate as, being Sunday, there was little going in Peterborough. As a newcomer to such things, I found all the programme items quite interesting and some were very good. The films presented by the 'Alien' group were the funniest I've ever seen. "Frankenstein's Xperiment" was simply marvellous - I still go off into surreptitious giggles when I think of it. I hear that the 'Aliens' are doing a film show for the '65 WorldCon. They should set Hollywood back on its heels.
It was a good thing that the professional films were shown first - they would never have stood up to the comparison. I have a feeling that "The Running, Jumping and Standing Still Film" would grow on one, however. I certainly enjoyed it more at the second showing. The solar sequences of the factual film (typically, I've forgotten its name) were spectacular. "The Day the Earth Stood Still” was, by comparison, a mere pot boiler.
The costumes for Saturday's fancy dress competition, though few, were excellent. The judges must have had an extremely difficult task to choose five, but I think that the choices were the best possible under the circumstances.
The BSFA Annual General Meeting was more interesting than I had expected. It seems that Birmingham is going to be the new seat of government. I was favourably impressed by what I saw of the Brum boys - they seem a very level-headed lot. The best of luck, to them, anyway.
If anyone is still owed money from the Sunday morning auction, it's all my fault. Just think what a good cause it's going to, and try to be tolerant.
I have heard only one person criticise the programme - Twisher Platt. He said that he thought there was not enough planned. I think that any more items wouId have made it overloaded. The Con is essentially an informal get together of fans who probably see each other only that once a year. So why should they put official items in front of people seeing and getting to know each other. Anyway, see you next year at Brum!
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A NEO’S GUIDE TO THE PETERBOROUGH CON (or HELP! I AM A PRISONER IS A QUOTECARD FACTORY)
CHARLES E SMITH
It is now four days since I got back from the con and I am now sitting in front of my typewriter, trying to make some sense out of the confusion and disorder that exists in my mind about the events that took place at Peterborough. I'm not even sure as yet whether I enjoyed myself or not. This is one of the reasons that I want to get my impressions down on paper so that I can sort them out and decide finally what really happened. If you're expecting a report full of details of the programme, I'm afraid you're going to be out of luck, since, for one reason or another I seemed to see very little of the official programme; there seemed to be too much going on outside that I didn't want to miss.
My con started early Friday morning; I had arranged to meet friend Lang Jones at Ealing Broadway station at half-past nine so as to be in plenty of time to catch the 11:05 train from King's Cross. Let me state here and now that I take no responsibility for this unearthly hour; I blame it all on Lang Jones. He's one of these people who have to get to their destination well ahead of time in order to be sure of being on time. I tried to dissuade him but he must have a magnetic personality or something, (I received further proof of this as the con progressed); for I finally found myself persuaded, against my better judgement, to fall in with his plans.
I don't know if any of you have ever visited Ealing, the queen of the suburbs, but if you have you'll know that it doesn't look its best at this time in the morning. It was depressing just having to wait for buses: the semi-gloom weighed heavy and the hold-all, clutched in my hot sticky left hand, dragged more and more as I stood waiting outside the new, modern, improved Ealing Broadway station which was just as depressing as ever. Suddenly I saw the dark-suited figure of Lang Jones approaching me. Anyone who has seen Lang's normal appearance, his old dilapidated jacket, revealing his elbows in all their naked splendour for all the world to see, and the baggy, creaseless trousers with the hole in the knee, will know just what sort of traumatic shock this was likely to cause. I had always enjoyed going out with him, Lang; next to anyone else I would have looked my usual sloppy, casual self: with Lang I looked as if I’d been dressed in Saville Row, which is very heartening for the old ego. To see him now a picture of sartorial elegance just spoiled my day for me. The only cheering thing I saw was that he had been conned by Norman Sherlock into carrying his tape-recorder for him. Heh, heh, he-heh.
Little did I know at this time just how susceptible I was myself to the Lang Jones persuasive powers. Had I known, I would hardly have laughed as I did. Before I knew what I was doing, I was offering to help him with it, out of the goodness of my heart.
I received another jolt when we changed trains at Acton Town. Lang bet me a shilling that the Picadilly Line train would be in to the station within three minutes. Thinking I was on to a good thing, I took him up on it. He must have been coming there for weeks, timing how quickly the trains came in; right on three minutes the dad-blasted train drew in. I did consider claiming a foul but decided against it. I paid up like a gentleman, a forced grin on my face (more of a sneer I suppose, really), Two young girls then proceeded to throw themselves at my feet - I have these sexy toe-nails, you see. Lang, of course, the unromantic clod, was convinced that they were simply in a hurry to get onto the train and I happened to be in the way but I refused to listen. Killjoy!
We arrived at King's Cross with fifty minutes to spare! I then proceeded to berate my friend roundly for having dragged me up at this time. He smiled sickly and suggested that we at least were in plenty of time. I smiled back and pointed to a sign that informed us that the 10:50 train for Peterborough left from platform 5. Not only were we in time for our train but in time for the one before ours, were it not for the fact that we had arranged to meet most of the others of London fandom, we could take our pick of about three trains. I was beginning to think that this was not my day. Lang, still smiling sickly, hastily changed the subject and suggested that we look for a buffet where he would buy me a cup of coffee. I agreed that this was the least he could do in the circumstances.
The one bright thing that had happened so far was the sight of Lang struggling up the stationary escalator, still carrying Norman’s tape recorder. In a wild fit of enthusiasm, Lang had decided to make his way up the one escalator that wasn't moving. I felt that this was a bit rash and walked over to the other side where the escalator was moving and proceeded upwards in style, passing poor Lang on the way, puffing and struggling under the weight of the tape-recorder. I waved gaily and. said that I would wait for him at the top. Unfortunately, I couldn't get over to his side quickly enough to welcome him aboard but the sight of his panting, dishevelled form removed all the pain I had suffered when paying up the shilling.
In the second buffet - the first one we had found closed - we met Jill Adams, Jim Groves and Chris Priest. The first thing Jill Adams said after the introductions were over was: "Have you paid your subscription to the BSFA yet?". Materialist! Lang wanted to pay on the train; he has to be different. He then went off to queue for coffee and didn't return for some minutes while I talked to Jimmy and Chris, when he did return, he actually brought a British Railways hot cross bun. What's more, he ate it. Though hardly with his usual gusto. The mad crazy fool! He must have a strong stomach though, for it hardly seemed, to affect him at all.
