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Friday 24th AugustERIC BENTCLIFFE:
Friday dawned reasonably pleasantly, and not too early, as I recall, and bright sunshine and a
temperature well above freezing helped make my walk from the Sherlock Hotel to the Metropole
quite a bearable one. My hotel was cheap - by Brighton standards - but clean, and offered
several facilities the main con-hotels didn't; including a mobius stairway which not only
ascended but passed through three different (but adjoining) buildings en route to my room.
This was rather confusing after a room-party or two, and even more so sober. It was also
inhabited, mainly, by elderly lady residents who crunched their cornflakes exceeding loud at
breakfast time with evial grimaces. It was only
The first pro panel of the day at 10am was 'The Pleasures and Perils of Series Writing' with Marion Zimmer Bradley, Anne McCaffrey, A. Bertram Chandler, and Larry Niven.
TERRY CARR: Friday morning came up sunny and warm, so a bunch of people decided to walk to the Royal Pavilion for a tour of that fabled pleasure palace. Let's see: there were me and William Rotsler, Boyd Raeburn, Susan Wood, Len Wein, Joe Staton and a few more. When we came to the edge of the Pavilion's grounds, half a dozen of our group unholstered their cameras and began shooting film of the Indian-style architecture (which looks a bit better from a distance, by the way). Then we went inside for the tour, which took us through room after room exquisitely decorated and appointed in Oriental style: chandeliers with goldsculpted dragons curling over them, teak cabinets in the form of pagodas. Continental styles were in evidence too, like the domed ceilings painted with sunlit clouds. Not everything was superb art, of course, since a great amount of wealth doesn't automatically confer a great amount of taste, but the total effect overwhelmed nitpicking. The Royal Pavilion struck me as a combination of Versailles and Hearst Castle.
During the tour, by the way, we ran into Fritz Leiber, who introduced us to Justin Leiber and his bride. Brighton and its Royal Pavilion struck me as a Very Good Place for newlyweds to visit. (Fritz later told me that Justin, his son, had met his bride-to-be [I told you I'd forget names] while he was on vacation and writing the beginning of a science fiction novel; she was vacationing and writing a novel too, so they fell to talking, and to reading the days' outputs to each other, and...)
This wasn't the day's only fannish foray there. A 'Georgette Heyer Tea' had been organised by Marilyn Niven to take place from 3 to 5.30pm in the Queen Adelaide Suite at the Royal Pavilion. This was to be preceded by a tour of the Pavilion at 2pm, which resulted in a procession there from the Metropole of about 30 fans, most in Regency period costume (including B.G. Workman attired as an officer of the King's German Legion, apparently.)
I was scheduled to moderate a panel at 1:00, so after the tour I left the group and went back to the convention hotel. The panellists were Jack Williamson, Manly Wade Wellman, Ted Sturgeon and Alfred Bester, and in my introduction to the audience I said I'd been chosen as moderator because I was the oldest. (Har har.) Our topic was "Fifty Years of Science Fiction," because the term had first appeared in print in 1929, having been coined by Hugo Gernsback - "the man after whom the Nebula Awards were named," I said brightly, chuckle groan. Actually, the panel went very well, largely because I realized early that if we talked about nothing but how science fiction got named we'd run out of things to say within fifteen minutes; so instead I steered the discussion to additional anniversaries, like the fortieth anniversary of the first world convention, which Williamson and Wellman had attended, and the fortieth anniversary of the first sf sales of Bester and Sturgeon. It all came out rather neat and jolly, despite the fact that (as I later learned, and thank God I didn't know it at the time) two of the panellists weren't overly fond of one another.
