THE EASTERCON 1960 REPORTS

April 15th to 18th.

BSFA Easter Convention. At this stage I had considered the possibility of having to break into galloping micro-elite-itis in order to fit a convention report into this Diary, but now I know it won't be necessary. Not that the con was particularly bad - it just wasn't particularly anything.

Ron and Daphne drove Joy and I to the Con hotel on Friday evening (19th). Vince was staying with Nickie. There weren't a great many people present when we arrived so I booked in - the other three were returning to Inchmery - and we went to register and pick up copies of the Programme (rather poor on layout and duplication) and the SFCoL Combozine. This 52 page collection of material from some of England's best known faneds, artists, and writers represents the first zine to be turned out by Ella on her new Gestetner - while she was searching for a new Con hotel, and throwing two parties! Some copies are still available from Ella Parker at 1/- or 15/. No exchanges, I'm afraid, because we already receive just about every fanzine 'here is as individuals and this is a club project.

About 2.00 am on Saturday morning, after Ron, Joy and I had spent a couple of hours with Brian Aldiss, Don Ford and Ted Carnell, talking over old prozines (and getting on to Flying Aces and the like) the party broke up and we each went our different ways - me, to bed. Saturday was the first day of the programme, which began in the normal way with an opening speech followed by speeches from Carnell and Ford. The first general item (TAFF Candidates Quiz) had to be postponed because, due to work commitments, Eric Benicliffe wasn't able to turn up until the evening. Since Eric usually finds himself in this position every year I didn't quite see why the Quiz had been scheduled so early but, for a change, at this London Convention it was a case of 'Ours not to reason why...' Actually, not being involved in the programme or anything like that did make a change, and a pleasant one at that. The first item proper, then, was a talk by Ted Carnell on the current state of sf. This turned out to be one of those things that could have gone on for ever - everyone had something to say - but eventually it was brought to an end. The TAFF Candidates Quiz went on in the evening but unfortunately it started with a set of questions set by Doc Weir on sf and it wasn't until the audience had been bored for 10-15 minutes that Quizmaster Eric Jones switched to fan stuff. (It was afterwards suggested that Doc should be put on the stage and asked questions like "Who sawed Courtney's boat?"). The best item of the programme, and the thing that really saved the day, was Don Ford's slide show. Don turned out to be a very nice person who went over well with his audience, and his photography was brilliant - none of us could think of a UK professional that could match his night scenes. The Fancy Dress Party in the evening was small but there were some good costumes and first prize was deservedly won by Ethel Lindsay and Ina Shorrock as two of the Witches of Karres. Vince had put in an appearance during the day, and Ron had run back home - this time the Buckmasters and Joy had booked in. Once again we ended the day with a party - this time a small one in Ken Slater's bedroom.

The Sunday programme turned out to be an improvement over Saturday - this was a con that grew on you. It started with the BSFA Annual General Meeting during which Ella Parker was elected Secretary, Jim Groves editor of Vector, Archie Mercer, treasurer for the third (and final, he said) year, Ina Shorrock as Chairman, and Brian Aidiss as President. Developments are awaited with interest. The afternoon programme started with a very good take-off of 'This is Your Life' with Eric Bentcliffe as Master of Ceremonies and a stunned and startled Norman Shorrock as (very) unsuspecting victim. Nickie - who had been brought by Vince - decided she needed changing during the next item (a talk on Karel Capek by Doc Weir) so we all missed it. And anyone who doesn't believe it can sometimes take three people to change a baby, when said baby is determined to parade her nakedness round a con hotel, doesn't have any children! In the evening there was a TAFF auction conducted efficiently by Ron Bennett, during the course of which the audience was treated to the spectacle of an Atom monster parading in their midst. The costume by Don Geldart was worn by Innocent-Sex-Kitten Irene Potter. The programme ended with the showing of a 16mm version of 'The Day The Earth Stood Still' which provoked one or two quiet chuckles in the back rows... such as the time some character on the screen ran screaming down a street "The Flying Saucers have landed!!!" and Vince quietly remarked that he'd obviously recovered his Sense of Wonder. And the time somebody on the screen said "Goodbye" and Nickie spent the next five minutes waving her hand and saying "Ta-ta, ta-ta". After that Ron took Vince and Nickie home again while Joy and I organised a short OMPA meeting in Ethel Lindsay's room. Eventually we went from there to a party in Don Ford's room. This was about the only really big room party in the place-- but not to worry ...KETTERING is the word for next year, and things will be back to normal then. We got back to Inchmery about 3.00am and the con was over. Not bad, not good. I enjoyed myself.

That wasn't really the end, tho', because on the Monday we organised a mini-con on the steps of St Martin's. This was originally planned to get Don Ford along to see the end of the Aldermaston March - Ron Bennett was bringing him from the hotel and Ron and Daphne were driving us up from Inchmery. Word got passed around, and in the end we had twenty fans there, tho' not all at the same time. Don got a number of photos and was moved on by the police... and after watching the crowds and the marchers for some time (there were 30,000 in Trafalgar Square when we left) a dozen of us - Inchmery, Buckmasters, Bennett, Ford, Forsyth, Jordan, Ethel Lindsay, Frances and Ella Parker - ended up at Inchmery again. It was a quiet evening - we had enough drink in to go round and in an 'after the con' atmosphere I showed a film of the 1957 Worldcon taken by Ted Carnell, and a film of several US cons taken by Les Croutch during which Don identified the faces for us. Conversation was slow, easy and relaxed - tho' there was plenty of it - and when the party broke up Ron. Buckmaster acted as chauffeur for most of the people present.

April 19th. Ron and Daphne had to leave for Scotland and things became more settled. One result of their visit is an article by Daphne which will appear in the next issue.