We then went out to the platform where a fairly large group of London fans had already gathered. Ella Parker was booming her customary way across the platform, closely followed by Ethel Lindsay and Walt and Madeleine Willis, and I think Wally Weber. Mike Moorcock had somehow wangled his way to the other side of the barrier and looked as if he were about to start taking money at any moment. Strange how editors have that mercenary look about them. We went through the barrier and then I noticed that Mike had his guitar slung over his shoulder. I turned to Lang to point this out to him, as I knew he'd be pleased, but he was no longer there. Mike, who knows Lang's infallible ability to get himself lost at the drop of a hat as well as I do - he's suffered too - suggested that Lang had probably marched off in the opposite direction, loudly shouting, "Follow me!" No such luck though; he soon came wandering up the platform with a bemused expression on his face, as if he were wondering where everyone had gone; a favourite expression of Lang's when he's on one of his pathfinding expeditions.
We found on getting into the train that we had the whole section of the compartment to ourselves: except for one seat. This was occupied by a character in a Sinatra-type hat, vaguely resembling Lionel Bart. He had all these copies of Superman, Batman, Green Lantern, and various other comics, strewn over the table in front of him. I thought at first that he was one of us but a strange expression came over his face as soon as we all came trooping into the carriage, which showed that he could hardly be a truefan after all. This strange, (strained even) expression increased as Ella came striding manfully down the aisle, yelling, " Whothehellareyou???" Now he began to cringe in his seat; its a painful sight to see a man crumble like that. Somebody tried to explain that this character had a perfect right to be in this compartment but whoever he was he was brushed aside in Ella's zeal to protect whichever member of the London group might be sitting there. At last someone managed to convince Ella that we hadn't in fact booked this seat and she calmed down slightly. By this time, our sad friend was looking wildly round the compartment, searching for some means of escape from this horrible danger that he now faced. I took pity on him and suggested that he might be happier - I didn't say safer, but the inference was there - if he changed places with Mike Moorcock, who had found himself a seat in the next compartment. He agreed only too willingly and hastily gathered up his tattered comics, which he had begun to tear in his nervousness, and then rushed off, dropping his ticket, to Hull, in the process. This was found later and passed back to him.
Thus Lang and I found ourselves travelling up to Peterborough with Mike Moorcock and (he said with bated breath) Walt Willis who condescended to travel up with us mortals. Ghod actually sat opposite me. all the way to the con! It took me a long time to really take in that this was the Walt Willis. It wasn't until, in fact, he made one of His puns that I was brought back to reality. Somebody had stuck a notice on the carriage window; ANNUAL OUTING OF THE ESCAPED PRISONERS' SOCIETY AND SURVIVORS FROM GERMAN POW CAMPS....or something like that. A guard saw it and expressed surprise, saying, that most of us would, have had to be child POWs. At which point Willis spritely suggested that we must have been stalagmites…I'm still wincing.
I sat there for some time just staring at him, frightened by what he might utter at any moment, determined not to turn myself into a feed for one of Willis's puns, even if I had to sit silent for the rest of the journey. I received. some satisfaction though when Mike took out his harmonicas (two of them yet) and proceeded to practice. I enjoyed watching the agonized expressions on Willis's face, enjoyed seeing the mighty man crumble. Suddenly, I noticed the same expression on Lang's face; knowing his fondness for music, I was somewhat surprised by this turn of events. In desperation, he finally seized Mike's kazoo from its pigskin case and proceeded to try and drown out the noise of the harmonica by playing some Schoenberg on it. Mike took up the challenge and a real cutting match began. The musical battles between the bands in New Orleans around the turn of the century could have had nothing on this.
Fortunately for the rest of the occupants of the carriage, this musical affray was brought to a halt by Ted Forsythe passing round some pictures taken at the last meeting of the SFCoL. Lang, his whole body racked as he gasped for breath, explained to me that they had decided to take Victorian photographs at the last meeting and had painted on whiskers and side-boards for the occasion. They were very good and were later shown at a slide-show during the con. Burgess particularly was excellent, the very image of a Victorian policeman, bowler hat and all.
The slag heaps of the industrial north had appeared in the pastoral scenery outside and we knew we were nearly there. Actually, we were only a few miles outside London but it seemed that we were nearly there. It was around this time that Max Jakobowski appeared in the carriage towing a friend, another Frenchman, who could speak very little English. Mike, in his usual xenophobist manner, began to explain Norman's amplifier (which he'd been conned into carrying - amazing fellow, Norman, really) to the French character, getting over the language barrier by shouting. It seemed to come over as a sort of Hieronymus machine. He was twisting the knobs violently, left and right, spitting out information as he did so. All the time the French boy watched intently, even stretching out his hand once or twice to twist a few knobs with the best of them, only to be slapped down by Mike who showed himself the real master of the machine. Hell, he almost had me convinced; at any minute I expected a shower of sparks and a Karloff-type android to rise like a phoenix out of the ashes.
The train was by now slowing down for the entry into Peterborough station - an imposing sight. Lang and I struggled with our cases and Norman's tape-recorder to the nearest door and made our way out of the station, where we met George Scithers and a big burly friend called Dave Williams.
We then started on the long weary trek to the Bull Hotel (and this is where the story really starts). We signed in after a lot of apparent fuss, especially from a miserable (censored) of a receptionist who handed me my key. Key! I've never seen anything like it! it weighed half a ton. It had this enormous metal tag, I suppose to discourage people from walking off with it when they left the hotel. Lang saw my white man's burden and immediately fished his own key out of his pocket and displayed it to me with a grin; it had a small slim plastic tag. "I had one of those things last year" he said sardonically, as if this made everything all right. I wandered off upstairs muttering under my breath about justice and retribution.
After dropping my things in my room, I came back down stairs to find Mike, Lang and Max all ready to go off for lunch. We agreed to go across the road to a pub where we would get what we laughingly called beer and sandwiches. This was a most distressing experience. I've been out of London before; it wasn't as though this was my first time in the provinces, but this... Firstly of course, they didn't sell sandwiches and we had to take these little packets of biscuits and portions of Kraft cheese. Then we sat down to drink our lunch and realised that we were the focus of almost constant stares from most people in the pub. The landlord looked at us as if we'd come in asking for protection money or something. And it wasn't the effect of the new, all-spruced-up Lang Jones in his sharp suit; they'd never seen him any other way. We finished our drinks hurriedly and went into the bar of the hotel.
There were a few people already there propping up the bar, none of whom I knew. I discovered later that they were fans but I thought them residents at the time. We settled in one corner and soon a goodly crowd developed. George Locke appeared, then Ken Cheslin, Dick Howett, Charles Platt, (selling copies of BEYOND), then Jim Linwood came in and we discovered that he was now married Jim Linwood, and that he and his bride Marion were on their honeymoon. That's fannish dedication for you. Around this time puns began to flow, as is their wont at such gatherings. The word "incense" was mentioned and George Locke immediately made some remark about being "incensed" by such behaviour. So, purely as a means of self defence. I told him he was 'insensitive". That shut him up.