JOHN HARVEY: I did more humping at Seacon than at any convention I've been to. For the benefit of American readers, that means carrying boxes of books, fanzines, programme books, equipment, more books, displays and yet more books. I've not lost more sweat since I worked on the furnaces at a steelworks. Add the pleasure of driving a 35cwt van overladen with the above items, and I started Seacon absolutely worn out. Eve appeared to have the fan room mostly under control by Friday; the TV games machines were glowing red hot and bulging with 10p pieces. The man with the big sack had arrived to empty them when Eve remarked: "Didn't we have eight machines?" "Of course," I replied. "Well there's only seven now." "WHAT?" I madly rushed around the room counting. Only seven present. I spent the next hour with Martin Easterbrook going frantic looking for the machine. Nobody could have pinched it-- could they? Hotel staff said they'd seen people struggling with one-- through the doors to the street. Which master criminal, in broad daylight, under our very noses...? Visions of Seacon having to pay out £2000+ came to mind. We tracked the machine to a suite in the hotel and were less than polite to the miscreant - who, it turned out, had ordered machines and found them delivered to the Fan Room. When he liberated one for his own use he forgot to tell anyone. DAVE LANGFORD: Pamela Boal had a rough time: the Bedford was impossible for her wheelchair and she had to move to the Metropole (which like the Bedford 'caters for the disabled'-- i.e. has one toilet with the wheelchair symbol on the door, provided you can get up the steps to find it). At least, you'd think, someone staying in the hotel which includes the Seacon exhibition complex should have no trouble. You'd be wrong. The exhibition/conference bit is an afterthought to the main body of the Metropole, and each has its own lifts: however, they are linked only by two flights of stairs, neither with even a handrail. Pamela and one or two other people unable to climb stairs enjoyed a delightful quarter mile walk round the side of the hotel (often in the rain) whenever they wished to go from hotel room to con hall or vice versa. This is not a trivial matter: those who like me can crawl drunkenly up stairs without a second thought are apt to underestimate problems of access. (Note how cretin Langford used the word 'walk' in the last sentence but one, for example-- not quite the word for a tortuous progress by wheelchair over appallingly-maintained pavements.) The next con committee is advised to take note.
ERIC BENTCLIFFE: I arrived at the Metropole in time for the Fan Room panel on American Fandom moderated by Frank Denton who did an excellent job until faced with a fan seated in the front-row who was determined to give everyone the *full* story of fandom in *March* 1929.
PETER ROBERTS: Fan programme began Friday. Sound system had blown and I'd completely underestimated the number of people casually using the room whilst the main programme was in full swing. So it goes. The American Fandom panel (Frank Denton, Suzle Tompkins, Rich Coad, and Joyce Scrivner) started amidst surrounding hubbub – things looked grim when well-meaning but long-winded Aubrey MacDermott seized the mike for a detailed history of US fandom in 1929. Panel survived, however. I chaired an interview with TAFF & GUFF winners, Terry Hughes & John Foyster, and then moved on to the first of the British Fandom chat shows (with Ken Bulmer, Bob Tucker, and Ken Slater), retaining the chair myself since I'm useless at delegating things,
Plenty of anecdotes, good stuff – but I bizarrely had to abandon the chair just before the end to move downstairs for the 'Call My Bluff' quiz. The hall was packed and thanks to the excellent audience response everyone managed to conjure up some wit. Gratified that my false definitions of ludicrous sf terms fooled the opposition.
Fan team (Roy Kettle, Malcolm Edwards, and myself) beat off the pros (Bob Shaw, Chris Priest, and Rob Holdstock). Having been on the programme for three straight hours, I left Eve Harvey and Mike Glicksohn to interview Harry Bell, Fan GoH, and collapsed into a nearby bar.
PETER NICHOLLS: Cathy Ball, to me: "Gee, Peter, I didn't know you could write!" "But Cathy, I've been a professional writer for some years." She shook her head impatiently. "I don't mean that sort of writing," she said, dismissing the world of the higher criticism with contempt, "I mean proper writing, FAN writing." This was one of the best backhanded compliments I've ever received, and was due, I suppose, to an earlier Con. Report of mine which had accidentally found its way into a compilation of British fanwriting that Kev Smith had brought out for Seacon. I was really very chuffed about the inclusion, and would have kissed Cathy in gratitude, except that the queue was too long. KEV WILLIAMS: One of the suvverners turned out to be not a little paranoid about drugs. He would come in and report the latest marvel that had just walked, hopped or crawled past him. Later he arrived bearing a small white tablet with an 'A' etched on the surface. "This is acid" he pronounced with deadly seriousness. "I think that we'd better call in the drug squad". He left quietly, after being enlightened as to what "A" really stood for. He came in again that same day. The Opsroom, as usual, was heaving. A sprawling mass of humanity boiled in and out, and seeking the answers to questions as diverse as could be imagined. Gophers sprinted. Walkie-talkies burred. The PA system chimed and bellowed. In the midst of this - "Silence please". The hubbub diminished slightly. "There's a guy in the Sussex lounge smoking pot, I think that we'd better call in the drug squad". Was this deja vu? Enter Kettle. "Oh great, I'll go and join them!" The guard stared at the rapidly disappearing form of Roy, unsure what to say or do. "Err.... he's a committee member", I said by way of half-hearted explanation. Soon Kettle was back.