((Since this was the final issue, it never did. - Rob))

... Sandy Sanderson APORRHETA #17 (May-June 1960)

I understand that the 1960 B.S.F.A. Convention came nearer than most fans ever realised to being held in Harrogate. Harrogate was indeed mentioned at the 1959 Con (held in Birmingham), but shortly afterwards a group of London And Cheltenham fans met in Cheltenham and persuaded the B.S.F.A. Committee (who were all present, if only because most if them WERE London or Cheltenham fans anyway) to agree to the 1960 Con being held in London.

The Cheltenham Plan was for a Con at Whitsun. However, public feeling soon moved it back to Easter again, and from then on things just went haywire. A hotel was selected - announced - and provincial fandom staged a mass howl of protest at the prices charged, The Committee in London, at their wits end, tried to switch to Kettering - which we remember kindly from previous years. Alas, 'twas too late - some blasted football team (may their balls rot) had just got in and booked the hotel ahead of us. So back to London went the Con, Sandra Hall and Bobbie Gray, who together with me comprised the B.S.F. Committee, were running the London end of things, and calling in Ella Parker to help, the three of them started tramping the streets of London and the telephone directory to come up with a wonderful hotel - so wonderful that they were all wondering what the hidden snag would be.

The hidden snag was, as we now know, that the hotel got cold feet and cancelled on us at about three or four days' notice, How hard those three girls worked then we'll probably never know - but the night before I was due to travel I found a circular awaiting me to the effect that all previously published information to the contrary, the Convention would now be held at the Kingsley Hotel in Bloomsbury. So the the Kingskey hotel I went.

In retrospect, I think it would have been on the whole a lot better if the Con HAD been held in Harrogate. Not that I didn't enjov it or anything-- I enjoyed it very much indeed - but, well, read on and you'll probably see what I mean.

Until I actually reached the Kingsley, I was by no means sure that the circular wasn't jest a hoax. I had no need to worry, however - the Kingsley was the place all right. As I was escorted upstairs by the hotel porter (tip - 6d), fans were calling out to me from the lounge, and a few minutes later I was back among friends.

' Old friends and new friends both. There was Ethel Lindsay, for instance, a London fan whom one sees far too little of because she's a hospital nursing sister and has to keep awkward hours. This weekend, however, she d managed to wangle herself free the whole time - and as she volunteered her services as assistant fan-registrar and booker-inner, I had good reason to be particularly glad of her company. Then there was Alan Rispin or Brian Jordan - possibly both at once, both good friends of mine though I can seldom remember afterwards which was which. And the new friends - John McGovern and John Fairlie, both names that I only knew as members of the BSFA, now assumed concrete shape before me. And towering over everybody at that point ~- Don Ford, the TAFF delegate, all six genial foot three flippin inches of him. I knew him from his OMPA-zines and an occasional letter, but there he was in the flesh, and we were hard- ly introduced before we were locked in a ding-dong argument each of us insisting that he owed the other money on various pretexts. He's bigger than me, but I have the full resources of the B.S.F.A. to back me,so it was a fairly even battle, broken off only because there were so many other constantly-arriving fans to welcome and like that.

Sandra Hall arrived accompanied by Mike Moorcock who proceeded to drape himself against a convenient armchair while he talked. The manager noticed this and promptly sent a messenger in to ask him to get up - apparentiy this manager disapproves of people sitting on the floor. As a Moorcock on the floor is less conspicuous than a Moorcock on his feet, I would have thought that any manager with any sense would have pleaded with Mike to lie diwn flat, preferably.behind a screen, rather than get up where he could be seen - but anyway, that's what happened.

As Treasurer both of the BSFA in general and of the Convention in particular; I managed to get a word in with Sandra and (when she arrived) Ella, and after a bit of dickering with the manager over a revised price for the hire of the hall when he realised that we needed it all the time, not just for a couple of hours per day, Ethel got hold of me and we moved in and set up office. The office was originally the dais, where I sat collecting money and booking it down while Ethel issued name-tags and programmes. The hall was in the usual pre-Con shambles. Ken Slater was setting up his bookstall in one corner, groups of fans were sticking things on the walls, or standing around looking at things stuck up on the walls, or just stading nattering as fabs will. More and more familiar and unfamiliar faces swam briefly into my field of vision as they came to register - young Harry Gilbert from Manchester - another B.S.F.A. member who had hitherto been faceless to me - showed up, and was I m pretty safe in saying the youngest paid attendee, (Nikki Clarke and Deborah Bulmer were allowed in free). There was Sture Sedolin from Sweden - at least he SAYS he's from Sweden, though he speaks with what sounds suspiciously like a Hoddesdon accent, I asked him how he pronounced his name, and he gave me the highly interesting information that it's pronounced Sture Sedolin. In Swedish, anyway, in English phonetic rendering would probably be nearer to Stoora Sedda Leen actually. Ildiko Hayes, one of the editorial staff of the British SF book club and a particularly pretty girl. (I wish I knew whwre she got that first name from.) These and more that I'll try to remember later on, plus the old regulars such as Norman and Ina Shorrock, Norman Weedall'and John Roles (these four representing what must have been the smallest Liverpudlian attendance at a British con for many a year,) Cheltenhamites such as Keith Freeman, Eric and Margaret Jones, and Doc Weir, Londoners such as Joy Clarke and Sandy Sanderson, and plenty more. Actually I'm in the fortunate postistion of having in my possession the only Official record of registered attendees, so sooner or later I'll try to mention EVERYBODY. Everybody who paid, anyway.

Fans were drifting away for the evening meal, so Ina volunteered to hold the fort while I went to eat. My table-companions on this occasion, if I remember aright, were Doc Weir and Jim Groves, and we went to the place just across the road that made the 15 per cent service charge. I heard this place strongly criticised for grabbing this "extra 15%" off us - although, as I pointed out, it s no different from any other place that has no percentage but puts another penny or two on the price of each item. We still ate cheaply and all down there, and with Doc around the conversation usually reckons to be fabulous, too.