Nothing much was happening around the registration desk, Phil Rogers apparently not having yet arrived with the con-badges - Phil Rogers for TAFF, hah! (he says, aside). Someone put on a tape-recording of a version of the Third Man, (made by the LiG I think) featuring Harry Slime, I enjoyed it but unfortunately knew only one voice out of the whole thing, Peter Mabey. As nothing was happening down in the registration hall we decided to go up to the pro room, but on the way Lang was collared by Ethel Lindsay and conned into looking after the art show. I chortled as Lang protested his inexperience, to no avail against the steely Lindsay stare; I chortled further as we went up the stairs to the pro room, where the art show was to be held; I chortled still further as Lang continued to stream forth a string of invectives against steely-eyed Scottish maidens and art shows in general. I stopped chortling however when I discovered that I had been impressed as his assistant, that, in fact, I had been singled out as well. I didn't like the idea of being an assistant to Lang as I could see that it meant that I would be doing all the work, while my so-called friend sat back and issued instructions - and so it proved to be. I have to admit my attention wandered from thoughts about the art show once we had entered the pro room. Ken Slater was ensconced there and had set up tables full of paper-backs, all, (dare I say it in a fanzine?) science fiction. My eyes popped, I boggled. I immediately started going through the various stacks. Half-way through I met Ted Forsythe coming the other way and we compared notes. I recommended "Witch World" to him and he showed me a new collection of Sturgeon's shorts that he'd found. I let out a yell and searched frantically for another copy. I came away with about six books:- Leiber's "The Wanderer', Sturgeon’s collection; a sequel to ‘Witch World', a collection of stories from Unknown Worlds ('Unknown 5'), and a new Philip K Dick novel, 'The Game-players of Titan'. Even Lang, that well known despiser of science fiction, was so caught up in the mood of enthusiasm that he bought a novel too - a hard-cover yet! I've even heard it whispered that Ella Parker came home with 23/- worth of SF. It must be catching.
Once the acquisitive mood had left us we returned to thoughts of the art show, only to find that no art-work was present. There were various pictures knocking around but none in the pro-room where they were supposed to be delivered. We found a number of pictures, already on display in the convention hall; these belonged a cousin of Max Jacubowski, and were not for sale, fetching twenty and sixty quid a time in France. They were pretty superb though. I'm surprised that he hasn't been snapped up to do cover work (though, now I think of it, I believe he has done a few for the French magazine ‘Fiction'). We decided to leave it for now and let whoever wanted to put in pictures come up to us. Meanwhile, back in the registration hall... The committee had, by now, decided to hand out programmes and allow people to register, even though the badges and Phil Rogers had still not arrived. So we registered.
Then we went out for something to eat, at the Great Wall, the Chinese restaurant. And what did we have? Why, curry! Chinese curry at that! On returning Lang decided he'd better go and look for Max and ask him to move his cousins' paintings into the pro-room in case someone walked off with any of them from the ever-open con hall. I decided to go and have a drink. In fact George Locke (good old George Locke) bought me a pint and introduced me to Simone Walsh, the most devastating and disconcerting woman I've ever met. The first thing she said to me was, "Why are you smoking that cigarette?” She then went on to quote all the medical reports proving that smoking is a cause of lung cancer, making me feel more and more uncomfortable; hell, I started feeling guilty. After this, I discovered that she had lived in Ealing and had actually known Lang; she could, I suppose, be considered a honorary member of Ealing fandom. And then discovered that we had been to the same school, though she a few years after me. We spent about five minutes tossing names of class mates at each other, but none seemed to click. Fortunately we could swap notes on the teaching staff; that much we had in common.
At this point the programme proper started, and Lang and I went upstairs to hear the opening address. Various members of the convention were introduced to the audience after Tony Walsh's opening remarks (Lang still can't see his resemblance to David Frost, but I found it uncanny). The most amusing interview was between Tall James White and Petite Ethel Lindsay. They had some initial difficulty with the height of the mike but this was solved when James picked the whole stand up, like a fishing rod, and raised and lowered it, according to who was speaking at the time. It started-off with Ethel interviewing James but the tables were soon turned as James, in his soft Irish brogue., began asking Ethel about the first convention she had attended, and continued asking her the very same questions she had intended to ask him.
The TAFF race had obviously started, everywhere you went there were notices displaying "Phil Rogers for TAFF" . Arthur Thomson had less in the way of notices (maybe he doesn't need them, with the support he's liable to get) but there was a beautiful ploy in the programme booklet, perpetrated (I presume) by a certain nameless lady - whose initials are Ella Parker. On one page there was a glorious advert for Phil Rogers, consisting of large lettering and an Eddie drawn profile of Phil, while on the facing page the page was blank, except for a tiny little Rotsler style figure standing on some minute words, which read "Atom for TAFF". I thought this was very clever. The Phil Rogers supporters had managed to get a plug into the scenery background in the con-hall itself though.
Lang and I sat through the questions, directed at Ken Slater, on various SF stories, until a rather vociferous lady got up and described the plot of Heinlein's "The Puppet Masters" (interjected with snippets of information on how she found the book etc.) when she got to the point of the creatures from outer space settling on the shoulders of the Earth people I could feel her directly behind me settling further and further onto my shoulder, and decided that discretion was the better part of whatever it is, and cut out, dragging Lang with me. I'm no chicken but.... I guess I must be over sensitive or something I heard that the lady went on describing the story of her life after the question had been answered in loud stage whispers to all those in her immediate presence, until George Scithers seized one of the placards that were held up at intervals during the meeting (calling for ‘Applause' or something) This one read; "Silence please" and he marched with this to the back and held it before her. To which she is supposed to have uttered those immortal words; "The story of my life”.
While this was going on Lang and I were down in the lounge and somehow I got into a long discussion with a very pleasant young American girl called Rosemary (I think). We were discussing capital punishment and either the Americans have a particularly good system of education (which is probably true) or I was more under the influence of my drinking than I thought. My usual generalisations were received with little enthusiasm and she kept chucking this jargon back at me, all the phrases like ‘penal correction' and ‘what are the ethics involved in this?', and I was just too tired (or drunk) to be able to take all this in. Fortunately Jim Linwood was there so together we spewed forth a stream of emotional generalisations against capital punishment, but still we seemed to be getting in deeper, until finally Lang suggested that we go out for a snack with Simone and Tony Walsh. I gratefully accepted, I was sorry later that I didn't meet her when I was feeling more awake and with my mind in a more perceptive state; because I enjoyed talking to her. I just hadn't been able to do justice to the argument at that particular time. A return match, Rosemary? (if you read this).