"They've gone", he said, grinning evilly at the guard, "probably dropping acid somewhere". Five minutes later R.Lee came in. "Don't listen to that dull bugger of mine", he said, with feeling, "it's none of our business what you smoke or swallow, as long as no trouble is caused".
TERRY CARR: My duty time over, I spent the afternoon in the bar, or wherever. Ran into a bunch of the Australians among whom I'd spent two and a half weeks in January: Robin Johnson, Allan Bray, Bruce Barnes, Merv Binns ...even John Foyster, the distinguished and acerbic GUFF delegate. I reassured them that even though likeable Scandinavian fans kept trying to paste SCANDINAVIA IN '83 stickers on my forehead, I always declined. (Actually, by this time it had occurred to me that though another Australian worldcon could be terrific, and even one in Scandinavia could be fine, with the way the dollar's been behaving internationally it might be impossible four years from now for many Americans to attend any overseas convention.) Mostly, though, I talked with whoever wanted to talk with me (usually old friends like Alex Panshin or the Haldemans) or who wanted an autograph, or whatever. Among the people who didn't want my autograph was Sid Coleman, my best friend, and I made a date for dinner with him and his companion, Diana.
This dinner too turned out to be a bit of a disaster, though I suppose it was my own fault. We'd chosen a small restaurant on the seaboard, and Sid and Diana had sense enough to order seafood; I tried one of their "Scottish steaks," which was definitely a mistake. It was tough, and they'd tried to ameliorate this by marinating the steak in vinegar; then they tried to hide this with plum-sauce and mushroom gravy. The result was tough and tasted terrible. Never mind; I wasn't that hungry anyhow, and the conversation was delightful as it always is with Sid and Diana. She's an architecture buff, so I regaled her with descriptions of the Royal Pavilion. As we talked, sitting at a window table half a block from the con-hotel, numerous fans and pros passed us on the way to the Meet-the-Authors session, and most paused long enough to make gestures through the window; I was most delighted by Larry Niven's Regency dress, in which he looked splendid. (I'll bet the Heyer fans had a great time at this convention.) ERIC BENTCLIFFE: The only other program item I got to attend on Friday was the "Meet The Celebrities Party", which was quite funny...if not, perhaps, for the reasons intended. I found a table with Buck & Juanita Coulson, and Dave Piper and watched the proceedings with amusement. Bob Shaw had the job of introducing the famous present; adopting the ruse of passing out a funny hat to those named so that they could be later recognised. The amusement was generated by the actions of certain well-known pro's in their attempts to get noticed.
Larry Niven was probably the worst offender in that he made at least six Grand Entrances (and even managed to upstage Arthur Clarke during one) before getting his hat. But others were not far behind in their exhibitionism. In fact, the only pro' present who appeared to be displaying any real aplomb was R.A. Lafferty who, on closer inspection, was found to have passed out. I think the idea of the session was for people to circulate round and meet the celebrities; I did leave the table with this vague intent but all the people I really wanted to talk with were surrounded by autograph hounds, and I'd probably bump into most of them at one or another party, anyway. One person I really would have liked to meet, ex-goon Michael Bentine (a surprise, to me, attendee) had already vanished, alas. TERRY CARR: While we were eating or not-eating, in my case, our dinner, we were missing the Meet the Celebrities Party, but oh well. I was told it had been badly organized, that the fans couldn't see the pros as they were introduced, and that 1nstead of running the introductions session for two hours as announced, the Committee let the disco dance start after one hour, thereby totally nullifying any opportunities for mingling between the famous and the people who wanted to meet them. Jerry Pournelle reportedly stood up and shouted over the disco music something to the effect that this was an affront to the pros in attendance. Right on, Jerry, though in my view it was a slap in the face of the fans much more than the pros.
