MERV BARRETT:
At the Fancy Dress Ball, which was more of a party than a ball, very few
people wore costume. I was one who chickened out and I think that the reason
most people had for not coming costumed was the same as mine. That is, living
in London I couldn't justify staying at the Con Hotel and with nowhere to change
and not feeling inclined to drag across London in Drag I went uncostumed.
There wore a couple of notable disguises, though. The guest of honour wore
the robes and fez of some as-yet-unknown Eastern emirate and Mike Moorcock's
hair provided a perfect natural mane for the horse mask he wore. (I showed
a photo of him I'd taken to a non-fan friend. "But that's a horse!" she
exclaimed. "Well, so what?" I said, "But what's a horse doing there?" "It
writes science fiction," I said, "why shouldn't it be?")
PETER ROBERTS:
I return to the safety of the bar.
Here rests David Redd drinking water ("It's free.") and avidly licking a breakfast square of orange
marmalade. Uh, hello David.
Ken Eadie engages me in conversation with Gunther, bemused mundane of Swedish origin and sudden fannish
tendencies. Guinness is consumed to ease explanations. The barmaid glares indiscriminately and curses
"them" (being we) . Gunther turns slowly, clicks his fingers, and recalling English, barks "Hey you!
Shanty!" The barmaid's stare burns through Gunther and shrivels me without fuss. I teach him English as
she is spoke:
"I say, please excuse me, but would you mind terribly if you could kindly serve me with a shandy?"
Forty minutes later, by dint of £5 note waving, a shandy is finally procured - oh, and a Guinness please...
I return partywards, but am waylaid by Simone Walsh who decides to introduce me to "someone unlikely", gazes
round and it's hello, Jim Marshall. Looks a rugger player, but is of genuine fannish nature and therefore
cannot be ultimately "unlikely". I return to talk vaguely to Simone Walsh and Diane Lambert, also Mike Moorcock
(of splendid hair, height, and girth) who offers whiskey. Fine, but I rush off for a Guinness to re-establish
normal tastes before burn-out.
Jim Marshall (ns)
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Simone Walsh, Ramsey Campbell (ns)
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A conglomeration of fans is discovered led by mad Brian Hill and ever jovial Julia Stone. We (for reasons
unrecalled) organize Queue Fandom, for the British love of same, and begin therefore to queue. Seven of us,
in line, before open door - queuing patiently. Enter mundane. Bewilderment, hesitation, "excuse me ?" About
turn quickly before she comes back: same queue, same patience, different direction. Re-enter mundane.
Uncertainty, wan smile, then stumbles past and is not seen again. Plans are laid to hold queue of epic
proportions in front of Gents' bog the morrow - never realized unfortunately, but next year?
Meanwhile Gray Hall is busy imitating Mike Moorcock with some vigour and success - others join in, forming
a strangely garbling group...
Brian Hampton and Arthur Cruttenden, bristling in normal fannish beard (but not wearing autographed tea shirt!),
announce a room party. Hola! This I must see - perhaps room 265 contains the expanding Tardis or mayhap he has
invented a fiendish shrinking ray (a Manta-vani joke). The party is of modest dimensions, however, and of fairly
short duration - fans being of lesser endurance than before, perhaps, and in cramped style. Dave Fletcher
taciturnly bearded, Arthur and Brian talking aircraft, Jim Marshall (sleeping), someone camera-flashing
(Norman Shorrock?), and Jill Adams chatting through a variety of subjects.
Arthur Cruttenden, Peter Roberts, Jill Adams (ns)
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MERV BARRETT:
It was all-night movie time and where the registration and book-selling
had been during the day the screen and projectors had been set up. Chairs
were assembled and at the side of the room rolls of lino and carpet were
piled lengthwise and fans had annexed their places along these, ready to
watch or sleep as interest or weariness dictated. I sat through THE THING, a
movie which holds uo better than practically anything else of the period, then
went off to a party I'd heard about.
I'm still not quite sure whose room it was but I think it was the
Shorrcck's. I found a corner of the bed not covered by fans and sat down to
talk to Dick and Diana and watch Marion Kearney being covered by little round
black and silver stickers. There was this fan who had a box of them and he
was peeling them from their backing paper and applying them to Marion.; on her
stockings, up her legs - as far as he thought proper and/or dared - and over
her face. It was interesting to watch the effect. Marion was smiling and with
each sticker stuck to her skin her smile became sunnier and somehow more serene
Is it possible, I wondered, to get high on stickers? Perhaps there's something
in the glue - like, instead of sniffing it you absorb it through the skin.
Marion Kearney (mb)
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Chuck Partington (ns)
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Fans came and went and downstairs THE NIGHT OF THE EAGLE ran its course,
A couple of hours passed and then some fan drifted in who had been at the
movies. When he was asked how they were going he casually answered, "They
were showing OH, MR PORTER when I left."
"But that's not on the programme," I shouted. The sneaks had rung in a
good movie without telling anybody. I lept up, and stumbling overthe inert
fan-forms on the floor as I went, mn from the room- and down the long winding
way to the place of movies.
No OH MR PORTER, Instead an 8mm sound extract from 20,000,000 MILES TO
EARTH. I plonked myself down anyhow, "Someone said they wore showing OH MR
PORTER!." I said to the man next to me, "Eh, whassat man?" he said, cupping a
beer bottle-holding hand to his ear the better to hear me and practically
knocking himself out in the process, "Forget it, man" I said. Well, now
that I'm here, thought I, I might as well stay. And that is what I did.
I sat through Laurel-and Hardy and Woody Woodpecker on 8mm and was very
impressed with the quality of the picture and sound. Then I watched (16mm now,
of course) Roland Young, Constance Bennett and Cary Grant in TOPPER
and marvelled at that combination of wit and elegance that was so often a
characteristic of the best 'thirties comedies. And because, as usual, no one
had thought to get an anamorphic lens for the projectors I watched a slender
Vincent Price, a rake-like Basil Rathbone and a now less-than-tubby Peter
Lorre ham beautifully, their way through TALES OF TERROR.
PETER ROBERTS:
Films are being shown all night in the depths of the hotel, Brian and I decide, however, to outfan the
film-fans and stay around longer than them without indulging in mere watching. This is doomed, however: the
bar closes, lights are dimmed, the corridors extend into cold and soundless twilight. Hunger is paramount
by 5.00am (Brian Burgess having long sold out and gone); an itinerant Bram Stokes, mane flowing proudly,
kindly informs us through full mouth that a loaf of bread has inadvertently been left in the dining room.
We consume same with tomato and Daddies Favourite Sauce.
All are dead, but the film fans. Brian disperses (a difficult feat), I join Ken Eadie and Ian Williams
screen-gazing at Roger Corman shorts. I am entertained by Poe rehashing until a Topper film of singular
lack of merit. I disappear to room, intending to return later and view The Trip. But I awake on...
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