Sunday 22nd AprilLEN MOFFATT: Although Pike Pickens had not hit the sack until around 4:30 that morning, Len Moffatt somehow managed to disentangle himself from the continental quilt by 11 the very same morning. Although only an amateur clown, I do try to take a professional approach to donning the motley, and had removed the makeup and washed thoroughly before falling into bed. So, all I had to do when I did get up was to shave (Very Carefully) and bathe (Very Bravely). Nevertheless, I still felt somewhat like the protagonist in a suspense novel - the kind that awaken by sheer effort of will and can't budge hardly an inch without a large coffee transfusion. So, we had breakfast in our room before going down to see if the con was still there.
JUNE MOFFATT: It was, and as usual, much of it was in the bar. The bar area provided by the hotel was a large room, with a long bar whereon were placed two bowls of ice cubes at the beginning of the day. These bowls stayed out until the ice melted or it was all used up - usually a combination of the two. As an ice-loving Yank, I learned to grab a Pepsi early in the day, while ice was still available. (I'm not particularly fond of Pepsi, but it was the only cola drink they had.) The far end of the bar was where they had placed the beer and lager kegs - of only academic interest to me, but Very Important to many others there, including Len. LEN MOFFATT: Someone led June and me over to a table where James White was being interviewed by a reporter from the Daily Mirror. Jim, as you may know, is well over six feet tall, and the reporter was quite a tall man, too. They stood up to be introduced to June, who is just a shade under six feet. Jim turned to the reporter and said, "Isn't it nice to meet a girl of average height?" The reporter allowed as how it was. My roommate's day was made. Presently Jim had to leave, and James Blish and John Brunner showed up to be interviewed [...] who did a good job of keeping his note-taking hand busy. About this time we were hauled off to lunch with Eddie and Marsha Jones and Bill and Mary Burns. We went to an Italian-type restaurant called (so help me) Dino's.
MALCOLM EDWARDS: Sunday morning saw the BSFA AGM (I have skated over the later part of Saturday evening, because although in the that time I learned perhaps more than ever before about the real inside story of science fiction. I can hardly reprint any of that here!) Christine assured me that this was the single most entertaining item on the programme (although strictly speaking she shouldn't have been there). The minutes of the meeting should be going out with this VECTOR, so you'll see from them what was resolved, and who was elected to the Council.
I'd only been to one previous BSFA meeting, which was pretty chaotic; this time, however, with John Brunner in the chair and actually chairing the meeting, things were rather different. Still, one had to sympathise with poor Keith Freeman who couldn't finish a single sentence without being interrupted from a particularly vocal part of the audience which continually demanded elucidation on various points while denying Keith the chance to give it. One of the end results was that I was one of the three new members elected to the Council. Power I Ab I understand it, since the B.S.F.A. is a limited company, the Council counts as a Board of Directors of sorts. Which gave Keith the chance to deliver one of the best lines of the convention when he told me later that our Company Secretary, Graham Poole, wanted to see me because, as a new Council member, I had to list my other directorships. Well, I never did see you Graham, so if you've got pencil and paper ready: I.C.I., Unilever, British Leyland ...
After the AGM I had to appear on Pete Weston's fan panel, along with Ian Williams, Peter Roberts, Jim Goddard, and of course the man himself. I forget what we were discussing, though I'm not sure we knew even then. "Be a bit extreme," Pete hissed to everyone before we began, no doubt realising that the five of us would probably be in substantial agreement on most things, despite his attempt to split us, both physically and philosophically, into two camps: the fannish fans (Ian and Peter Rabbit) and the gimlet-eyed sercon fans (Jim and me). To anyone who's listening I'd like to make another complaint about the set-up of panels at conventions (like the Philip Strick panel, this one I think had the virtue of being well-run and the defect of directionlessness): there are never enough microphones. Admittedly there ought to have been two between the five of us, but one was not working; nevertheless I think a convention ought to be able to get at least four together, so that people on these panels can speak when they have something to say rather than (as always happens at present) when the mike happens to perambulate in their direction. In thit particular instance, I found that whenever the microphone was with Peter Roberts at the far end of the table I had something almost relevant to say, but by the time it had made its way across to me, comments made by the three between us had moved the discussion to an area where I felt I had very little to contribute. Was the same thing happening to the other panellists? Is it general in this kind of situation? If so, is it any wonder that however interesting they look on paper, panel discussions rarely generate anything really worthwhile. I know that if there were more microphones there would be the danger of everybody talking at once, but this might be preferable to the state of affairs when you can't talk when you want to.