This was the only time I ever heard criticisms of the Committee's planning during this convention, which tells a lot about how well-run the convention was. Really, I haven't seen such a good job done by any Committee since the Torcon. (And the Torcon had its problems too, such as the Hugos that were presented sans rocketship at the banquet.) Pournelle himself said about the same at the end of the convention. Considering the fact that there were about 3200 attendees, five times the largest number that had ever filled a British convention previously, this speaks well for science-fictional foresight. PETER NICHOLLS: 'Meet the Celebrities' in the Wintergarden was a session cunningly designed (followed instantly as it was by a very loud Disco) to make it impossible to meet the celebrities, as Jerry Pournelle pointed out with his usual belligerence and high decibel rating. Pournelle is not lovable. (He was later seen looming some five stone and eighteen inches above Charles Platt, bellowing "Why don't we settle this thing now, man to man?", perhaps bribed by Pete Weston. Platt had called him a fascist pig, in print, but doubtless not meaning to offend. indeed, Platt's behaviour was generally impeccable, other than his disparagement of Hilary Moorcock's (Bailey's) abilities at motherhood; unfair, surely, since Hilary has raised three children who all look exactly like Mike, yet during their brief descent on Seacon they all behaved like angels, as did she---rather damp ones, since with well-trained British masochism they spent half their time in the water.)
There seemed to be about a hundred celebrities introduced, and I was the penultimate, rather to my surprise. "Gee, Malcolm," I said, pleased, "it was nice of you to put me on the list of celebrities." "I didn't," little Mal responded chillingly: "Bob Shaw must have made a mistake." This was the first of many remarks designed to chip pieces of yellowing paint from my self esteem. Another was my dialogue with Robert Silverberg towards the end of the convention. I'm rather shy of Silverberg, even though I met him at Aussiecon in 1975; I think its his resemblance to Christ that worries me. Eventually, I found myself face to face with him at a pro party in David Hartwell's suite, and had to speak. "Well, Bob," I feebly began, "this is the third convention where I haven't talked to you." "Don't feel badly about it, Peter," riposted the saintly Silverberg, "I've noticed, but I simply put it down to your natural inarticulacy." PETER ROBERTS: Out to a Spanish meal with a bunch of fans. Kev Smith demonstrated how accountants can eat more than was ever thought possible. Serenaded by strange guitarist; many olives eaten. Back to the Seacon band and disco, ready to bop. Danced myself silly and was maliciously chosen, along with Terry "Mr Saturday Night" Hughes, to judge a jiving contest – admired precision stuff by Rog Peyton and Helen Eling as well as an exuberant Flemish couple. Few Americans around – seemed to be the one aspect of British conventions that didn't find favour (must live lives of sheltered eardrums).
This seems to have been a genuine culture clash. Where dancing was then a tradition at our conventions (and, indeed, there had been one at our first Worldcon in 1957) it may not have been at theirs. Obviously it should not have started an hour early - I wonder why it did? - but it's entirely possible I was the first on the dance floor, as I often was back then. Here are some pics of British fans enjoying the dance:
PETER NICHOLLS: I was not alone hoping to meet the rich and famous. Every time I went off in search of them, usually finding them in large clusters in close proximity to their natural nutrient, free booze offered by publishers in extravagant suites, I found that little Mal had got there first, calling Frederik Pohl Fred, Laurence van Cott Niven Larry, but not making my mistake of calling Chelsea Quinn Yarbro Chelsea (she's called Quinn). (Incidentally, my only contact with Alfred Bester was quite enigmatic... I was crossing the bar trying to hold five drinks, and Bester came up and took them from me. "Here," he said soothingly, "let me carry those for you. You look very tired." This from my long-time hero, a man 26 years older than me, was bad for morale.)
