A CANTICLE FOR HARROGATE

FRIDAY - Ken Cheslin

"So," says Dave, "I've arranged for a couple of people to cover Saturday and Sunday at the Con. You can do Friday."

"Ah," sez I, "I greatly esteem the privilege you are offering, immortality through the pages of Spinge. But honestly, I haven't got the time. I'm so busy in mundania just now, I can't even find time to comment on the many excellent fanzines I've recieved."

"Ah," says Dave winningly, "I fear that if I write the Friday report I will not have time to help you collate your OMPAzines."

Thus persuaded...

I'd arranged to borrow my relatives car to go to the Con in so at about 4-30 am. on the Friday morning I collected it off the pub car park and climbed up the hill to go get Dave. He was up - somehow. So we loaded the remainder of the luggage – plus two pseudo Nikes and a foot tall cardboard rocketship of my own construction, named "The Black Pig" and set off.

We went through the still sleeping city of Birmingham while it was yet dark, and saw the dawn heave itself over the horizon when we were halfway to Nottingham. What a game we had there. We consulted the map and travelled for miles around Nottingham before we finally found a kindly bus inspector who directed us to Jhims' Road.

Breakfast at Jhim's didn't take long - I guess we were not awake enough to fully appreciate it - and after admiring the Linwood cat and the latest brood we set off again North.

Once we got onto the main roads traffic became heavier, but it was not too much trouble until we got to within 12 miles of Harrogate. Then in a jerking queue near a main road traffic island, with road construction narrowing and crowding the traffic too, I had to go and bump the relative’s car. I was livid and worried too, Dave and Jhim obviously were not too happy either. Still, we were not hurt.

The car had to be left at a garage that was strategically placed right nearby (they told me, with some satisfaction I thought, that last Easter in the 3-4 days they had 24 accidents within a half mile of the garage...sigh) - and we got a taxi into Harrogate leaving behind only Dave's two Nikes and a smashed "Black Pig". It was rather fragile.

Harrogate... I saw very little of the town, I only went out to get to the other main hotel...and I never did discover where the other two (satellite type?) hotels were.

And as for a Conrep for Friday Well, I can't remember much - the "Welcome to the Con" item scheduled for 8 pm got sort of lost, though it showed up later - seems I must have spent the time, extremely pleasantly of course, gabbing to the other conventioneers. Hmm...I wonder if that was the evening I had the first long talk with the German Fans? Or the evening I was accosted by a curious mundane type, half canned, who eyed the conventions store of Easter eggs while whining about how he always took his wee daughter home a block of chocolate or like that. At last, in desperation almost, I sold him an Easter egg for...hmm...a penny I think. Actually I'm sure this happened Sunday night now come to think of it. Serves you right Dave for asking me to write for you.

Anyway, Friday passed quickly and pleasantly. It's someone elses turn to tell you about the Saturday at the Con. So I'll sign off now. (You won't mind if I clarify a few things Ken will ya mateyoh? The little bump was sufficient to put the car out of action for above two weeks and wrecked my two rockets which were five feet long and made from 3 inch thick cardboard cylinders. That we did only bump gives credit to you, Ken. Despite brake fade and the car in front having no stoplights you averted anything more seriously. It could have been a load of timber eh? – dave hale)

SATURDAY - Sid Birchby

Ships, they say, pass in the night; siblings pass each other on alternate time-tracks, and never by the faintest twitter of Morse code or the most fleeting gossamer of ESP does, the one acknowledge the presence of the other, its mate. And so at SF Conventions, fan weaves across fan, spider-like in the intricate web of room parties and thinks: "That one I must talk to! I remember his comment on such-and-such" or "Now's the time to find out what he really meant about so-and-so". And next moment the strands of the web quiver and a new nexus forms and they never meet again. Three months later they read in each other's fanzine the words they could have spoken.

Dave and I cannot claim that we met in any particular sense on this day. On the previous night, the Friday...yes, I clearly recall visiting his room party and talking to him about Nuclear Disarmament. I made some dull statistical remark about the vast quantities of water that would have to be provided in a fallout shelter in order to keep the occupants alive until it was safe to emerge. Since then I have...Dave will be glad to know...devised a solution. It involves the use of a combined fallout shelter and wine-cellar, and there is now such a bright prospect of keeping body and soul together while the rest of the world goes to hell in a hand-basket that I propose to issue a handbook entitled: "How to enjoy the next war."