Oddly enough, I suffered little or no fear before going on that panel, although the thought of having to appear in public always fills me with dread. Probably it was because I had been enjoying the BSFA meeting, which had overrun, with the result that I went more-or-less straight out of the meeting, into the Con hall, and onto the platform. It was different in the afternoon. DAVE ROWE: The fanzine panel was a shambles. Trying to muster some life into the panel and/or the audience was like trying to inflate a string vest. If a con is going to have a Sunday morning programme, then start it with a film (preferably a cheap monster film that the besozzled fen don't have to concentrate on). It could be screened at the same time as the BSFA AGM (as with Chessmancon) then repeated at night if enough members want to see it. It also means the con doesn't need to wait for half the panel to emerge from the AGM. LEN MOFFATT: The two main events that afternoon, other than the film competition, were a talk by Jim White and a panel-type quiz game called "H.G. Wells's Mustache".
Jim's talk was entitled "That Lovable Alien", and though I don't really think of that fantastic Irishman as an alien (being at least half Irish meself.) the title did seem to fit. Jim (like his American almost-twin, van Vogt) speaks quietly and most amusingly. Unlike some fans who have become successful pros, he does not take himself too seriously. (When I introduced him to June as James White, he quickly corrected me and said "JIM White". I know that Ella Parker calls him "Jimmy", but I'm not sure how many get away with that. I get called "Lenny" a good deal, and know that I prefer to be called "Len" - or even "Leonard"...). PETER ROBERTS: Sunday morning (the reason for me staying up) there was a fan panel chaired by Pete Weston with Malcolm Edwards, Jim Goddard, Ian Williams, and myself. In the afternoon the quiz game "H.G.Wells' Moustache" was played; four teams (LiG, Brum Group, Gannetfandom, and Ratfandom) competed in an attempt to guess various unlikely things - The Mule, Dave Kyle's Beanie, Verguzz, and Tiger! Tiger! were examples - with Fred Hemmings as quizmaster.
MALCOLM EDWARDS: I suspect that the idea of a fun quiz show was Fred Hemmings' evil way of subjecting 16 innooent people to terrible public humiliation. There were four teams of four, representing different fan groups: one from Newcastle, one from Liverpool, one from Birmingham, and one from London. This last team, representing the Globe and the mythical entity known as Ratfandom, consisted of Rob Holdstock, Greg Pickersgill, Leroy Richard Arthur Teeth Kettle, and me. It would have been O.K. if it had been a simple quiz; but it wasn't - it was a 'Twenty Questions' sort of affair in which we had to guess the identity of obscure objects from sf and fandom, one team competing against another and the two winners playing in the final. Fifteen minutes before we went on, there was a small, pathetic group clustered round one of the tables in the bar, united by sheer naked fear. Only John Brosnan, who was originally in the team but had dropped out, was happy. We had hoped that we'd be one of the second pair, so we could get some idea by watching them in action. But no such luck* the first match was between Birmingham and us. It was terrible. We had no idea. God alone knows what the audience were thinking as the questioning went round and round without ever getting near the answer. But believe me, there's nothing more likely to make you feel really stupid than sitting in front of 100-150 people asking daft questions to try and find some answer they all know already (it having been written on a blackboard out of our sight).
Not actually their team, but since I can find no mention of what this panel might have been I'm using it here to illustrate Ratfandom. As it happens, we won both our games, more by luck than judgment, and became the first, and hopefully only recipients of the H.G. Wells' Moustache trophy. This was presented with due pomp and absurdity at the banquet on Sunday evening. I was sent to collect it, the others thinking it to be a box of chocolates. In fact, it turned out to be a bottle} but sadly, though I made my exit on the other side of the room, Kettle caught me.