Later that same day, I was sitting at 1 a.m. in the bar with Clute, Disch and others, and managed to half-persuade Clute that the real action was elsewhere. "Where?" he asked cautiously. "Anywhere," I said; "if we walk upstairs we're bound to run into parties all over the place. We don't need to be asked, we just walk in." Clute bridled, but followed, only to jib completely at mounting the stairs. I grabbed his arm, but he backed away, his face a mask of panic. "What's wrong, John?" "I don't want to be a fan," he wailed, in absolutely stricken tones. God knows what dreadful initiation rites he was envisaging. At the top of the stairs there was, indeed, a party in the SFWA Suite. Here Malcolm Edwards, who had thus far been a boringly sober administrator, could be recognized across the room by the familiar, idiotically wide smile and wholly owlish gaze, that he gets while drunk. "You're drunk, Edwards," said someone. "Only on the outshide," said Mal, "because I haven't had enough to eat." He swayed alarmingly to the right, and slowly swayed back to the vertical. "Inshide I'm purfly shober, but wordsh come out wrong." "Prove it," challenged a belligerent American. "How many fingers am I holding up?" Mal took on a look of intense concentration, and squinted closely at the problematic hand. There was a long pause, and he could be seen to be inwardly counting. "Between one and five," he finally announced, triumphantly, and fell over. "You'd better get some food," I said to the body. "Yesh," it replied, and looked thoughtful as it struggled yet again to its feet. "I know! Room shervice!" Mal tottered to the wall where there was a phone, and could be heard muttering pathetically, "ham sanwishes, ham sanwishes, ham sanwishes" into the mouthpiece, which he clutched to him as with infinite grace he slid down the wall he was leaning against, the friction ensuring that this phenomenon took place at no more than one m.p.h. Miraculously, the sandwiches (turkey) eventually arrived and Malcolm took on new life, just like Frankenstein's monster after being recharged with a few thousand volts.
One of my worst moments involved Malcolm's friend and soon-to-be bride, Chris Atkinson, also present at most of these occasions. Pissed as a newt, she sat, swaying on a bed (you can sway while seated if well-coordinated like Chris), and I approached her. "Hello Nicholls," she breathed seductively, "I was hoping you'd come over." Hello, hello, hello, I thought, yer well in 'ere Nicholls. "Yes my dear," I muttered reassuringly. "Peter, there's something I've always wanted to tell you..." she shyly commenced. Oh well, I thought, this forthcoming admission of hitherto suppressed passion will upset Malcolm for a while. but he's a philosopher... "Peter," she continued, with an upward curve of her drunken but still desirable lips, and I began to breathe rather hard, "...I've always looked upon you as a" (long pause) "father." I felt very old suddenly, and went to bed, thus missing the notorious David Pringle orgy. KEV WILLIAMS: Virtually the only accident that we had at the con was when someone accidentally knocked a glass off the balcony and it hit a fan on the head who was sitting in the con hall below watching [a movie]. He was carried unconscious to the Opsroom, where soft-voiced Mike, one of the many American gophers, patched him up, and sent him off to hospital. When Sue and I returned from a meal we were greeted by a full military style report of the accident from Mike: "At 10:30 pm on the evening of August 24th at the Seacon SF convention in Brighton, a white, adult, male, Caucasian, approximately 6'1" in height, 165 lbs in weight, was carried into the Operations Room, unconscious He was suffering from a superficial wound to the upper left cranium. A shallow two inch crack in the skin was surrounded by extensive bruising. The wound was loosely dressed and the patient given a small drink of water...." ...and so on the report went describing the incident in the minutest possible detail. He was back within two hours, head stitched, and returned to watch the film. However his main concern was his pint. He had left it in the film hall. A TRUE FAN.
According to the report in TSAR the next day the poor unfortunate was "English fan Michael W. Stone". The hotel itself, had a separate security force... led by a guy called "Kurtz", whose ominous name described well the nature of his security operation, as will be attested by anyone whose room party was summarily closed down.
