The idea of trying to write a complete connected convention report scares me, because it's one of the things about which you have to be very thorough --- like being a hi-fi man. Some of my friends are hi-fi enthusiasts who get whole rooms wired up and pour half their salaries into equipment which is supposed to make them feel they are sitting right in the middle of an orchestra. They go to such lengths to achieve this effect that I once offered to build one of them a little gadget which would be the ultimate in hi-fi realism. It took the form of a black box which could be hooked up to the hi-fi and at every particularly loud trumpet blast would shower the back of the owner's head with spittle. For a little extra it would have prodded him in the ribs during the string passages and emitted the occasional whiff of B.O. each time the tempo increased...
My trouble is that I have a lo-fi mind, so these convention notes will be a bit short on most frequencies and others may be missing altogether.
When my brother and I were small boys we had a convention that our holidays began at the exact split second in which the train began to move from the station. We sat quietly, almost glumly, in our window seats while the train prepared for the journey and were aware, with some dim sub-Einsteinian instinct, that we were still part of the everyday system. Next would come that delicious moment when the approaching clatter of couplings let us know that the front of the train was already moving though our carriage was standing still--- then a gentle, head-nodding lurch and our holiday had started. We usually cheered.
That's the way it was with the 1964 Convention. The hours of travel by car, aeroplane and bus didn't seem to count --- the convention started on the instant the train pulled out of Kings Cross. Sadie and I were too tired to cheer, but we settled down to enjoy the last leg of the journey. I must have been in a particularly happy mood because for once the London suburbs and their strange yellowish, silt-coloured brickwork that you don't see anywhere else failed to bring on a fit of depression. Sadie was in a good mood too because she was able to settle down happily in a backward-facing seat. Normally she refuses to sit with her back to the engine ... which makes things hellish awkward when we travel in a Volkswagen.
The thought occurred that there would probably be other fans in this same train, perhaps in the same compartment. I had a look round but didn't see anybody who looked the part so I got Sadie, who reckons herself an expert on deducing people's circumstances from their appearance, onto the job.
Sadie obligingly scanned the faces nearest to us. A young couple across the aisle who continually ate biscuits had just got through the Berlin wall and were losing themselves in England; the girl opposite in a black headscarf was a retired woman of the streets who was returning to try and re-create her former pure life in her little home town ... but there weren't any fans in the compartment.
I briefly considered walking along the train to have a look but, somehow, fell asleep and awoke only a few minutes before we reached Peterborough. Leaping off the train I was immediately sorry I hadn't scouted through the other carriages because the first people we saw in the magical, GK Chesterton dusk of that Friday evening were Ken and Pam Bulmer. They were talking to the ticket collector and obviously receiving directions on how to reach The Bull.
It would have been difficult to think of two more suitable fans for our first contact with the convention. Ken Bulmer was the very first English fan I ever saw, and that was when Irish Fandom visited the fabulous Epicentre at Highbury for its first convention attendance back in 1951. Vince Clarke, the second English fan I ever saw (by about five seconds), shared the Epicentre with Ken in those dewy days and was directly responsible for bringing together Ken and his wife Pam together because one afternoon when he was passing through Woolwich in a bus with a file of sf magazines on his knee he was spotted by Pam's brother Ron Buckmaster. Ron spoke to him, started attending the old Thursday evening sessions at the White Horse, brought Pam along, she met Ken Bulmer .... Anyway, it was good to see them again.
As we left the station Ken explained to me that he had been to Peterborough before and knew the way to The Bull pretty well but he had decided to check his bearings with a local to ensure there would be no slip-ups. I nodded approvingly, thinking with a twinge of madness that even for great fans mundane maturity and practicality must creep up over the years and dim the light of inverted-genius that once crowned their flat, yellow foreheads. A few moments later my faith in everything was restored when it became apparent that pre-knowledge and fresh guidance notwithstanding, Ken had brought us the wrong way. The two girls were ambling along behind and didn't seem to notice so we kept quiet about it and sometime later arrived at The Bull from exactly the opposite direction to the railway station. (It was a nice fannish touch, although one which nearly backfired---on the Monday morning Sadie and I burst out of the hotel late for our train and instinctively headed back the way Ken had brought us.)
We checked in and went upstairs to our room having divided the baggage equally---ie Sadie carried our case and I carried the key tag. The Bull's idea of a key tag is a headstone moulded in cast iron along the bottom edge of which is a fearsome row of teeth making the whole assembly appear like a weapon from some ancient and more brutal age, or perhaps a Victorian meat tenderiser. Strangely though, I got used to carrying it around and now, long after the Convention, in moments of stress I find myself reaching for my hip pocket and missing the masssive, clanking solidity.