There was no official programme that first Friday, of course, so eventually I packed up the office and for the night and adjourned to the bar lounge where most of the rest of the survivors were. The place was crowded, mainly with fans, though a few mundanes huddled in corners looked a bit bewildered 6y it all. Scrvice tended to be slow, so eventually I joined an expedition to get in stocks. Norman Shorrock in the lead like an alcoholic divining-rod, wandered down the Upper reaches of Shaftesbury Avenue and into the fringes of Soho before finding a suitable off-licence. There we made sundry purchases, I myself investing in some Drambuie (mainly because I'd heard so much about it that I as wondering what it was like - I like it.) and some rum (which I still have unopened. That reminds me _ _ _).

There was, of course, a vague idea that all this stuff would come in useful for room parties. However, a fair number of the attendees were not staying at the Kingsley, and as they remained talking downstairs long after the bar had officially closed, the incentive to room-partying was not forthcoming. These non-residents included besides many native London fans, such traditional Convention stalwarts as Jill Adams, who had thought she was being clever by booking in at a cheaper place just round the corner from the hotel we were SUPFOSED to be going to - before it cancelled on us.

When it came to the point, and the last non-resident had gone his or her way, the usual time for room-parties to get going was long past and the night suffered as a consequence, I was one of the last to leave the lounge - I always am when there are fans around, unless there are fans somewhere else at the time. When I DID leave it just about everybody else had gone to bed. Reluctantly, I did likewise.

I was sharing a twin-bedroom with Ted Forsyth, Ted was a fan I had never met before, mainly because he's only recently left his native Edinburgh to seek a living in the barbarian southland. He looks like becoming a pillar of, London fandom and like that, and I tend to the opinion that this will be a Good Thing, Besides, he proved himself to be every bit a Good Man by insisting on contributing six guineas towards the cost of hiring the Convention hall. And so far as I was concerned, he particularly proved his usefulness by waking up whenever I began to wonder what the time was. That way neither of us missed breakfast on any of the three mornings. I personally always try to make a point of not being too late for breakfast during a Con - both because I LIKE hotel breakfasts, and because I need the Coffee. But sleeping on my own, without benefit of watch, I far too often tend to oversleep.

Poor Ted wasn't quite so lucky in his choice of room-mate, though - the trouble was that there was only one key to each bedroom, and I developed the unfortunate habit of putting the key in my pocket - on the grounds that I'd probably be wanting to slip up to the room in a few minutes for BSFA or other purposes - and then going out for a meal or something and forgetting to hand it in first. Thus whenever I came in, people would keep telling me that the long- suffering Ted had been looking for me all over.

After breakfast, I set up the office, again, this time on a very small tiny little table borrowed from the dining room. I sited it right in the corner of the room, which proved to be a mistake because people coming in didn't realise the office was there.

With the patient assistance of Ethel and Ina I did manage to net the earlier arrivals. However, a diversion was arranging itself. Of the three TAFF candidates (Mal Ashworth, Eric Bentcliffe and Sandy Sanderson) the Ashworth supporters had got away to a flying start by placarding the hall with vote-for-Ashworth posters. As a Bentcliffe fan myself, I thought that my chosen candidate should not be denied a similar display, and one or two other Bentcliffe supporters agreed. The trouble was that we lacked the essential equipment - paper for one thing, and something with which one could draw thick lines thereupon, Norman Shorrock said a felt pen would be the ideal thing, Well, I said, fair enough then - I'd better go out shopping, I was needing another notebook, anyway. Wait a sec and I'll come too, said Norman, And maybe five or ten or fifteen. minutes later the four us - Normans Shorrock and Weedall, John Roles and myself = were on our way, the office being left once again in the capable hand of Ethel and Ina.

Having been out on the streets with Liverpool fen at other sundry times and places, I was already aware thet they moved s-l-o-w-l-y, windowshopping to excess as they go, And moving as we were towards the West End shopping centres, there was plenty of excuse for them. First, however, we stopped by a sort of second-hand-or- damaged-gods shop that stands right on the corner where Shaftesbury Avenue meets New Oxford Street. This shop has a remarkable range of goods on sale - books, stationery, hardware, toys, luggage, all sorts of semi-fabulous things. There were some well-known SF titles scattered around the bookshelves, too. But the outstanding thing about the shop was the blurbs. Most of the more promiently displayed literary items about the front were wrapped in paper bands, upon which were penned such exotic recommendations as maybe:

At this shop most of us bought ball-pens that were going cheap, and I got some paper for the Bentcliffe Campaign. I may as well mention that this was entirely unauthorised by Eric Bentcliffe himself - he hadn't even arrived yet. And Arthur Thomson seems to have been mainly responsible for the Ashworth Campaign that had started already.) The place had no felt pens though, so we moved on into town. By devious routes we came into the lower Charing Cross Road, where we actually found a stationer with felt pens in the window. Naturally, it was shut for the week-end. We moved into the Strand, which produced no more felt pens than anywhere else - though in Woolworths Norman did buy a second line of attack - a couple of paint-brushes and a bottle of ink. By this time it was getting dangerously past lunch-time, and empty stomachs made the normally slow-moving Liverpool fen get a bit of a move on so we came up Kingsway with no more than a brief stop at a Smith s (no felt pens) and returned to the hotel from the opposite direction to that in which we had set out far too long before.

Whilst I had been gallivanting around town looking for a long- felt wants (and at that I never did,buy another,note-book), Ethel and Ina had been nobly sacrificing their time operating the office. Now however, I packed up the office again and rejoined the Liverpool contingent to sally forth iand eat. Besides the four Liverpudlians (Norman, Norman, Ina and John) and myself there were Ken Slater (who now sports a jaunty little beard right on the end of his chin), and a counle of others making eight in all. These last may possibly have been Keith Freeman and Bearded Bob Parkinson - but in the hazy state of my recollections I wouldn't swear to either. Our destination was a Spanish restaurant that somebody had heard about - which turned but to be nothing more fabulous than the much-advertised "Casa Pepe". The food there is not particularly cheap, nor particularly plentiful - at any rate the cheaper dishes. And to look at the messes that the others were sampling made me rather want to be sick. I filled up on long thin. pencil-shaped rolls and butter, and when they gave out, with ordinary rolls and butter. Otherwise I contented myself with an omelette, which, whilst not actually nauseating, still tasted inferior to the rolls and the butter.