PETER ROBERTS: Plenty of parties later on and I was still going strong at 3.30 am when the night staff closed everything down. I seemed to be the only committee member around – lots of complaints, so I nervously investigated. "Residents kicking up a fuss," apparently. But I thought there weren't any residents? Completely unsure of my ground, but fortunately John Steward roused the sleeping Pete Weston PETER WESTON: Late on Friday night, just as I was surrendering to a swirling pit of drunkenness and exhaustion there came a furious hammering on our bedroom door. I awoke to a circle of faces, committee members standing around the bed, saying, "You've got to fix something! They're closing down all the parties!" The hotel security people had just evicted the SFWA from their party suite after they had paid over £100 per night for it; big money in 1979! They were not happy. Something had to be done, and I was the one who was going to have to do it. Reluctantly I dressed and was propelled downstairs to the lobby, to be ignored by an indifferent night clerk until something snapped inside my head, all that politeness and civility went out of the window and I began to "do a Krushchev" on the counter, hammering and banging until the chief security man appeared, a squat, Edward G. Robinson-like thug with a scar and a nasty disposition. We shouted and stabbed fingers at each other and I threatened to get Fred Hutchins out of his bed and he threatened to have me thrown out of the hotel, until eventually he backed down. Afterwards, shaking like a leaf, I joined the last remaining party enclave in the ladies powder room on the sixth floor, where Peter Roberts sympathetically plied me with his herbal cigarettes. PETER ROBERTS: A Chairman in his wrath – banged a few tables, wagged a few fingers, and sorted everything out. Fine stuff. End of harassment and no trouble thereafter. We went off to reassure remaining fans and found the last remnants of the big sixth floor party in their secret redoubt – the ladies powder room. Excellent place – very plush and cosy, with Joseph Nicholas traditionally asleep in a corner.
DAVE LANGFORD: I don't know whether Simone Walsh wants to remember how after the Weston blitz on hotel security, she cried "I used to hate you, Peter Weston, but tonight you're wonderful!" and bought him a drink.
ALAN DOREY: Rich Coad knew where we were going. My drink supply was low. My balance wasn't what it could have been, and we just had to find somewhere that resembled a room party. "Gee, this place looks kinda neat." The door, already ajar, was breached like one running the four minute mile in ten seconds, and we fell on top of an untidy group of other people, each displaying a different stage of inebriation. Apart from Brian Parker, attempting to talk to a captive audience of Heady Matters, it looked well appointed-- a nice long bench along one wall, a deep pij.e carpet, and three doors at one end. Large cans and bottles of booze appeared, and soon disappeared in the approved manner. Joe Nicholas also materialized from somewhere, so he was allocated a space in one corner just in case he lapsed into unconsciousness again. "Where's the bog?" I somehow managed to splutter, realizing that my bladder was exerting far more pressure on my brain's decision-making process than was my craving for alcohol. An American female lying sprawled across the floor flapped ineffectively towards the three doors. "Great, which fucking door is it?" With a stunning display of logic, spiced with a fear of great embarrassment, I tried the first... and success. Bladder relieved, I staggered out again, only to see Joe fall out of the adjoining door with a similarly soporific smile upon his face. "There's two bogs in this room?" I said, marvelling at my powers of deduction. "Right on there chief." I then saw Mike Dickinson stagger into the third door. "Another bog?" Mike grinned as only drunks can. Bloody Hell! What an absolutely superb hotel room... lots of carpet... lots of room... three bogs... and can't even see the beds! And Christ... what bloody huge ash trays they've got in here! Even down to the instructions on how to incinerate cigarettes. Must be to help the Americans.
Peter Weston forced his way in later... this was it. The usual bit... "Can't have long-haired British fans terrorizing sleeping residents. Back to your own hotels... take a thousand lines and see me in the morning." But no... Weston was drunk too! And demanded a pen so that he could inscribe rude words on Joe's face... legs, arms, knees and handbag. "I've always wanted to do this!" he screamed anarchically-- and there are photographs to prove it. Suddenly a woman burst into the room. "Bloody hell... this is a private room party! You can only come in if you've got gallons of drink and six sex-starved women outside." "Oh my god... who are all you nuts? Can't you read the bloody notice on the door? This is the ladies' powder room!" So now we knew.
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