But we are now in Saturday, April 2Ist, 1962, and the place is the West Park Hotel, Room 22, a small but well-appointed room containing a spare beer-glass, storage space for the piles of SF which will be bought later today at the auction, and an uncluttered line between door and bed in case we end up stewed. I adjust lapel badges and emerge into the full glory of day shortly after 9 a.m.

In the breakfast room I join the German party, and soon we are talking as if we had known each other for years. I was told later that they represent an insurgent wing of German fandom, and cannot be taken as typical, by which it was meant that most German fans are more serious and less fun-loving. That may be. I cannot say, but certainly all this party were good company.

The morning programme, held in the other hotel, the Clarendon, consisted of a taped SF discussion first heard on the BBC, and featuring Messrs. Aldiss, Amis, Bulmer, Brunner and Carnell. After this came a survey of the SF scene by E. R. James. Both these items were excellent, but I gave them only half my attention, because I caught sight of Norman Shorrock strolling about happily with a pint of beer in his hand and began to wonder how he had managed to do this since the bar was still shut, and whether I could do the same. They do things very well in the Liverpool Group, you know.

It is no business of yours how I did it, and after a break for lunch we assembled the auction material and settled down to hear the address by Tom Boardman, our Guest of Honour. It was a most entertaining speech, but unfortunately I had to miss part of it because I suddenly saw through the hall door that Irish Fandom was arriving. This was too momentous a moment to let slip: "Hallooo, Ted White!" I cried, dashing up to a tall-handsome figure clutching a suitcase.

"Er, hello," answered James, peering doubtfully at my lapel badge to see who I was. A great comedian, this. I laughed merrily and turned to George Charters. "George!" I shouted, "It's good to see you again!”

"How do you do?" replied Ian McAulay. "I don't think we've met." I laughed merrily again, but not so damn quickly, and changed the subject.

"Where's Walt?" I asked.

"He'll be here on the next train," said James. "He's waiting at Manchester Airport for his luggage to catch up. It was put on the wrong plane at Belfast."

"What a pity," I said, laughing merrily. '"Well, I see you have yours, James."

"Yes, but I haven't," put in Ian, feelingly. "Mine was lost too."

This seemed like the moment to hear the rest of Tom Boardman's speech.

"Well, have a good time," I said, "Mingle, mingle!'"

I missed most of the auction session, as I had to go down town into Harrogate to get the cheese and snacks for the Sunday wine and cheese party. This was the only time I really had a chance to stroll around Harrogate, and I wish I could have done more. Ron Bennett had always said that it was an attractive town, and so it is. I had a choice of fifteen types of cheese in one shop alone. While this doesn't of course make a place attractive, except maybe to mice, I mention it because Harrogate gives me the pleasant feeling that any amenity one might wish for could easily be provided.

And now the convention for me is in full swing and we are over the initial hump of wandering around greeting new arrivals and fans one has not seen since the last time there was a convention, or longer in my case, as I wasn't at Gloucester last year. We feel pretty relaxed and looking forward to the big programme items of Saturday night and Sunday, and the only small cloud on the horizon is that the precious hours are beginning to slip by faster and faster, and one knows that by Sunday night they will have vanished like dust before the wind.

But for the moment it is still Saturday, and the Fancy Dress Party is beginning. There is a band, the room is just full enough, the entire company consists of one's friends and nobody...yet ...has had too much to drink. I talked with Michael Rosenblum and his charming wife Betty whom I had not seen before this weekend for some years. They live in Leeds, only 13 miles from Harrogate, and so in spite of having family commitments, they were able to be at most of the convent-sessions, although it meant a fair amount of commuting back and forth. One of the highlights of the weekend, for me, was Michael's review of his last 25 years in Fandom, given on the Sunday. I feel that it is not too much to say that the story of his activities in fandom is virtually the story of British fandom itself.

Friends, at this point, forgive me. Things began to be so enjoyable that I stopped any pretence of note taking, and so I cannot tell you in detail who won the fancy dress awards, who won the party games...I seem to remember Brian Aldiss whooping with delight as he competed in the Soggy Races, but I may be wrong. I certainly recall the glare of floodlights as Betty Rosenblum filmed the fancy dress parade towards the end of the party, but that is about all.