Anyway, we went back to the Great Wall amid long discussions on Lang’s next issue of Tensor, which was described very well and succinctly as a half-yearly quarterly. Simone and I decided on a snack of egg and chips (snack! - it cost five bob) while the others went off into the realms of exotica by ordering things whose names I couldn't spell, let alone pronounce. The discussion now turned to free-range as opposed to battery eggs, and all the other inhumanities that are practised by our glorious food producers in the name of higher productivity. Here we agreed but soon got off again onto the subject, again, of cancer. I now found myself under attack from Tony Walsh as well. Apparently he had just given up smoking and felt the need to spread the gospel to others; (in other words, he wanted someone else to suffer).
We returned to find strange sounds issuing from the Con-hall; Mike Moorcock was there with the ‘Bellyflops' (as far as I could make out Dick Ellingsworth was on the bongos, Norman Sherlock on second guitar, and Alan Rispin was making strange sounds with a harmonica). Every now and then the particular number they were playing (such good old ones as "Jungle Man" and "Oh didn't he ramble" - they don't write songs like that any more) would collapse into chaos. Mike would turn round and say "Norman!" or "wouldn't it be better if we all played the same tune?". He did try to extend his repertoire to some of the new hit-tunes of the sixties, but he was much happier with tunes from the old skiffle days - so was I, come to that; I was wallowing in nostalgia and would have loved to have been able to get up and jive, as in the good old days.
Somehow or other the concert (!!!) degenerated into a wrestling match between Max (the French Fiend) Jakubowski and Pat (Mauler) Kearney. the bout went on with the accompaniment of Norman still playing the guitar, Ava Naguela...I don't think he'd realised they'd finished all that. Anyway, there was a superb improvised commentary on the bout by Mike. Repetitive it might have been, influenced by drink too, but it was the most hilarious thing I've heard in years, and he kept it up for about half an hour non-stop. Fantastic! Its not funny on paper, but if you can get hold of the tape, listen to it. It started as a mildly satirical thing, micky-taking the glorious British public who are able to indulge their own little sadistic and homosexual neuroses by taking in a wrestling match. "If you folks have got the same kind of bent that I have I think you're going to enjoy this. There's going to be blood tonight folks, so you should really enjoy this, and this mass of sweating male flesh...." No, it's not funny on paper, and I can't remember enough of it to do it justice. The whole piece ended up as a moralistic, screaming diatribe against the hypocrisy of our society, which bans ‘Fanny Hill’ because it says its ‘evil' and yet finds outlets for its own sick mentalities by watching wrestling, reading James Bond books and Micky Spillane, and watching "The Avengers". As I said, it was fantastic.
Lang was so overcome that we had to go. He said afterwards that he was afraid the taping might spoil it, but it didn't. We heard the whole thing through again on the Sunday. After ten minutes or so I decided to follow Lang into the pro-room, where I found him talking with Wally Weber and Pete White. I'm glad I came in because this was one of the few opportunities that I had to talk to Wally throughout the con. He came across as a highly amusing, mildly spoken American, and endeared himself to everyone who came into contact with him. We talked for some time about future and past cons. I asked him about the worldcon, if the Americans weren't afraid we'd keep it once it got into our hands.
Why, Lang and I were even thinking of putting on a world-con in Ealing, at the Kent Hotel. Then someone suggested we could hold a con on the tube, suggesting the slogan "The Circle Line - In Sixtynine!". A number of slogans seemed to be flashing around the con. I remember Archie Mercer suggesting, at one point, "The Parker Pen in Sixty-ten". From there the conversation turned to universities, as Peter White, from what I could gather, is thinking of going to one. We compared notes on American and English education in general. Once more my conviction that the American system was the better of the two was enforced.
When this broke up I decided to pack it in for the first night. I'd read that it was best to take it easy on the first night, and I had couple of things I wanted to do, including reading a letter from my wife. I found, the next day, that I had missed Mike Moorcock editing the Bible, this I'd have loved to see, but I don't regret going to bed early first night; especially whenever I looked at Lang during the rest of the con. Alan Rispin may have looked like Christ, but Lang summed up the whole of Easter in one day, every day. Each day he was alive in the morning, died around four o-clock, and rose again around ten in the evening. It was awe inspiring to see this process.
The next morning I was woken by the most horrible banging on my door, those responsible, Lang and Alan Rispin, insisted that I got up. They didn't seem to believe that I had actually got up but went on banging away even when I was wandering around trying to force my tired brain into the correct framework to meet the coming day. I agreed to meet them up on the landing for a cup of tea... On the landing I met Mary Reed, she of the crazy letters - she should write to CRY, she'd be at home there. Lang pressed a cup of tea on me but I could only squeeze out the dregs. After this came breakfast. Here Lang had trouble with a couple of obscene-looking poached eggs; he found himself unable to stick his knife into them.
After breakfast we decided to do the town and go out on a shopping expedition. This was really crazy; I seemed to shed about six years, and was doing all the crazy things I used to do when I was at college. I found Mary Reed and her mate, Julia Stone, were big Beatle fans, and this endeared them to me. The way we were darting about all over the pavement and shouting weird comments to each other made the mundane passers-by stop and stare; they're strange people down there. Suddenly we found ourselves outside a Woolworths, a branch of which, to their pain, employs Lang as a trainee manager; this actually means that he spends all day humping boxes around the stock room, but it’s a start. Anyway, Lang decided he needed his daily fix of Woolworths and tried to go into the shop. Mike and I decided that we'd have to be cruel to be kind, to start him on the cure; we grabbed his arms and held him back while Mary and Julia yelled encouragement. We even tried to get him to go into Marks and Spencers instead, but this was too much for his poor tired frame and he almost broke down. But our methods have had their effect because since he came back from the con Lang has been thinking of changing his job. It's a proud and lonely thing....
Soon after this we bought some booze in one of the arcades and smuggled it back into the hotel for the room party that evening. We then decided it was about time we went and did something about the art show. I've already mentioned the famous persuasive charm of Lang Jones, but it never occurred to me that he could actually get it to work on a sturdy character like Mike Moorcock. But...there was the famous author and editor of New Worlds, down on his knees making frames to fit the pictures to. The pictures were now beginning to arrive. Ah, the relationship between an editor and one of his up-and-coming authors is a wonderful thing to behold. As I said, Lang sat back and gave instructions until Mike and I ganged up on him, ejected him from his chair, thrust a hammer into his hand and made him help us. Then we pinned what seemed like thousands of paintings on to the frames we'd built. By this time we'd managed to collect paintings from Eddie Jones, Terry Jeeves, and Dick Howett. These, together with the pictures Max was showing for his cousin, and some of his own work, added up to a fine display.