Service at the Casa Pepe was leisurely, and although there was the compensation of fannish conversation, I was getting worried lest we overrun the start of the programme. When we came to call for the bill, it was one of those occasions where we just could not make it come out even. So there was a whip-round for odd six- pences to make up the total, then as we issued forth once again into the Soho streets I frankly cut loose and headed back to the hotel as fast as I could walk.

As it was, I missed the opening speeches - and, because I had the essential ihgredients of the office in my pocket, probably a customer or two.

The next item scheduled was the one in which the three TAFF candidates were put through their paces in public, but as Eric had still not arrived, this was postponed and the first auction held instead. Terry Jeeves had shown up together with his tall fiancee Valerie, willingly accepted the job of painting the campaign-ads for Eric. So he sat there doodling to good effect with paintbrush and green ink whilst I kept on creeping out from the office to cellotape another masterpiece to some vacant spot on the wall. In between times I got landed with a couple of lots in the auction - incidentally I'm damned if I can remember who the auctioneer was, but it WASN'T Ted Tubb, (((It was Ken Slater'.))) Ted came in, took a seat near the office, and when I was just about dying of thirst, saved my life with his bottle of loaded orangeade. (Thanks, Ted.)

Frances Evans come in around this time, and joined my staff, being appointed Official Decoy. Her job was to go to any unfamiliar- looking person who came it and coax them up to the office. This she did with conspicuous success on a number of occasions. I could have done with more of her assistance.

The auction went on and on, and poor Ethe1 was working up a thirst that Ted Tubb could not assuage. "Tea, tea, tea," she kept muttering over and over again under her breath, Eventually the auto-suggestion became too strong for her, and she and Frances made their excuses and departed teawards. Ina was acting as auctioneer's runner, so for once I was left in the office all on my own. More and more people drifted out of the hall, and eventually Ethel came back and told me it was my turn to go and get refreshed, Like a shot I went. The hotel bar was the obvious place, but the slow elderly man was serving, and there were multitudes of fans before me, mostly buying multiple orders. I stood there waiting whilst fan after fan departed with a loaded tray. Then somebody (I forget who - pity, because he deserves egoboo) offered to include me in his order. I demurred for social reasons - my one idea was to down a glassful and get back on duty. Already, I thought I'd missed far too much office-time during the morning. "AnywaY,"I excused myself, "I'm next in the queue now.

To whiCh Peter West whom I'd somehow overlooked, interjected that I wasn t, because HE was. As I hate people pushing in myself, I could only concede his point.

My nameless almost-benefactor was still being dealt with when Ella came in and peremptorily ordered all fans out of the bar - at least that's the effect it had - on the grounds that the next item was beginning and was a MUST. Ella is normally one of my favourite fans, and in particular had been selflessly putting herself to all sorts of inconveniences for the past few weeks, particularly towards the end; in order to help ensure that the Con was able to be put on at all. But at that moment I could cheerfully have throttled her. However she was the boss - more particularly perhaps, I didn't want to miss Don Ford's slide show. So unrefreshed and in a thoroughly disgruntled frame of mind I returned to the Con hall, And the slide show began.

In point of absolute veracity, I wouldn't be prepared to swear to which came first - the slide show of the TAFF panel. However, for the sake of continuity, I've chosen the slide show - so for the purposes of this conrep, Don Ford's slides came before the panel, whether or not that was actually the case. They were an assorted bunch, fairly evenly mixed between shots of fans at Cons and things, and Shots of America in general and Cincinnati in particular kept a comin'. The photography (usually in colour) was generaLly of a pretty high order, Don revealing quite an eye for a well-balanced shot. On the whole I (of course) tended to find the fannish slides the more interesting - but the slide that really took my breath was of a paddleboat on the Ohio River, Now there`s something about that sort of a scene that really GETS me, It has occurred to me that it might be worth getting reincarnated if I could comeback as a paddTeboat on the Ohio River. Or even AS the Ohio River.

Or I might settle for the Mississippi.

After the slide-show was at last over, everybody streamed away again, By this time i was really in need of a long, cool drink, so packing the office away again I sallied forth with a couple more late starters to a coffee-bar just round the corner. About half fandom was there already, but there was plenty of service, and I soon had a lovely cold orangeade inside me where it belonged. I found myself sitting opposite Dave Kyle, who had blown in some time during the afternoon, and (as seems to be The Thing when I meet Amerifen these days) immediately found myself having a ding-dong arGument with him - this time on the subject of when and where we'd last met. I assured him it was kettering in 1956. He was emphatic that he remembered meeting me since then. I was equally emphatic that he couldn't have done, because I hadn't been at the 1957 Worldcon, Eventually Dave turned away with a puzzled expression - for all I know he s still trying to work it out.

Then back to the Con hall, out with the office equipment, TAFF panel coming up. Ethel was there, had been doing business in my absence even though I had the change and the official notebook on me. We hastily sorted ourselves out whilst the three candidates for the Pittsburgh trip this autumn - Mal Ashworth, Eric Bentcliffe and Sandy Sanderson - took the stage, Quiz-master was Eric Jones. When I later asked Ron Bennett why he, as the current TAFF administrator, hadn t been doing it he shrugged one of his shoulders and said it had simply been planned that way, and that was that. Which does at least go to prove that something HAD been planned, if nothing else. The three victims were first of all given a sort of SF test paper to answer verbally - who said so-and-so in what story by whom? sort of thing - after which they were asked to state their views on various topics of interest to fandom and themselves. It was generally conceded that the three candidates deserved the attention of the audience, and there was no microphone, so absolute hush was the order of the day, and I stared in frustration at what seemed like a small sea of unpaid faces that kept coming in. With this coming-in and other things there was enough noise round the back of the hall to make me miss most of, the programme anyway, so I might just as well have been boozing in the lounge. Ethel kept going "Sssssh" as loud as she could hiss, and Alan Bale, who was sitting in front of me, started making a deliberate noise in return. As the programme cannot have been of much interest to fringe-fans I can t really blame him. And he DID pay his subscription. Didn't collect his programme, either.