And then the dead time after we had cleared the party hall and before the whisper went round as to where the big room party was beginning. "Things," said Norman Shorrock to me as I met him in one of our aimless circuits of the hall, "things are in a state of flux." This was the formless chaos of Creation's Eve. The ghost of Fritz Leiber stalked the West Park Hotel, presaging The Big Time, and everywhere fans looked sidewise out of their eyes, waiting for the gleam of a bottle under the passing coat, waiting for the first signs of a significant drift towards a nameless bedroom.

It came before long, as it always does at a convention, and like all good room parties it was completely enjoyable and wholly memorable. It would be too tedious to describe it in detail. If you were there, you will know, if not, it is like trying to describe sight to the blind. I can only say "Thank you" to Ethel and Ella, and leave you as Saturday approaches midnight, with the party in full swing and a roaring good time being had by all.

SUNDAY - Brian Jordan

By Sunday the convention had caught up with me at last. I suppose I'd had a good run for my money - most years, I lose track by Saturday morning; this time, despite a seemingly over-long Saturday night, things didn't really become very fuzzy until Sunday.

Sunday was a strange day. I suppose it is at most cons, but my low-alcohol policy seems to have shown it up this year - usually I can't remember it.

Before the BSFA AGM a few of us gathered in the display room; by the light of a lamp skilfully wielded by Dave Hale I took a couple of photographs of Alan Rispin and his girl Nell Goulding, surely the most photogenic couple in fandom. Then we helped Dave down from the pile of furniture, and went to the BGFA AGM. Those in the BSFA have the minutes, and I'm sure nobody else is interested in the BSFA business. Apart, that is, from the convention question. It seemed strange, Ella Parker and Ken Slater formally saying that they were prepared to put on a con at their respective sites. After the London Group's cloak and dagger cum power-politics manoevering for weeks prior to the con, and the hectic, frantic campaigning by CTT ("Cult Type Thing"...Brian Jordan, Alan Rispin, Jhim Linwood, Chris Miller and yours truly. . .dave hale) for Ken's Peterbro con, this was something of an anti-climax. No one will know, now, what would have happened if there had been a debate on the matter as CTT had expected. London's plans for a shock-announcement of their plans seemed to have broken-down very early - probably because of the way in which they'd watered down their original plans.

After the AGM, back to the West Park for food. This dispensed with, a group collected in the display room of the Clarendon to make Peterbro posters and campaign badges, ready for the vote later in the afternoon.

The rest of the afternoon was a complete shambles. In the midst of bits of auction, quiz, and goodness knows what else, I drove Dave around Harrogate looking for film for our cameras, to no avail. Then came the con vote...

PETERBOROUGH !

The details in Vector do not show the votes, but it was something like 3:2 (may have been about 39:26, convincing anyway..dave hale) a fine result in view of the overwhelming victory expected by the Londoners. In spite of the statement in Vector that the main difference was that London would offer no reduction to BSFA members, the fact is that there was a disparity on a number of points. Not least of which was price. Also, of course, there was the little matter that while London is the Centre of the Universe, Peterborough is a much fairer location so far as proximity is concerned, and the feeling in some parts that London is an intrinsically bad place to hold a con. However the general consensus of opinion later seems to be that London lost the con mainly because of their confident, take-it-or-leave-it attitude.

Like, we left it. Matters were not helped by the newssheet - on linen faced paper, yet - which they had put out earlier. Typical was the statement that Jim Groves would be available on Sunday to collect con fees - it's said that someone was actually seen giving him five bob on Sunday morning!

After the con vote, there was an excellent talk by Mike Rosenblum on wartime fandom. This doesn't fit in with the stream of the report very well, but I would like it on record that I enjoyed it immensely. Then food.

Food doesn't merit much of a wordage, because it was no more than reasonably eatable. I gather Gerfandom was pleased by the constant appearance of hot fruit pie, which is a cold sunday-only dish for them - but I think that's the only pleasure got from West Park meals, apart from making jokes about the dark-spectacled head waiter who wore his kilt on St. Georges Day - surely, Bobbie Gray, this is even better than Brian Burgess's inspired red rose!

Although CTT helped clear the dining room for the film show, most of us strenuously avoided the film itself - when, oh when, will someone put a stop to the practice of showing films at cons? Dave Hale and I walked the streets of Harrogate, trying to get rid of some beer-bottles we couldn't cash at the hotel. We saw a fine camera shop, and an interesting number of slightly-tipsy girls, but as Linwood wasn't there we didn't bother.