Realising that the auction was about to start I collared Mike and we slipped off, leaving Lang to it. We thought he deserved it. There were a couple of items in the auction that I was mildly interested in - there wasn't a great deal worth having - and that I hoped might come within range of my meagre finances; a set of three books on witchcraft, though nothing very unusual, and some fanzines. I was very taken with some of the artwork especially one called "The Wishing Tree" by Gerard Quinn, but these were going for around thirty bob a throw so I sat quiet. Even the witchcraft books went for around ten bob. Still, I managed to pick up a small parcel of fanzines containing three copies of Redd Boggs’ DISCORD that I hadn't got. When the auction was over we decided to go and find something to eat. We were joined by a couple called Jean and Neville Brock whom Lang had asked to join us. We started off with a large group but this suddenly split in two when a difference of opinion arose as to where we should go. We parted company amid shouts and a great waving of hands.
Again we went to the Great Wall. I asked Lang to order me some Chicken Chow Mein while I went over the road to Boots to get a comic version of ‘The Sword in the Stone’ for my little daughter; someone had told me it was on sale there. Unfortunately, because of its connection with the joke Norman Sherlock had told about the Kamikaze pilot, Lang found himself too embarrassed to ask for the Chicken Chow Mein. Luckily by the time I got back - the service being what it was in the Great Wall - the waiter still hadn't turned up to collect the order. We talked about fandom in general and discovered that like me, Jean and Neville were attending their first con. We asked them to come up to our room party after the fancy dress competition. They were unfortunate in not knowing any fans at all. I was lucky that I had met most of the London fans before the con and could usually find someone I knew to talk to if things got a bit dull. It must be very difficult for people coming to a con and not knowing anyone. I'm not sure that I could do it.
After lunch we attended the film show, where we saw a rather juvenile film about the planets, the commentary being spoken very slowly. This is the kind of thing that I have to sit through at school and I'd rather not during the holidays. Still, there were some rather fine shots of Solar prominences. After this they showed "The Day the Earth Caught Fire", or, as Pete Taylor suggested afterwards, 'The Day the Daily Express Caught Fire"... and it can't happen too soon for me. I didn't stop for this as I hadn't wanted to see it when it was on general release. There seems little point in getting this kind of film for the con. It has been shown on the major circuits, twice in Ealing, and only a short time before the con. It seems to me that unless it is possible to get hold of films that are quite old, or are very scarce, or have never been seen on the major circuits (like ‘Zazie Dans le Metro’, as someone, probably Pat Kearney suggested) there is little point in having a film show at the con at all. Lang and I had, in fact, only come up to see "The Running, Jumping and Standing Still Film", which we hadn't seen. We found that it was to be shown last so we went back to the lounge.
This was where we met old-time fan Pete Taylor. He was sitting with members of the Kingdon Road group, Dick Ellingsworth and Nell Goulding. Lang, by now, was beginning to droop more than somewhat; he didn't look as if he'd last through the rest of the con. Dick, however, found a way of waking him up. You see Lang had regaled us, over breakfast, with some of the happenings of the previous night, and had laid particular stress on the fact that Don Geldart had slobbered in his ear. The very thought of this brought him out in cold shudders. Thus, whenever Lang started to doze, Dick would simply lean over and slobber in his ear. This had a miraculous effect; he shot out of his seat, his eyes staring and wide with horror. I was convinced at one point that his hair was turning white. Then Don Geldart himself came into the room. All thought of sleep was immediately thrust out of Lang's mind; he was so busy making sure Don didn't do it again.
Soon after this we went upstairs to see the film. I found this to be vastly entertaining, pure surrealistic humour in the best tradition of the Goon Shows. After the film we returned to our former seats in the lounge, here we were joined by Mike Moorcock. Now Mike and Pete (Taylor) are both funny on their own, but together they seem to draw something extra out of the other. They were soon into renditions of take-offs of various pop songs, things like "These Ghoulish Things". Then they went into character stuff; suddenly they were two old men, two obscene, throaty old men, talking entirely in monosyllables.
"Lock em all up”
"’oo?"
"Them. All of them"
“’oo?"
"The Beatles; them with the long ‘air"
"Oh''
And so it went on, all in these throaty, wheezy voices , and every now and again they'd go off into wild paroxysms of cackling, coughing laughter. Suddenly we realised that behind us had sprung up one of those crazy intellectual conversations that seemed to spring up all over the place during the con. Mike and Pete disappeared suddenly, and then they reappeared having started all over again next to this serious discussion, It was wild and had us creased, but it didn’t seem to deter the talkers one little bit,. Mike and Pete gave up and came back, to go off into a new routine about two officers from the First World War discussing the number of casualties that one officer had caused. As an embellishment to this Mike had his officer equipped with a deaf aid, which now and then went into loud screaming noises. On top of this they suddenly went into a wild conversation that consisted entirely of facial expressions, gestures, and moving the finger against the lips as a child does. It was amazing the nuances of expression they managed to convey in this way. Suddenly a young, dark-suited slim, nittish individual thrust his way into the lounge and shouted: "Can’t you keep your noise to yourselves? This is a hotel, not a childrens' playground!" and with that he turned smartly on his heel and disappeared. There was a stunned silence for a minute and then Mike said, rather puzzledly, "How can I keep my noise to myself?". I gather he waged a personal vendetta against this under-under-under-manager - - someone said he was the boots, but I think this can be discounted as prejudice -by staring at him fixedly whenever they met. We discovered his name to be Nigel. It suited him too. He looked a Nigel.
Soon after this excitement Lang went upstairs , to help the SFCoL prepare the bar for the evening's fancy dress party. I went out with Nell Goulding and Dick Ellingsworth to get a cup of tea. We spent a hilarious half hour studying the inhabitants of Peterborough. We came to the definite conclusion that the majority of them were retarded. I felt Nell tended to voice this decision over-loudly, especially with the large number of people in the café who might take exception to this, and we beat a rather hasty retreat.
We talked then until about seven, when Lang came back downstairs and suggested we visit a greasy cafe with pretensions . Apparently he had seen this cafe the year before and wanted to go back there, I agreed, though I should have known better. We were joined by Peter White. Lang and I were, I suppose, being particularly stupid around this time, fooling around as we went down the road. Every now and then though I'd be brought up short by the staggering thought that Peter White could so easily have been one of the sixth formers I was supposed to teach at school. Fortunately this did not last long, especially when Pete began to fit in with our mood. Of course the greasy cafe was closed, so we decided to go to a Wimpey Bar instead; it seemed the nearest thing to a greasy cafe that we could think of at the time; another mistake. When our Wimpeys were delivered by a fat overblown waitress I found that by holding my Wimpey up off the plate and turning it sideways a flow of grease was allowed to fall onto the plate where it congealed horribly. I thought the flow was never going to stop. I couldn't finish the Wimpey.