After freshening up we went in search of the rest of Irish fandom who had all arrived earlier in the day. I had been thirsty since we left home that morning but to Sadie's surprise had passed up many chances to knock back a couple. Finally I had explained, to ease her growing anxiety about my health, that it was for a sort of sentimental reason. I had vowed my first drink that day would be a pint of bitter with Ian McAulay in the convention hotel. I knew he wouldn't have started without me because it would have broken our little tradition which is always observed on these occasions. When a boozing session is at hand the first there always waits till the other arrives and then, after a civilized, reasonable pause, of about four seconds or so, I say, "It's not too soon, is it, Ian?" And he says, "No, Bob---I don't think it's too soon"....and we get pigged in.
I had reminded Sadie of a Bushel I had written almost solely about the importance which the aristocratic side of Ian's nature places on the observance of these touching little traditions which do so much to distinguish our gentlemanly coucourses from mere vulgar booze-ups. Sadie had nodded understandingly, no doubt awed by the power of that noble and enduring bond which can develop over the years between men of intellect, sensibility and honour.
Thus it was that, in spite of a raging thirst, not one drop of liquor had passed my lips that day when I entered the bar and looked around for Ian, ears attuned to hear that quiet, time-hallowed phrase which would be the signal for our first drink. You can imagine my distaste therefore when I was promptly pounded on the back by a ghastly-looking apparition with rolling eyes and a white moustache which bellowed, "Allotharr, Bob, old shun---whaddaya wanna drink?"
The alcohol fumes accompanying this greeting blurred my vision momentarily but my eyes finally came into focus and I discovered the white moustache was in reality a moraine of beer froth and that the creature behind it was none other than Ian McAulay! Not only had he started without me, he had almost finished! (Later I remembered that Ian had been resident in England for a week before the convention and hence could be forgiven the deterioration in his standards.) To be honest, Ian's condition mustn't have been too bad because I looked at him again after I'd had six or seven pints of Bass on an empty stomach and he appeared quite normal, although everyone else was starting to go a bit funny. The whole of the Irish Contingent, plus Ella Parker and Ethel Lindsay, then went and had a very enjoyable Chinese meal, during which Ian and I had a few more drinks; then we returned to the hotel for a jawing session during which Ian and I had a few more drinks. After a couple of nightcaps we went to bed.
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I woke up next morning with a hangover, which obviously had been brought on by the fact that I'd broken all the rules of stomach care the night before by having crispy noodles instead of my usual soft noodles. Sometimes I think I'll never learn. However I quickly cured the hangover by a trick picked up from a German friend who on these occasions always takes an Alka-Selzer and an aspirin tablet---typical two-tonic efficiency.
One of the first things to happen that day was that Arthur Thomson turned up and I brought him along to our room and introduced him to Sadie, the one member of Irish Fandom who had so far eluded him. I was pleased at the great interest Arthur took in Sadie. They had almost met on several occasions during the previous ten years or so and he couldn't seem to get it into his head that at last she was really there in front of him. In fact, at odd moments during the convention, when he thought nobody was looking, Arthur kept putting out his hand and just touching some part of Sadie---her back or her leg, perhaps---as though to convince himself she was real. I had to laugh at old Arthur for being so slow on the up-take.
Now that I think of it, Ian McAulay was another one who was very nice to Sadie. Quite often, when he could have been away talking to faneds or buying prozines, he seemed content to just stay with Sadie on our bed while I selfishly lounged in the room's only comfortable armchair. Several times he told me there was absolutely no need for me to miss any of my first British convention for some years, as he wouldn't mind keeping Sadie company for me while she rested. I didn't take advantage of his offer, of course---there are limits even to what one fan should be allowed to do for another. It ought to go on record, though, that it is people like Arthur and Ian who have helped make conventions what they are.
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I looked in at the introductory session for a while on Saturday morning to see how things were going and heard something I had never heard at a convention before. A man about forty, who seemed intelligent otherwise, stood up and gave an inpromptu speech on the brilliance, originality and sheer literary craftsmanship of F.G. Rayer. He went on so long that I began to think he must be F.G. Rayer, and to my astonishment nobody put him right about a man who must be the most unoriginal writer outside the ranks of successful bank note forgers. I might have had a go myself but I began to wonder if what I was hearing was symptomatic of the science fiction world's inability to stand on the shoulders of previous generations.
