KETTERING 1958

The sleek black beer bottle slid over the counter, once more the fans had returned to their ancestral home of Kettering to open the session in the town. Mothers sequestered their daughters behind locked doors; pubs ordered more crates of bheer; and sporting girls in search of fun came flocking to the George Hotel. Then it began! A fanfare of trumpets sounded to announce the first arrivals as they left the station led by The Jazz Band of the Saints. This was swiftly followed by the buzz of aircraft as they unloaded their unwanted cargo on a town prepared for the worst, and the roar of a fleet of cars punctuated by the constant report of burst tyres as the first road arrivals screeched to a halt - in the horse-trough (luckily devoid of horses). The fans had arrived!

I arrived on Friday, a whole day before Dave, and had a much better chance to collect some first day bruises. In the riot at the bar, a familiar Guinness-garbled voice bade me welcome, and Ken McIntyre scrambled over the debris and dragged me to a corner. Fen poured through the swing doors, Jones lugging fifteen tons of tape recording equipment, Mercer with his caravan (later to be enshrined outside the chip shop), and most of the Liverpool Group, cluttered with cameras, blank cartridge pistols, and crates of ye famous 'Vishnuvka'... and if you can spell it any better, you're too clever for fandom. The evening session developed bit by bit as fen returned from the non-fannish act of eating. The fish shop closed down, and Dennis, the bar tender began to dissolve in a blur of action (at least, he dissolved in a blur). The basket lounge was the centre of a milling horde, some dancing to the competing airs of the Jones taper, the Mercer gramophone, and the Sandfield (L.) guitar. A few sporadic room parties broke out, but in general most people preferred to take things easy in readiness for Satyrday. I turned in at 1 am, partly to be ready for the morrow, and partly to see the fannish faces happily ranged around the breakfast table.

Satyrday dawned with a ringing of bells (real ones)(I had a room facing the church) and after a pleasant breakfast (no dust on the cornflakes), we adjourned to the bar. This procedure was to be repeated after each meal, until by early afternoon, almost all the attendees had arrived.

Among the late arrivals came the Manchester Circle after a jovial ride of bheer, wolf whistles, and joke's not suitable. for publication here. 130 miles by road piloted most capably by Ken Smith and a Dan Dare compass. Our tongues hanging out for a pint (or several) of bheer promised to us by Frank, one of our advance party. Both bheer and Frank were conspicuous by their absence.

The first note of welcome came from the Devil's Kitchen, in the blurred drink-sodden voices of the Liverpool Group. (How we regretted not coming on the Friday, all that lovely beer not drunk - by us.) Then a shadow enveloped us, and there was Brian Burgess looming over us with his bed partner...a large jug of orange juice. But we had timed it well, as we entered the bar was opened, and Dennis, now blurred in the rush, threw us over the necessary bottled stuff, one bottle causing a large lump on Phil's head. Phil, (surprisingly) got his money out, and paid while in a semi-conscious state. Settling down to a few of the best, we became involved with numerous voices raised in greeting, then the bheer began to fly.

To the consternation (jealousy) of those present, one young lady came over and gave the Circle a most gratifying and warm welcome. Two hours later, after recovering, the Circle decided to look up their rooms..but not before further females assured us of a warm welcome.

After a wash and brush up, the Circle looked around, meeting Archie Mercer, Sid Birchby (also from Manchester), Terry, Eric, and many others present. The day passed quietly, if not soberly, tea, and then into the lounge where we waited for the punch to arrived. The trumpets blew, the guitar struck up, the sound of music, wafted over the crowd, beautifully intermingled with the aromatic scent of the punch. After the scramble, I found myself with three glasses of the best..one standing on my head. Then the party hetted up, commencing with Eric and Audrey giving us an exhibition of the Rock-n-Roll and followed by Ken and I showing how it should be done. As my partner rested, Terry and I continued with the dance together. (To Terry ) The applause which greeted this number had no connection with with the fact that a zipper broke on one wenches costume. A motion given to burn the Sandfield guitar with full ceremony was only defeated by a quick passing of the punch on its second circuit. Bryan Welham and Barry Hall engaged me in a serious and constructive discussion on science fiction, but they were rather bewildered as to how I did this with a pint of bheer in my hand, and female type woman of the opposite sex on my knee. More room parties in search of a room were roaming around the hotel. Boris (Bill, to you) lashed out coffee for all those teetotallers in our midst (both of them), and activities were still being activated at 4-30 am., when I finally dislodged a very pleasant Minicon from my room, and called it a night.

Sunday, proved almost a bheerless day, an all-morning OMPA meeting was followed by an all-afternoon..all-evening meeting to hear (via tape) Vin¢ Clarke's proposal for a Science Fiction Society. At 10 pm the meeting finally broke up, after having chosen the club's new name...The British Science Fiction Association, and established a committee headed by Chairman, Dave Newman. Ted Tubb, editor of the 0-0. Archie Mercer was made Treasurer (after an inspection of his caravan, to make sure it wasn't too mobile). Joint Secretaries were Messrs Bentcliffe and Jeeves. This committee duly stoked up with a supply of bheer, and adjourned to Eric's room for a further meeting. This wound up around lam., and the members dispersed in search of a further source of amusement.

On Monday, we all went home...Bennett on the brag train.