Among the incoming fans was one about seven feet tall. Actually I think he'd come in before, but this is as good a point as any to bring him up. His name was Peter Hitchin, he d just blown in on spec, and said he rather liked what he found. I hope he investigates further. Actually he says he six foot six, as against Don Ford's six foot three. So next time I saw Don, I greeted him "Hi-ya, Shorty".

It was now pretty late, so by the time the TAFF quiz was over there were suggestions that it might be best to postpone the fancy-dress party till the next night. This proved impractical, however, so the parade was dismissed to go and put on its fancy dress if it had any. Having suffered enough from the slow bar service, I slung my haversack and set forth in search of bottled bheer, returning triuphant to find Sandra Hall, arrayed in a sort of exotically regal-costume, frantically asking everybody she met if they could somehow, anyhow, conjure up some dance-music suitable for the occasion, It seemed that in this one specific department, nothing was available. There were tapes, and there was a tape-recorder - but they were four-track tapes with only a twin-track machine or something. I had grammophone records - but nobody had a grammophone, (I could've brought my record-player, too - instead'I d lugged down a spare lantern that turned out not to be required.) The hotel had a loudspeaker in every room - but there was no dance-music on the air at that particular time, There WAS Sandy (or Laurence) Sandfield with his guitar - but it seemed that that was not quite the kind of music Sandra had in mind.

Still, it was a party.

Let's see = over in one corner there was a gathering of the youner element, such as the three Stourbridge stalwarts (Peter Tea Davies, Ken Cheslin and Mike Kilvert) who first learned about fanning at Birmingham last year. And Jhim Linwood, from Nottingham, who is my nearest effective trufannish neighbour. And Rispin and Jordan, or possibly Rispin OR Jordan in case I was seeing double. John Newman was there, with his wife Joan - a jolly red- head whom I was very pleased to meet after all these years - she was once cover-girl on SCIENCE-FANTASY. Her daughter Penny Chandler was along too, who denies knowing anything whatsoever about her Fandergaste namesake. Tikki Hall, Sandra's sister, was there - well, she was there SOME time during the week-end and this is as good an occasion as any to mention her. Likewise Peter McIntyre, who acted as her escort - he's a cousin or something of the Halls. In fact, I take the credit for having introduced Peter to Ken McIntyre - they were sitting a few feet apart, and I asked them if they d met each other yet. They moved up to look at each other nametag...Charlie Duncombe and his wife were there, or had only just left, having shown up during the afternoon, Unfortunately Charlie's talents as orator with built-in megaphone were never called upon to be put to constructive use. There was a young Austrian fan called Gunther Loth, whom I would have liked to have seen a bit more of, if only to get the lowdown on the German speaking fannish situation these days. And a lot of the people I ve mentioned already or haven't mentioned yet besides.

Eventually the call went for the fancy dresses to be judged. There were maybe ten or a dozen fancily-dressed people there, who dutifully trooped along to the front. Ethel and Ina were twinning it as witches - Ethel was the more witchily dressed of the two, Ina was just sort of sitting in with "neutral" fancy dress and the spare witch's hat. On the other hand, though Ethel was readily recognisable as Ethel through the exaggerateq makeup, Ina was so cunningly disguised that at first I couldn t tell WHO it was. Even when I got up close to her I was by no means sure, Then Bob Parkinson was a werewolf - an interplanetary werewolf what's more, or at least a werewolf in a spacehelmet. Laurence (or Sandy) Sandfield was a futuristic minstrel, complete with the inevitable guitar. When I protested that he'd worn the same costume at the Cveltenham party last Whitsun, he indicated a mask oger the top part of his face and said that this time he was Rhysling. Gerry Mosdell and his mate Susan Ellam wear ultra-bohemian layabout-type clothing at the best of times, and they had converted theirs to fancy dress by (in his case) putting on a hat, and (in hers) draping some filmy fabric over the top of what she d been wearing to start with. And a few more I can t recollect - and Sandra of course, dressed,as listed a few paragraphs back.

These were all now lined up along the front of the stage; where they were photographed from all conceivable angles. Bobbie had buttonholed me about the prizes to be awarded, which we agreed would consist of certificates redeemable in literature from Ken Slater's stall at BSFA expense. Bobbie thought that a first prize worth £1 and a second prize worth ten shillings should serve, and I agreed, and that (I fondly thought) was that. So when at long last the contestants come down off the stage on to the floor again with no announcement being made, I got hold of Don Ford (who was one of the judges) and asked him who'd won.

Nobody, he told me. The judging hadn't started yet.

It happened in due course, of course. I wandered into the Con hall after having left it for some long-forgotten purpose to be blandly informed that the first prize had been awarded jointly to the witches, with the futuristic werewolf as second.

I had to round up Bobbie for anotheer hasty consultation. If we awarded TWO first prizes, that would be an extra £1, On the other hand, if we split the first price in half, that would mean that a first prize-winner would get no more than the second. It was agreed to compromise with joint first prices of fifteen shillings each, and ten for the second as before. Now came another hitch - the werewolf had left the hall to disrobe, and I hadn't a clue who'd been'inside the thing, nor it seemed had anybody else. That's why Bob's Certificate, when he eventually got it, was inscribed in the name of "Mr. W, Wolf".