After the films were over, I think we spent a brief time in Alan Rispin's room at the Clarendon, but soon gravitated back to 21 in the West Park - which seems to have been the centre of youngfan activities throughout the con. I don't know what time the party broke up, as I went to bed in the middle of it. I felt like sitting it through, but I had to get up in the morning and drive to Catterick.... aha...but that's another story. Monday was typical…see ye at Peterbree.

AN EPILOGUE FOR HARROGATE – Dave Hale

The curtain is slowly falling, the play is over and the house lights rise as the dawn of Monday heralds the end to revalry and the start to thoughts of homeward voyage. The penultimate acts are performed in a half-world, neither all convention nor all home life.

Early Monday morning I returned from a midnight walk around the damp drizzly streets of a strangely different Harrogate to find a few stalwarts still playing brag in the lounge of the West Park. The rest of the hotel was in silence, intensified by memories of the previous nights when raucous cries, chants of "Harrison", and the chink of glasses echoed up and down the bare corridors. Room 21 was locked, I had no key, and the hotel staff had long ago stuffed cotton wool into their ears and entered an uneasy sleep. Our corridor was narrow and draughty with thin worn carpets, so sleep there was out of the question as well as being downright dangerous considering the possibility of being trampled on by late returners from the party in the Clarendon display room. Eventually I found Jim Linwood, dragged him away from an intensely profound political conversation and together we shouted "Jordan" through the keyhole until muttered epithets told us Brian was awake. He opened the door, cursed sleepily, and walked sonambulistically back to his bed.

Leisurely sipping slightly flat beer Jim and myself swapped impressions of the con for almost an hour, when we were raised from our reverie by impatient thumping on the door. Our midnight caller was here. Chris Miller. Every night he'd come and talked to one or more of us till we dropped off to sleep. Friday Jim, Saturday Yourrd, and tonight me! Chris brought some cans of beer and we chatted in the dark until we began to see each other dimly by the light which forced its way through the drab thin curtains. This we both agreed was not a good thing, the sight of each others faces after the ordeal of the past days would be a bit too much, so Chris took his leave and I went to sleep.

A few minutes later the room shook, couldn't these late arrivers keep quiet? Then Brian waved his portable alarm clock under my nose. Half past eight…Big Deal.

By the time we'd drunk a couple of Alka Seltzers and shook ourselves out of bed the appointed hour for breakfast was gone by two or three minutes, and they were very punctual about meal hours. There was little left to do but pay my bill. I'd half expected to be charged too much and wasn't disappointed. It had been fruitless arguing with the management before so I left it, taking with me a mental note that this was one hotel I'd never stop at again.

Down in Ken's room I chatted with Alan Burns about Japanese Fandom and animal magnetism and after extracting a promise for an article for LS from him beat a retreat upstairs to my packing problems. You've all seen jokes about bulging suitcases and fat women...this was it..hmm, only without the fat woman. I had to carry a taper, electronic flash, suitcase and briefcase as well as leaving numerous things behind. Such as a piece of trellis which Ken Slater subsequently saved. Loaded up with all this junk, looking very much like a Sherpa Tensing himself to climb Mt. Everest, we walked down the stairs, pausing only to nod a brief farewell to George Locke and Sid Birchby, and passed out into open air again.

Marion Lansdale's father greeted us and we all piled into his car, Jhim in the back with the two girls and me in the front...put there to make polite conversation with Mr. Lansdale. This was pretty easy, and we left the outskirts of Harrogate at about half past nine, with empty pockets but hosts of pleasant memories.

Conversation was restrained on the way to Nottingham, but picked up at Jhim's where we had tea, then waved goodbye to Mr. Lansdale and his two passengers. Jhim and myself spent the rest of the day quite leisurely, I stayed the night, then Tuesday afternoon caught a bus back to Brum. All the luggage proved a problem, but brute force overcame that and I arrived home tired but happy early Tuesday evening.

In retrospect the convention has become hazy, with one or two islands sticking out of a sea of alcohol and convivialities. Most of the disappointing aspects have been forgotten or assumed low proportion and the overall effect is of a weekend well spent and a desire to repeat the experience when next it is possible. Ron Ellik deserves mention... he very quickly made himself at home and his personality felt. The Clarry appeared a far superior hotel (even though it was 10/- a day more) with a sympathetic manager and pleasant staff. The Germans’ command of English was a pleasant surprise (and welcome) as were the large number of new faces found wandering around.

Before I start preparing for the next con at Peterborough it would be appropriate to thank Ron Bennett and his committee for an excellent convention and hope their lead will be followed by Ken Slater and his mob.