After a short rendition of a modernistic poem, written by Lang in a spare moment, that had Pete and myself in fits of laughter (though Lang didn't seem to see what we were laughing at) we returned to the Hotel. Here in the con-hall the fancy dress parade had already started. We each collected a glass of wine from the bar; I gave George Scithers a sub for AMRA; then we studied the costumes. There was an excellent turn-out. Ian and Betty Peters (as Fafhrd and the Grey Mouser) and Simone Walsh, as some kind of alien, presumably out of one of the de Camp Krishnan stories, were particularly striking. Suzie Slater was very cute too and received the prize for the most beautiful costume. Sentimentality perhaps, but she did look cute. The Alien group from Manchester were very striking, especially as a group. Tony Walsh deserved real recommendation for bravery for wearing his rocket costume in that heat (though I believe he came out of it for long periods - it was difficult to tell whether he was in it or not as it stood up by itself when untenanted - a good costume).
Soon after this we adjourned to Max Jakubowski’s room for our own party and things thereafter are rather vague. I can remember the room filling up very quickly. Nell Goulding and I at one point were discussing the old days when trad groups (ones that sounded different, and not all the same, as they do now) were the rage all over the country and you could go out jiving in these smoky little clubs until all hours. Lang was knocking back his drinks at a furious rate and it was obvious he'd never be be able to keep up for long, I remember having a competition with some of the Manchester group about who could slide down the banisters for the furthest distance. I can even remember going down double, with George Locke. Lang got in there somewhere but he seemed to be disappearing more and more often around this time. Someone came rushing past me screaming that Charles Platt had been sick as if this was great news. At one point we decided to hold a roof con but I don't think I went any further than the stairs. I remember discussing with Ron Bennett, who I met on my travels, the prospect of my changing over to teaching at a junior school for experience, but this seems rather incongruous. I remember one of the Alien group coming up to me and swearing that I looked like Rolf Harris; this I wasn't sure how to take. I remember meeting Harry Nadler and, I think, Charles Partington - was he the one with that silver paint all over his hair? Harry Nadler even offered to take us all out for a ride in the car he'd brought, but for some reason this didn't come off. Instead we held a carpark-con, and Dick Ellingsworth was there. Then we tried to get tea, at three o'clock in the morning, and were refused - unreasonably I thought. We went back to Max's to find his friend sprawled all over the floor. We trekked to Alan Rispin's room and discovered Lang sitting there in the dark, bolt upright and not moving a muscle. As soon as the light went on though he got to his feet and staggered off once more on his endless quest for rest, rather like the Wandering Jew. The evening ended for me around four in the morning in Archie’s room, where he was handing out offerings from a Drambuie bottle. Soon after this I went to bed.
I woke up the next morning and found the glass of Drambuie still there. It seemed a pity to chuck it away so I drank it. This was when I realised how easy it would be to become an alcoholic. I then proceeded to wake up Lang; now anyone who knows Lang realises just what a hopeless job this is. I woke him and then went down and waited in the lounge; after ten minutes I went back up and woke him again. I can't remember how many trips I made but I reckoned I earned my breakfast that morning. One nice touch; George Locke came and joined us and wanted to order grilled fruit juice. This perked us up. Obviously most other people were feeling the way we did.
After breakfast we went back to the lounge, just in time to catch the dying embers of a conversation between two of the residents. The amazing thing was that they sounded just like Moorcock and. Taylor the day before, doing their old retired officers routine. The last thing we heard from them was; "Well, they go home again tomorrow, I believe". I talked to Roy Kay about the Round Robin idea he had inaugurated in the BSFA. Soon after this we were joined by Charles Platt, who seemed to get a lot of peoples backs up during the con. Apparently at one point he had stated, at some question and answer programme I think; - "Does fandom need SF" I think it was called - that fans were unable to speak authoritatively on any subject except SF. This was his reason for wanting fanzines that dealt solely with SF. There was in fact a large group at the con who felt this way, it was unfortunate that this attitude made them seem rather difficult to talk to, if you didn't want to be restricted entirely to talking about SF. This is a rather restricted viewpoint. So Charles Platt, who might-be considered the high-priest of the new fandom (they have real enthusiasm, which is to be admired, at least) came and talked to us. He told us why he'd decided to quit Cambridge after only two terms, and. why he'd decided to go into printing. I can’t say whether he's been misquoted at other times as this was the only time I've spoken to him. He didn't live up to his reputation anyway.
After this we went up to the AGM. There was discussion as to whether the subscriptions should be raised and the bickering that I had expected - I would probably have been disappointed, if it hadn't been present. I felt that Ted Tubb and Ken Bulmer, who had some good points to bring up, were disregarded because they were not members of the BSFA. Finally Ted Tubb, in desperation perhaps to get himself a hearing, took out papers and re-joined the BSFA there and then; immediately upon becoming a member again he began distributing leaflets encouraging everyone else to join too. A heart-warming sight, this. There was an unfortunate part of the proceedings when a faction in the hall were trying to get rid of all the foreigners on the BSFA books, "because it’s the British SFA after all and what do these bloody foreigners want, horning in on the British SFA - let them form their own association if they want one instead of sponging on us”. My God, it was real Empire-building stuff. If it hadn't been so pathetic I'd have bust a gut laughing. Then came the bids for the Easter 1965 convention site. Harrogate and Birmingham both made bids. Harrogate was supposed to have been proposed by Ron Bennett, but unfortunately he'd lost his voice quite early in the con, so he prompted Ethel Lindsay as she made the bid for him. As Ron said afterwards; "I'm a fairly quiet man during the rest of the year. The only time I really talk is at a con. And what do I do as soon as I get here?! - I lose my voice!" It was great talking to you, Ron, even if I did find myself talking in a whisper - in sympathy, I suppose. Ken Cheslin put forward the Birmingham spiel, the main point of which seemed to be that Birmingham, being a bad town as far as con hotels were concerned, would find it easier to put on the smaller convention which could be expected in a Worldcon year. A good point, and one that might have swayed the vote, Birmingham got the con by one vote...about 27-26, if I remember correctly. There was even a bid for the 1966 Eastercon. Dave Barber, who seems to have been bitten by the con bug, submitted a bid on behalf of Yarmouth, where he already had a suitable hotel lined up which was willing to take on the con. This bid, after a little discussion, was accepted too. So now we’re fixed up for two years (and three cons) in advance, which must be unprecedented in Anglofandom.