After that the evening sort of slowly disintegrated. Or, more strictly, the morning, it being past midnight about then. Back in the bar-lounge talking, we heard that somebody had been told off for bringing bottled bheer into the hotel. It had something to do with parts of the place not being licensed or something. But whether they approved or not, I noticed that the hotel staff kept them empties for themselves. That night was slightly livelier than the last. After a short session in the Shorrock bedroom with about half a dozen of us at the outside, we moved up to Dave Kyle's, where it seemed there was a genuine smokefilled room-party. There was, the difference between this and other fannish smoke-filled room parties being that here Dave Kyle was in bed, apparently stark naked. The original wave of immigrants had caught him on the hop, and he d been marooned in bed ever since as a consequence, As Dapne Buckmaster was one of the immigrants, there wasn't much Dave could do about it.

The situation didn't last, though. Everybody was sorely afraid that if anybody spoke above a whisper the mice would complain to the mangagement. Soon after Ron Buckmaster had turned up to participate in the proceedings, we agreed to break it up. And so, as the saying says, to bed.

Having duly breakfasted a few short hours later (it was Sunday morning now of course); I joined a gathering in the lounge where we were trying to think up a name for somebody who didn't think, on the lines of "agnostic" which means one who doesn't know. Nobody, unfortunately, knew the Greek root for "think", not even Doc Weir, who excused himself by saying he was no classical scholar. Well, classical scholar or not, it s the first time I ever remember Doc Weir being stumped.

Duty called, however, so I went back into the Con hall to set up the office again. This time I placed the table right beside the door, so that anybody coming in would be obliged to pass it, then I just sat there waiting for customers, None come. The Con hall remained almost empty. Ethel went out to see if she could find anybody who didn't seem to have paid yet and shoo them in. The Con hall still remained almost empty. I started worrying - I'm like that. Norman Wansborough blew in and, presumably in an attempt to cheer me up, sat down next to me and started chattering gaily. The gist of his remarks was that he was still longing to get to an American Convention, and had thought of a way to raise the money, snag was that he was afraid that when he came back again he d probably be landed in prison for debt. I was too preoccupied to point out that debt has not been an imprisonable offence in this country for a good many years now, so he probably thinks it is. If he ever DOES happen to turn up at an American Convention, I suggest he be ceremonially presented with a file.

Which reminds me that Don Ford, noted collector of apple- boxes and science fiction, was while at the Con presented with a do-it-yourself apple-box outfit, complete with rubber hammer. Don and Ted Carnelll, the two guests of honour, got around more than it sometimes looked. I have been told that several attempts to introduce one or the other of them to some new face proved redundant on the grounds that whichever of them was concerned had already introduced himself to the new face in question.

Eventually people began to roll in. Among those not already mentioned who might be seen around now would be Doug Lacey of Cheltenham (or London), Tony Walsh of Warwick (or Cheltenham), John Phillifent who almost stood as a third candidate for B.S.F.A. Publications Officer, Pete Ogden and Will Daniels of "Erbania", Ron Hall (no connection with anybody else of the same name), Dorothy Hartwell who seems rapidly to be getting the fannish message under the careful tutelage of Jhim Linwood, Silent Jim Cawthorn who doesn't believe in talking unless he has something worth saying - but takes everything in as his subsequent pictures show. Don Geldart whom I thought was just a London fringer but apparently is really a contact of Ken Potter's, Harry Clements, young Dick Ellingsworth, not-so-young Jac Wilson (the "father" of the B.S,F.A.), Mike Raynor, Ivor Mayne fresh from a year or so's gafia, Hugh Chalkley (no, I d never heard of him either - but he exists, the registration cash book doesn't lie), elder London statesfan Frank Arnold (I'll get `em all in yet!) and last but NEVER least the Ashworth- Potter circus, There were only four of these, two mixed couples, male and female Potter and Mal and Female-Ashworth - but wherever one looked, there they all were in their droves. I remembered them all of old, of course. At the 1955 Kettering Con I shared a bedroom with Mal Ashworth - I'd sooner have shared it with Sheila of course but Mal wouldn't let me. And at the 1956 Kettering Con I once had breakfast with Ken and Irene. These last two have hardly changed a bit since then, particularly Irene. Irene, by the way, has the odd-sounding (to me) habit of referring to me by both my names at once - for instance, suppose I say something to her and she wants to repeat it to Ken, she'll say "Archie Mercer says so-and-so". The only conceivable reason I can think of for this habit of hers is that she wants to distinguish me from all the other "Archies" and "Mercers" in fandom. It reminds me of Rosa Jansen, who always talks of fans she has met by both names together, such as "Ron Bennett".

By the time most of the above, plus numerous others, had crowded into the-hall, it was time for the Annual General Meeting of the B.S.F.A., and I was forced once again to desert the office, this time in favour of the stage, where I was seated with Sandra Hall (retiring Secretary) and Bobbie Gray (retiring Publications Officer - we three comprising the entire B,S.F.A. Committee) to help conduct operations.

I won't dwell long on the A,G,M. - it proved to be an especially interesting and constructive meeting, and ran on far longer than had been allowed for. A number of important decicions were taken, including a reduction in the annual subscription as from 1961. This came about in somewhat peculiar fashion -- two alternative proposals from the Committee were voted down out of hand in such fashion as gave the impression that the meeting as a whole was in favour of a high subscription. Then a very similar proposal was made from the floor - and promptly carried, leaving me scraching my head in bewilderment.

I was re-elected as Treasurer for another year, which I accepted with the warning that I'm not going to let myself in for it again, Ella Parker was elected as Secretary without opposition. Jim Groves beat Gerry Mosdell for the post of Publications Officer. Then (surprise, surprise) the meeting gave us at long last a genuine official-type Chairman - name of Ina Shorrock, Doc Weir was also nominated, but Ina got the vote. I was sorry to see Doc rejected - though there is the question of his health, which is, unfortunately not all that reliable particularly in winter. On the other hand, I'm really thrilled to see Ina in the Chair. I'm not sure which of the two would have been the better choice - but I am sure that Ina makes a damn good one.

As if that was not enough, the meeting also created the new post of President - and filled it. Brian Aldiss (who wasn't present at the meeting, though he was at the Con) had previously agreed to accept nomination for the post, and Ken Bulmer was also nominated. Unfortunately Ken had just gone out looking for Brian, so proccedings were held up while Ken was found and asked to accept HIS nomination. He did, with some reluctance - but Brian Aldiss. got the vote, and the job.