At 6.15 pm, following a break for tea, came "PART TIME POVERTY: Don Wollheim chairs a panel discussing the problems that arise for anyone writing in their spare time, and what can be done to overcome them." This was to be followed by Dr. W. Grey Walter, however.... DAVE ROWE: Dr. W. Grey Walter thought the whole damn con wasn't until the following week, but as soon as he was informed of the error of his ways, he dashed across Bristol to give his lecture "Convolutions of the Brain". A fine and noble deed, but OMPA would have done better to have cancelled the speech, as delaying it also delayed the banquet, and there were yet even more cries than usual of "That's the Last Bloody Banquet I Go To" MALCOLM EDWARDS: I didn't go to the banquet, of course; one can buy bad food at a quarter of the cost in a Wimpy bar, or reasonable food at about half the cost in any number of places, and furthermore it's served to you while it's still hot. The only disadvantage of missing the banquet is that not enough other people do it, leaving only a small dedicated bunch outside, waiting for the interminable affair to end so that they can go in and mock the speeches and the awards. PETER ROBERTS: The banquet on Sunday evening was possibly more successful than most - opinions on the quality of food and service varied. Surprise of the evening was the first course: lettuce & rice pudding, I'm told. The various prizes were awarded after the catering - Dave Kyle was toastmaster. LEN MOFFATT: The Banquet is a signal (or warning) that the con will soon be over. And, no matter how you suffer from lack of sleep, you wish it would go on a few more days. Especially a good con like the OMPAcon. JUNE MOFFATT: A few weeks before we left for England, the LASFS had voted to send a greeting to the fans at the Bristol con. Jack Harness was delegated to do a painting, leaving space at the bottom for LASFS members to autograph it. Jack depicted (or caricatured) several well-known LASFS members, such as Larry Niven burdened down under several Hugos, Fuzzy Pink Niven, Yampo (one of the younger fans who is also a Marx Bros. freak) and a couple of Typical LASFS types - whatever THAT is.
So there I was, with the mike in one hand and the painting in the other. (And panic rising on the horizon....) I managed to stammer out some sort of history of the painting, pointing out that it had been done on Bristol board (which the audience seemed to appreciate) and called upon Ken Cheslin to accept it. He did so on behalf of the convention, and remarked that this was indeed an old time fannish custom - LASFS and Britfandom have exchanged such pictorial greetings in the past. It's fun to help carry on some Fannish Traditions.
LEN MOFFATT: The Guest of Honor, Chip Delany, gave a talk on critics of s-f. Naturally, he was criticizing the critics, and did it very well indeed. No screaming or breast-beating - just quietly pointing out where they sometimes went wrong. A most refreshing GoH talk. PETER ROBERTS: The "Ken McIntyre" fanart award was won by the cover artist for SHADOW #18 - sorry, I didn't catch his name [Dave Fletcher].
The "Doc Weir Award" was presented to Ethel Lindsay by the previous holder, Jill Adams. The British Sf Award was not presented this year due to popular apathy. Bruce Pelz, the only US voter through the UK TAFF agent Eddie Jones, received the prize of an Eddie painting after his number was picked out of a hat by June Moffatt in the TAFF lottery. Terry Jeeves won the Delta Amateur Film Award for a cartoon of his shown in the competition at the con. The British Fantasy Society's "Derleth Awards" (presented by John Ramsey Campbell who rose and promptly fell under the table!) went to 'Tales From The Crypt' (film), 'Conan' (comic), a de Camp short story (title someone?), Mike Moorcock's 'King of the Swords' (novel), and a special award to the publisher of Howard's 'Marches of Valhalla'.
Fancy Dress Awards: 1) Vernon Brown (Something of the Seven Elves); 2) Hazel Reynolds (The Iron Chicken); 3) Chris Morgan (The Stainless Steel Rat); Jnr) Rachel Barrow (?) (Supergirl).
Daughter of Peter & Diane Barrow and so granddaughter of Mike Rosenblum. VERA JOHNSON: I had to skip the next panel, banquet and after-dinner speeches, as I had a booking at the Bath Folk Club, but I got back in time for the showing of "Dr. Strangelove", which I had never seen and although it was late starting and didn't finish until 3:30, I enjoyed it. LEN MOFFATT: After the Banquet, we went back to the meeting room to watch a couple more films. One was a kind of home-movie job (only with fans), showing Phil Rogers's wedding. Another was a fan-made satire about a conflict between Tubb fans and Aldiss fans, quite whacky and mad.
Presently we adjourned to a room party in the Burns's room. It was a small party, so I should remember most of the names. Bill and Mary Burns, of course... the Joneses... the Shorrocks... including son Roy (whom I now recognized as one of the folk singers in the bar on that famous night), Keith Freeman, Banks Mebane, Danny Plachta, Dave Kyle, Jenny Campbell, a girl named Wendy, and probably others. Our bedtime was approximately 4 a.m. (Yup, me too. I'd finally gotten my second wind - June.) PETER ROBERTS: I went to a Gannet party on Sunday evening but decided that more interesting things were happening elsewhere - as, indeed, most of the Gannets themselves did.
Sunday night was the Grand Finale: a party in the bar lounge which lasted through until breakfast when there were still some 23 of us (according to Norman Shorrock, the only person still able to count) in the bar. Ted Ball bought the last drink before breakfast, appearing with a pint of bitter at 8.00am. Other stalwarts included Brian Aldiss (happily singing), Jim Blish, and Samuel 'Chip' Delany - a mixed company of card-players, singers, and talkers making up the rest.
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