This was followed by the "give away" auction, though the prices still seemed pretty high. People were bidding more than face value for items they could have purchased from Ken Slater in the pro-room. Still, I got two prints of Krenkel illustrations, from AMRA, that were suitable for framing. Ted Forsythe did an excellent job, especially when he was holding up two identical items and receiving bids for both; things tended to become rather chaotic around here.
After the auction Lang and I, together with Pete Mansfield and his cousin, Brian McCabe, went to a greasy restaurant (without pretensions but with a juke box j that had been recommended by Arthur Thomson. It was definitely greasy. From here we returned to the bar and here Pete and I discussed sword-and-sorcery while Lang went to sleep. I enjoyed this part of the con almost as much as any other. Pete was an interesting and amusing conversationalist and we were both discussing something we both enjoyed without any intellectual pretensions. I'm glad I met Pete. I should perhaps mention here the quote-cards which had begun appearing on Friday night, fixed to picture frames and various other places. This trickle grew to quite a steady stream on the Saturday, and by Sunday we were practically up to our ears in the damn things. There was even a series of fake quote-cards, spread by one Pete White. These usually said something like; "Keep Langdon Jones out of fandom" or, "Retain Langdon Jones's Amateur Status", though he couldn't spell ‘amateur’. (I don't know what they're teaching sixth formers in schools these days, he says sadly). Apparently the bulk of the quote cards (other than the fake ones, that is) had been brought by the Liverpool Group, and numbered some TEN THOUSAND in all. These consisted of 194 different quotes. It was a fantastic sight to see them all over the floor of the hotel wherever you went. I had an almost traumatic experience the week after the con when I attended the Friday night meeting at Ella’s. In the lift I found a bloody quote-card; for a moment I was transported back to the con.
Lang, by this time back into his afternoon stupor, was away from it all. I kept telling him to scintillate, but it was no good. After a while we went to see the films shown by the Alien Group. These were purely amateur films and I enjoyed most of them while they were being shown, though I felt that much of the humour was the sort my kids at school would use – let’s face it, a group of fourth years at school did practically everything from the Frankenstein film, though as a medical skit, at a recent concert. I did like the Junior Birdman and much of the animation techniques. I was completely staggered by the reaction afterwards though. I'll admit that I went expecting the worst, and was pleasantly surprised, but the films were nowhere near as good as the audience led them to believe. I’m not knocking the Alien Group, I liked the ones I met very much, but I'm still surprised at the reaction they got with these films. Everyone went overboard about them; the convention gave them a third of its profits to allow them to make a full-length feature for the WorId-con. I must be completely out of touch with the tastes of fandom. Fortunately for my own peace of mind, I did meet people afterwards who agreed with me. I still think people were carried away by their admiration for the work the boys had put into the film making. Some people even said they were better than the ‘Running, Jumping and Standing Still Film’, of the day before; now this is just crazy.
We had dinner in the Hung To (?) restaurant. I can remember Lang, Des Squires, Simone and Tony Walsh, Pete White, and George Locke being there but there were two other people, at least, whose names I didn't get. This was an interesting meal, full of good chat. I talked with Tony Walsh about moving to Bristol, which we were both considering at the time, and his desire to find time to sit down and try to write. Meanwhile.......Back at the bar... (sometime around here, I think, we heard Ted Tubb’s interesting and amusing speech...but my time sense is shot to hell), anyway, in the bar Mike Moorcock and Pete Taylor were doing their version of a typical Amazing story of the Thirties era, full of phrases like;-"we shall travel in space, which, as you know, is a vacuum." and suchlike scientific information. Hilarious! Ivor Mayne and Don Geldart soon joined us and we continued our drinking until closing time. After the bar was closed we stayed where we were, just chatting. This didn't seem to meet with the barman's approval, and he kept turning off the lights. We had to sit in the dark until someone from outside could be persuaded to put them on again for us. Some time later the barman would come back and switch them off again. This guerilla warfare continued until he came in and switched off the fire. I suggested that he might be hinting that we should leave. This was tut tutted by these present as being unfounded prejudice, but we left anyway when the room cooled down.
Soon after this things began to happen in the con-hall. No-one was allowed in; the doors were held tight and dim figures could be seen moving about inside, bearing phallic swords and wearing strange garb. Everyone outside was eventually told that they were about to witness the Hum and Sway ceremony, not performed for ten years. Only those people bringing glasses were to be allowed in. Once inside we were instructed to sit on the floor, in a great semi-circle; Ted Tubb, a well-oiled Ted Tubb, was issuing instructions. Eddie Jones and Norman Shorrock, the Cup Bearers, were dispensing this innocuous-looking liquid from great vats. I took one sip and discovered that this was the genuine Shorrock home-brew - a real fannish experience this. I sipped it to get some idea of its taste and then took a hearty swig as it did not seem too potent. We all had to, of course, Hum and Sway, and then, on a note from Moorcock's kazoo, to drain our glasses. We had a few practice runs first, then the ceremony started in earnest. Ken Bulmer was doing the spiel while Moorcock and Taylor stood there trying to look like high priests or something. They all had these weird titles, but I've forgotten what they were. The point was that in the ceremony a virgin was to by slain by the sword, and then to be resurrected by the power of faith. The humming and swaying bit was just, we were told, to make us lose all earthly ties so we could believe more readily and our faith grow the stronger, the sacred wine having the same purpose. It worked too!