Eventually the A.G,M, was wound up with plenty of unfinished business for the new Committee to get down to, and everybody rushed out for a late lunch. I found myself with Ron Bennett, Ted Forsyth, Sture Sedolin and Peter West, and we went to the downstairs place over the road. There we found a spare table and were just trying to arrange five chairs round it when the rest of us discovered that Sture had mysteriously vanished. So we shrugged our shoulders and perforce carried on eating without him. Ron was really taken with the efficient, impeturable young girl who had to cope with our orders and about half fandom's besides, and said he d be back later.

One important item that had got left off the published programme was the OMPA meeting. By arrangement with Joy Clarke (OMPA President) and Sandra (programme organiser), I had got this laid on for first thing after lunch - but the A.G.M, went on so long that it now had,to be postponed until after the film show. Which brings up rather an interesting point - usually at a Convention the programme largely fails to materialise, and hasty makeshift items have to be rigged to keep things going. At THIS Convention, however, the opposite applied - all the arranged programme items came through with flying colours, and in fact so often over-ran their allotted time that the difficulty was to fit them all in. We only just managed, at that - and the official programmeefor both days continued up to a considerably later hour than had been planned.

There were three programme items on Sunday afternoon - "This Ia Your Life", Doc Weir's talk, and the "T.A.F.F." auction. I'm not sure in which order they were held' but I'll take them for convenience in the above order. "This is Your Life" was a humorous skit on the TV show involving the unsuspecting Norman Shorrock. This went over very well there being only one hitch. It had been planned to get him up on the stage.by announcing the the tape recorder had stopped working, Which was a good idea, only when it came to the point Peter West beat him to it and the gimmick misfired. Doc Weir's talk was on Karel Capek, and I hadn't thought I'd really enjoy a talk on an author none of whose works I'd ever read. However, Doc made his subject so interesting that it was for me one the the three best programme items (the other two being "This Is Your Life" and Don Ford's slide show.) I didn't find it QUITE as interesting as his "Atlantis" talk last year, but it was most certainly satisfactory.

Ron Bennett conducted the T.A.F.F. auction, which went on and on and on largely owing to people,who kept giving back what they'd bought but didn t'really want so that lots of things were auctioned several times. Ron would offer for instance a mixed "lot" of half dozen things, the winner bidder would keep one (which he wanted) and give back the others (which he didn't). Eventually the auction raised about £15 for T.A.F.F., over twice as much as the B.S.F.A.`s own auction had made the day before.

At one point, Ron was offering an elderly "Astounding" containing the story "Cloak of Aesir" by John W. Campbell. Ron mentioned this, pronouncing the word "Eesa" - as I would pronounee it myself. "Cloak of WHAT?" asked Doc Weir. "Eesa. Eisa. Three bags full" returned Ron ad lib, producing the smartest bit of spontaneous repartee I've heard in a long time, (Note for Scandinavians and others: the above refers to the well known nursery rhyme

"Baa baa, black sheep, have you any wool?
Yes sir, yes sir, three bags full."

"Aye is another word for "Yes" thus "Aye sir" pronounced more or less as "eisa" means "Yes Sir.'

In the middle of the T.A.F.F, auction there was a commotion at the back of the hall and in through the door was steered a human-sized cartoon-type bem - a sort of female equivalent of the famous Eric Jones bem of Kettering days, made'of painted cardboard or something. A pair of bare feet were sticking out at the bottom. All eyes turned to look as the bem genuflected vaguely in various directions as if wondering where to go.

"There's a woman in that thing", said Ken Potter.

"Whose is it - yours?" I asked.

"No, actually it's Don Allen's - he made it."

"I mean is the woman yours?"

"Yes, the woman's mine."

"H'm - suits her. Has the same hair-do, too."

Which was hardly fair to the obliging Irene, I know. However, the costume suited her - if she ever became a bem, I'm sure it would look something like that. And if she/it could have been present at the fancy dress party the previous night there would have been no question of a split first prize, of that I am sure.

Irrespective of the programme items themselves, the continuity of the Sunday programme (which Bobbie Gray had assumed control of) was a lot better managed than Saturday's hadn't been. However, this still didn t stop things overrunning, and it was at one point proposed to call off the OMPA meeting altogether on the grounds that by the time we got to it several OMPA members would have gone away for the night - including the Potters and Ashworths and John Roles. However, as it turned out that there were so many OMPA members who were NOT going away for the night, we agreed to assemble in Ethel's bedroom after the film show. Meanwhile it was eating again, and I sallied forth in a scratch group with Ron Bennett, Sid Birchby and Ted Forsyth. Now it is more or less a tradition that every Con I go to I have one meal in company with Ron Bennett, but this would be the second in one day, which was surely overdoing it. Not to mention Ted, with whom I had already had one outside meal and two breakfasts. However, just as I was prepared to follow the other three into the maw of the downstairs place over the road, there came a hail from behind me, and I turned to see Inchmery fandom beckoning me in the opposite direction. I called to the others but Ron was too far gone and the other two not far behind him, so reluctantly abandoned Sid to his fate and obeyed the Inchmery summons. The new destination was the coffee-bar place round the corner. Inchmery fans had been around most of the time since Friday, but not necessarily all at once, on account of the baby wanting looking after. Now however they were all four present - Joy, Vince, Sandy and little'Nikki - and I was glad to have the chance of talking to them all again, (I say "all" - this Con was actually the first time I'd ever come face to face with Nikki. She didn't seem to be all that impressed, as it happens.)