Older fans tend to stop reading sf because it seems stale to them, younger fans tend to enjoy current sf and say it is as good as ever---and observers of the scene say it is only natural that new fans should be thrilled by some concepts that engrossed members of Sixth Fandom and earlier. This conclusion is reached every time fans discuss sf and it is right as far as it goes, but should a supposedly creative thing like sf follow the same cyclic pattern as magazines like Car Mechanics with their recurrent "More MPG This Winter" articles?
The subject was openly discussed a couple of times at Peterborough and the same tired conclusion was reached, but still I question its validity. I think the cycle could be broken if we did a bit more standing on shoulders. In other fields the beginner starts off knowing more than a master did some years before---why does sf have to be different?
Probably one of the big stumbling blocks is our attitude towards science. We are inclined to think we know a lot about science and are encouraged in this by the fact that the non-sf reader knows absolutely nothing. The tv is on. A serious look comes over Hughie Green's face and the audience falls quiet, sensing that a really tough question is coming up. The contestant looks worried as, with great care, Hughie reads out, "This question is about the Solar System. The So-lar Sys-tem." He darts a quick look at the audience to commend their respectful silence. "Circling our Sun there is a belt of minor astronomical bodies known as the As-ter-oid Belt. Between the orbits of which two planets does this Belt exist?"
The average sf fan has been reading a book by the fire, making sure the rest of the family know he despises quiz shows, but he can't resist rattling out, "Mars and Jupiter." A full minute later the contestant, if he is lucky, says the same thing: Hughie lets his arms fall helplessly in the face of such erudition and says "By golly, sir, you certainly know your astronomy," the audience applauds wildly, and the fan modestly lowers his head but keeps his ears tuned for the next question.....
This sort of thing makes us feel a bit like science wizards but supposing the question had been a shade more difficult, such as being asked to state, or even define, Planck's Constant. About 99% of the fannish noses would remain buried in the books. The truth is that we don't know much about science at all, so maybe the reason sf doesn't turn up new concepts is that the old stories have squeezed out all the concepts that can be appreciated with a very elementary scientific knowledge.
During the discussions Ian McAulay said he would like to see more science in sf but author Ted Tubb actually replied that in his mind it was a bad thing for sf writers to bother too much with science! I can see Ted's point of view, of course---it would be a lot easier simply to continue doing stuff about the swamps of Venus. It is unfortunate though the graph of the incidence of scientific discoveries curves up and up and that of the incidence of new sf ideas continues resolutely downwards.
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The fancy dress ball was good fun, most of the credit going to Norm Shorrocks for supplying an incredible quantity of free booze of a quality which would have made it enjoyable even if we had been paying. At the start of the evening I was greatly impressed by a flash of alien genius from Arthur Thomson. Brian Burgess had shown up in a striking outfit consisting of a pair of dark white drawers and a raincoat slung back from his shoulders like a cloak. After surveying Brian critically for a few moments Arthur explained to him that he ought to keep the raincoat aroung himself to tantalise people, only allowing them occasional exciting glimpses of what lay underneath. This I regarded as sheer brilliance because it made things more enjoyable for the people who liked looking at Brian's tummy, and at the same time, if there happened to be people present who did not want to see Brian's tummy, they benefitted as well.
Unfortunately, this was to be Arthur's last flash of native wit. His fire was about to be extinguished by an experience of the sortsuch as that if a man survives it at all he thereafter faces death with the calm fortitude of one who has faced worse. You see, Arthur had not booked a room in the hotel and was spending the night on the floor of the room occupied by James White and Ian McAulay. It wouldn't have been much of a night for him at the best of times, but on this occasion there were two other factors involved---either of them devastating on its own, the two together being too horrible to contemplate. James had been quite ill before leaving Ireland with the result that his insulin dosage was all haywire and he was rapidly becoming delirious; Ian had tanked up on about ten different varieties of free wine to the point where pink elephants and green rats were running away from him screaming.