Nell Goulding was led forward as the selected virgin and obligingly lay down on the floor. Pete Taylor stood over her with his sword poised high. At the appropriate moment the signal was given and the blade flashed down, at that moment the lights went out and a shriek rent the air. Immediately the lights came on again and the humming and swaying was renewed with increased fervour. Then after enough faith had been dispensed Nell was raised to her feet, alive and well again. Goshwowboyoboy! Some of the effect was spoiled when Mike, overhasty, fell over the table, but otherwise the hum and sway went with a real swing. It convinced Lang. For a long time afterwards he was wandering around wild-eyed and shouting “I believe! I believe!" Norman Sherlock, who had been swigging back half-pints of the home-brew, was well on the way to being paralytic. He kept coming up and saying; "I'm drunk. I've never been like this before," in a sort of awed voice. Everybody by now had really loosened up and we spent a hilarious half-hour round the tape-recorder. What went on I'll never know because I've steadfastly refused to listen to the tape. I can remember Lang saying - screaming rather - into the microphone; "Here we have that well known reviewer, Jim Linwood, who seems pleasant enough at present, but as soon as he gets behind a type-writer he becomes a ravening tiger, tearing into every fanzine received”. Jhim replied that the business of being a reviewer was very easy. "All I do is to take a few words, like; ‘amateurish', 'badly produced', ‘sercon crud', ‘pretentious rubbish’ and ‘overpriced’, and mix them up with words like 'Tensor 1". Lang, for some reason, missed this; I think he was too busy arguing with Pete White about how to spell ‘amateurish' . From here on again things become rather hazy. At one point Tony Walsh was shouting into the taper about now we should all think of those poor lonely creatures who slave to provide the nation with light the electrical workers, that grand body of men. From here we joined the corridor party. Practically everyone at the Con seemed to be there. Even Keith Otter, sitting on the floor and looking drink-dazed. Jimmy Groves came up to me at one point and told me how he'd been reformed by a good woman's love. Romantic fool! I met up with my Manchester friends from the night before, the amazing thing was that we recognised each other. The character with the hair still insisted on calling me Rolf Harris. By this time, if he hadn't had white hair I'd probably punched him. Peter White and I had a long discussion as to whether teachers or sixth formers were the more depraved; we came to the conclusion that the youth of today is actually in pretty good shape. Soon after this Lang and I started reminiscing about our fabulous rendition of ‘Bits and Pieces' in the lift at Ella's place. Someone persuaded us to try it here, the only place comparable to the lift we could think of was one of the toilets that were so strategically scattered over the hotel. So we all piled into one of them and Lang sang ‘Bits and Pieces', the chorus bits, while I sang the refrain against his background. The fact that I forgot the words after the second line and simply sang the first two lines over and over again seemed to deter no-one. The stamping bit went over really big, though. God only knows what it sounded like from outside. Des Squires came out saying that he had been exhilarated. It’s nice to have an adoring public, Lang and I were all ready to start signing autographs, but nobody bothered to ask us. Somewhere around here Norman was found wandering around the corridor clothed only in his underpants.
The evening ended in the con hall once more; the place as almost completely filled. I can remember sitting there with Pete White and Tony Walsh trying to flick quote-cards into glasses people were holding in their hands - it's more difficult that way. At one point in the evening Lang and I had found a large wine jar containing what we took to be a white wine. I poured some on top of my home-brew and refilled Lang’s glass, which was empty. I thought when I started drinking it that it had lost its taste, but I put this down to the fact the real wine would always taste insipid after you've been drinking home-brew. Then a really horrible thought struck me. I took a quick swig out of Lang's glass to prove my theory - I was right!, it was water! Someone had filled the wine jar with water, What a dirty trick! (and Rispin wasn't passing any miracles this year on account of a C of E ruling) The amazing thing was that Lang was actually getting tight on the stuff. Then he found out what he was really drinking it hit him hard. He went off screaming that someone had poured water into his cornucopia. The evening ended as I say, in the crowded con hall, with a rendition by Pete and Mike of their famous duet, "We Met On The Steps Of A Moscow Latrine" - another fannish experience. After this I listened as Pete and Mike talked about the old days of London fandom. I've always enjoyed listening to people talking of the old days of fandom, and this was no exception. Lang would have enjoyed it too if he'd been able to stay awake. Finally, around 4am, we called it a day.
I woke up the next morning, the Monday that is, and it seemed just too much effort to get up for breakfast. I finally got up around nine o'clock and went to wake up Lang. This time I did not make the mistake of leaving him to get up on his own. I made sure he got up to open the door to me - Lang is hardly a pretty sight in the morning, but at least he was up. I then went down to the lounge to order some tea for us. It was strangely depressing. Everywhere you went you saw signs of the happenings of the past few days, it was impossible to walk around the hotel without treading quotecards under foot. Now the con was on its last legs.
Everyone was about to leave. I sat down in the lounge, having ordered tea, to wait for Lang. We intended to travel back on an early train with Mike and the Kingdon Road mob, but this didn't pan out due to the fact that Lang and I are true gentlemen and always ready - well, up until then anyway - to answer the distress cry of a lady...or, in this case, Ella Parker. She wanted a hand with her packing and we agreed to help. By the time we got downstairs again Mike and the Kingdon Road lot had gone. So we decided to travel back with the rest of the London crowd around 12-30. I even offered to carry Ella's case down to the station - another mistake, it weighed a ton. Fortunately Lang and Des Squires were with me and spelled me lugging the great heavy thing to the station. On the train what was virtually another corridor party existed, as there were too few seats on the train for us all to sit down. I couldn't take much part in this one due to tiredness, and the fact that trains do not agree with me at the best of times in any case. Lang was kind enough to allow me to sit with him on his case, which I'm sure will never be the same again. We finally rolled into London around 1-30 and made our fond farewells and agreed to be at Ella's the following Friday evening. Then we got a tube to Ealing Broadway. Both Lang and I were too tired to carry on any kind of sparkling conversation, we just sat and reminisced quietly. It seemed like a week since we had left home. Lang was very sorry to be going home, but I have to admit that I was rather pleased. It would be marvellous to be with my wife and daughter again, and just relax for a few days without a mention of fans or fandom. When I got on the little bus at the other end, I felt quite out of place among the mundane people of this world, I kept expecting to find quote-cards on the bus, or to hear the people behind me discussing science fiction or fanzines.... Talking about the weather and the boat race, as they were, it seemed quite incongruous.
So what reactions have I got towards the con now that the post-con apathy towards fandom has worn off. I must have enjoyed myself, since I can hardly wait for the WorIdcon. I'm grateful for the fact that I met, for the first time, a lot of fans I really liked, such as Pete Mansfield, Norman Shorrock, Tony and Simone Walsh, Pete Taylor, Ivor Mayne and Jill Adams; I'm glad that I was able to renew the acquaintances that I'd met but briefly before, like Ron Bennett, Ken Cheslin and Wally Weber. I'm glad I saw some of the London fans with their hair down, as it were. I'm glad I saw the famous Moorcock-Taylor duo in action for the first time. I'm grateful to Mike Moorcock and Norman Shorrock for helping to make it such an enjoyable convention, both in their different ways. I have few regrets, I find on thinking back over the three days. I regret that Marjorie hadn't been able to come with me; that I saw so little of Walt Willis and Wally Weber as I found these two to be fabulous people; that I didn't get to talk to more people than I did - there were many people that I never met at all; that there was this - to my mind - definite split between those who were interested solely in SF, and those who are of the more fannish frame of mind - that I didn't have a tape recorder when Mike and Pete were doing their act in the lounge. I even regret that I didn't pick up a few more quote-cards, there were thousands lying around; I could probably have papered the walls with them - a fine fannish gesture.
Taking everything into account, you can quote me as being - but definitely - in favour of conventions.