Back in the hotel lobby afterwards, Brian Burgess was parading around in the bem costume. Brian is somewhat larger than Irene (his feet alone seem almost as big as she is), and the.thing was bursting at the seems as a result. The rest of the evening was to be devoted to films, and the apparatus was all being set up in readiness. There were two separate shows - the professional film "The Day the Earth Stood Still", and an amateur fannish show, and I skipped them both. The big film actually has a sort of sentimental meaning for me, because it was at a private showing of it that I first come into physical contact with fandom, However, I hadn't cared for it was a film enough to wish to sit through it again on top of the day's assorted programme, and I decided to give all the films a miss and relax instead. This I did in the bar-lounge, in company with first of all Ivor Mayne, though Sid Birchby sat in for a few miniutes and insisted on buying a round of drinks before he had to fly. Then Doc Weir came out to give his eyesight a rest and one or two others I think dropped by, too from time to time. Every so often there was a sudden influx from the Con hall as intervals in the filming came up, but there was an efficient barmaid on duty that evening - Italian I think she was, and very pleasant too, and she was quite capable of coping with the rushes as they occurred. I'm not sure how Audrey Eversfield got involved, but some time later when we went up to her toom (which she was sharing with Ethel) we found Nikki Clarke lying dormant on one of the beds, staring at us with wide-open eyes in complete silence. We dumped what we'd come up to dump, and then began to wonder if we ought to leave Nikki alone, Audrey was mainly debating with herself on the matter. First of all she demurred, then she thought that a roomfull of conversing fans just along the corridor was keeping an ear open for the child, then she finally decided "Well, after all, it's not OUR baby", and back we went to the bar lounge. There I stopped until it was time to go back to the same bedroom for the OMPA meeting.

In spite of'the absence of members who weren't staying at the hotel that night, the room was packed - there must have been about half the OMPA membership there, which is a pretty good proportion, and we had an interesting session. Eventually President Joy wound up the official proceedings of OMPA and we were told to go and fetch any bottles we had in order to convert the meeting into a room-party. I went to fetch my Drambuie, then realised that there was still something missing.

"Hold on", I said as I slipped through the door again, "I've forgotten my glass."

Mike Moorcook was in the corridor outside, Did I want a glass? He had one right there. He knocked on a door, and Sandra Hall let us in. Mike shoved two bar-glasses into my hands, I thanked him and prepared to depart.

"While you're here," said Mike (or words to that effect) - and started talking. I answered. Two or three or five minutes leter I picked up the glasses again and prepared to depart. Mike kept on talking, Sandra helping out occasionally. Eventually I gave in, produced the Drambuie, and we settled down for a session. An hour or two later, when THAT room-party broke up, I returned to Ethel's and Audrey's room to find that it was still fairly lively - but with hardly any of those originally present. That's fandom for you - never any shortage of sidetracks, Dave Kyle was there showing binocular slides of his home - "Viewmaster" or something, 3D style. Looking at these, I discovered that I have something unsuspected in common with Dave - we both live in caravans. I told him that Phil Rogers was another. Dave said he'd met him over the week-end but hadn't suspected it either.

Sooner or later, the night staff started tracking down noises of any sort - they were afraid that permanent residents might complain. Ethel, who had returned to her room, answered the telephone and told them no, there was nobody here. So we had to make an honest woman of her by disappearing in short order. This we did. Hotel staff seemwd to be stationed at strategic points in all the corridOrs, pleading with us to go to bed, By sheer persistence they won. Once again I left them holding the field and went to bed. That left only the unwinding on Monday morning. The newly elected B.S.F.A. Committee had a hurried meeting in the bar-lounge, where among other things we agreed to let the Cheltenham circle organise the 1961 Con in good old Kettering. We also agreed that it would be a good idea for as many fans as possible to meet at Kettering this coming Whitsun in any case, to recover from the London Con. Came mid-day, and the fans dwindled and dwindled and then it was my turn and I dwindled too. Dave Kyle was standing outside the hotel with a cine-camera, catching the fans as they left. I went to the station to dump my luggage, then went across town to my brother to dump some stuff I'd brought down for him. I hadn't told him I was coming, because I was by no means sure I'd have time to. Luckily he was in, but only just, being prepared to follow his wife and son round to her parents. Leaving him, I went over to Ella's where we continued the broken-off committee meating, and I finally caught the last train home. Had to walk four miles home at the other end, too.

That, then, was the 1960 British Science Fiction Association Convention. I still don't seem to have mentioned quite EVERYBODY there. There was Pamela Bulmer for instance - I've given space to her husband and their baby--but'I forgot to mention that Pamela too was there, and Bill Gray, Bobbi's husband; and Norman Ashfield. Pro-author Wynne Whiteford and his wife showed up briefly, also a London fringe-type name 'og Wring, who apperently ALWAYS goes to London Cons. And one Danny Hamilton, who gave his name as Hamilton, was greeted by Ethel and people as "Danny", and wondered how I got his initial right in the cash book as "D". And I thought I saw Arthur Sellings there, and - completism, anyone?

Also, according to SKYRACK (which put out its Convention issue while I was still in the middle of writing this) I've missed out an important item from the programme - namely, Ted Carnell's talk on SF. Now I remember this item quite clearly, but as it was during the early sessions when there was no microphone, and I was in "the office" at the back of the hall, I hardly heard a word, so it's not really much wonder it slipped my memory.

As for the over-all verdict, inasmuch as I may be in a postion to give-one - the fact that there was a Con at all is due to a vast amount of hard work (with nightmares) on the part of Bobbie Gray, Sandra Hall, and (especially, so I'm given to understand) Ella Parker. The programme items (which Sandra Hall assembles into what she thought was a coherent whole) struck me as both varied and successful - and certainly SUSTAINING - though at first they seemed to lack a certain continuity. Socially, the Con was every bit a success - lacking only the nocturnal freedom characteristic of Kettering Cons. And financially -

Well, that's supposed to be my department. All I was willing to commit myself to at the Con was that it had shown a profit. As to how BIG a profit - well, now I've got this report out of the way, perhaps I can find time to work it out.

THE ABOVE ACCOUNT presented to fandom by Archie Mercer, Honorary Treasurer of the British Science Fiction Association.

....published in CACTUS #5 (May '60, ed. Sture Sedolin).