Arthur tried to describe it the following morning but I doubt if he could have done so even if he hadn't been mumbling incoherently, twitching and flinging his arms over his face every time a door opened. We can only visualize him sitting bolt upright at the foot of James's bed, his head turning gopher- like as, hour by horrible hour, the night unfolded its vistas of dread. Now, I'm the first to admit that I snore a bit, but my snore is a regular peaceful thing which has even been known to soothe people and givethem a feeling that the world mustn't be too bad if a man can so obviously enjoy the sleep of the just. But James and Ian both have frightening, unpredictable snores, sometimes dying down to sibilant whispers which lull the listener to a state of uneasy drowsiness, then with the suddenness of a bomb-burst increasing to thunderous proportions, wringing moans of panic from the listener who, with heart stopped, springs back to full consciousness. As if this were not enough, even when they are snoring at full blast one cannot relax in full submission for, without warning, a tremendous blast will be choked off in its infancy as some nasal passage, driven beyond its natural limits, snaps closed. There is a deathly silence followed by a series of silly clicks as various membranes are tested by the pent-up forces of the snore and finally, after an unendurable wait, it penetrates the original channel with redoubled fury or, baulked of its natural egress, explodes through the mouth in a hideous multiple vibration involving lips, teeth, gums, palate and tonsils. One can only guess how Arthur must have felt, after hours of this, on making the discovery that the inhuman repertoire was far from exhausted. James began to jerk about in his bed, his gigantic form thrashing in the near-darkness like a harpooned whale while tortured fragments of songs escaped his lips. And who can say what Arthur must have thought when Ian began bounding past him in the dark, looking for the lavatory, all the time swearing in Gaelic, retching raucously and emitting great gouts of mixed banana wine, Tuborg lager and fermented Coca-Cola?
All I know is, he wasn't the same man for the rest of the convention.
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It was cold on the Sunday morning but we forsook the hotel and walked a long way to a local greasy spoon because Ian got up too late for breakfast. He insisted that James had slipped out for breakfast without even trying to waken him. James denied it vigorously but in the end promised to buy Ian a good breakfast elsewhere, so we set off. It says a lot for Ian's constitution that he had worked up an apetite by the time we sat down but they served him a plate of sausageless skins, tea in a plastic cup and a strange looking condiment in a bottle labelled, with unlively simplicity, "Chop Sauce". Any remnants of appetite remaining to Ian were dispelled when James---tactlessly I thought---pointed out that the waitress was wearing Wellington boots, so what must the kitchen be like?
Ian andJames moaned at each other about it the whole way back to The Bull, while Sadie and I trailed along behind listening. It was odd to hear them quarreling over a minor thing like breakfast. I would have thought that after what they had just done to Arthur they would have been unified by some strange bond, like Burke and Hare.
The rest of Sunday seemed to go like a dream. Walt Willis and Ian played a game of Scrabble which was photographed at almost every move by half a dozen camera fans. I kept seeing people I would like to have a yarn with but couldn't get the chance. Sid Birchby, for instance, who was as jovial and changeless as ever. Jim and Dot Rattigan showed up for a while. Ian kept complaining about having been deserted by his friends in the morning, and James kept pointing out that hje had bought him the best breakfast available. Wally Weber kept circulating.
Before we knew it, it was time for the last big event, the famous Humming and Swaying---in which Irish Fandom refused to join. Several people we know well and like were in it and had a grest time, so it seems that one must be able to have a good time messing around on the fringes of mass hypnosis. But, this being so, why does the affair have to be invested with an air of childish unpleasantness by tricks like fake sacrifices? If memory serves me right, a prozine editor's visit to a previous convention was marred because he agreed to store in his bedroom a box which would be needed during the Humming and Swaying ceremonies. The box turned out to contain decomposing animal guts and the smell of them caused the editor considerable annoyance. I don't think there was anything like that this time, but the same rather unappetising undertones were present. What's it all in aid of?
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On the way back to London on the train next morning Irish Fandom and Ken Bulmer got seats together in a compact little group which encompassed only two non-fans, an elderly couple who seemed to be going up for a day's shopping. They were understandably bored by our conversation but I noted a gleam of interest in their eyes when Ken casually remarked, "We'll be able to see The Epicentre from this train." God only knows what sort of vision the word Epicentre conjured up in their minds, but it must have been something good. They got more and more excited as Ken ticked off landmarks leading up to The Epicentre and when he started a count-down in the last few seconds the old boy was slobbering with suspense and nudging his wife so that she wouldn't miss it.
When the row of sooty old houses finally came into view Ken lept up, gnashing his pipe, and shouted, "There it is! There it is! Look!" He gazed out for a few seconds in silent rapture, and the old boy's eyes made audible clicks as they bounced from side to side in their sockets in an effort to find something resembling his idea of an Epicentre. Finally he slumped back in his seat with an air of uttter misery, and I'm sure to this day he is wondering what he missed.
(data entered by Judy Bemis)
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