It's a strange feeling to attend a Convention again after a lapse of many years, part familiar, expected, part unexpected. A subtle change in the atmosphere has taken place, maybe roof -parties still abound, drunken pro's still stagger through the corridors followed by their acolytes, Ken McIntyre still imbibes endlessly. The programme is always behind time, Norman Weedall's rosy glowing face still beams like a benevolent sun on all who come his way, yet still there is a change. Children have appeared on the scene giving the air of a family party. Husbands no longer feel the need to lock their wives in chastity belts, single girls ('nice' ones like Ethel) no longer carry hat-pins clutched firmly in trembling hand. Zap-guns belong to the "good old days" and we reminisce, half-wistfully, of the Bonnington, the Supermancon, bottles dropped down chimneys and massed assaults by porters. No bottle Parties now which, with considered cruelty, decree 'no charge' for young and lissom but 10 bob for the sad forties. The past is an echo and fandom, all considered, better for it.

The Bull is, in some ways, an ideal Con-site. No interference by the management, no complaints from the resident Rip Van Winkle. Part modern, part archaic, We wore unfortunately given a room in the old section, a large and dusty room hanging over the main road and traffic lights. At 5 a.m. that Saturday morning we were both shaken from a sound sleep, fought desperately to close an open window which, inevitably, had a broken sash-cord. Breakfast was taken quite early that morning, two shell-shocked wrecks seeking refuge, both immovably convinced that heavy transport MUST return to the railways.

However, back a pace to Friday, a busy bustle of arrivals, the swirling stream occasionally clotting as fans meet to rejoice or enter solemn conclave, delightful to see so many well-remembered faces. Terry Jeeves, suffering badly from asthma, but still the same cheerful, matey Terry. Ron Bennett, in a blue double-breasted suit, bighod! The Shorrocks loaded down with cameras, programmes, and children and, of course, Ken McIntyre with his plastic portable bar, patiently awaiting opening time.

Frances and I escaped a while to view Peterboro' and, perhaps, obtain a cup of tea. A stroll down to the River Nene with a distant view of Bertram Hills Circus and the inevitable swans floating in the foreground. A cup of tea was taken, but virtually untouched, in the Granville Cafe. Stewed tea, battered cups, disgusting tablecloths and the electronic roar of a juke-box demolishing the ear-drums hurried us out.

What a change awaited us as we wandered under the arch into the Cathedral grounds. Impressive at first sight, set away from the traffic and surrounded by lawns and flowerbeds it does not disappoint on closer inspection. When some relief is needed from the smoke-laden air and alcohol fumes, then the whirling mind may well be soothed by the peace of the Close on the Cathedral's south side. This is indeed cloistered calm.

Back to the cluttered charm of the Conhall where Ken Slater bid us welcome, said a few appropriate words and handed over to Brian *W* Aldiss who interviewed many notable personalities and initiated the well-known act of Aldiss and Harrison, that lovable, knockabout comedy duo. Each interview was concluded with an attempt by the interviewees to identify a "famous last line" and many a heart was touched as Ted Tubb, with a tear in his eye, identified the last line of "Alien Dust°. A poignant moment this. I might add here that Brian W Aldiss has been engaged to provide a Con report for Hyphen. I understand that no effort is being spared to bring this out before the "London in '65" Con, which will, fortunately, occur in September of that year rather than the April.

The final item for the Friday was the first auction with Ken Slater officiating. A rather desultory and mundane affair this. Much literature changed hands at minimum prices and, no doubt, a profit will be shown by many in second-hand bookshops and through the Slater credit system.

After the auction closed we paid a flying visit to the Liverpool party, a free-for-all, everyone welcome, party where the products of the Merseyside Wine Club flowed generously. Soon, however, we gave way to our gambling instincts and joined the Bennett brag-session on a convenient landing. Here I lost steadily, but was cheered to see Frances just as steadily, and more speedily, profiting. The game broke up around 2.30 causing me no little surprise as I had fully expected to re-join the game after breakfast.

The Convention got properly underway the following morning when Brian W Aldiss introduced the Guest of Honour, Bruce Montgomery (Edmund Crispin). Mr Montgomery gave a most interesting address in which he stressed the need to keep science-fiction separate from the mainstream of literature and proceeded to outline three possible dangers in it's Growing popularity.

Firstly, he said, there was the danger of placing too much emphasis on depth characterisation. The nature of sf is such that the individual is not so important; he is merely representative of his society and must, therefore, be to some extent a cardboard figure. Conversely, in "good literature" the deep characterisation of the individual is of prime importance.

Secondly as the genre became more accepted it would become, and was becoming the happy hunting ground of mainstream authors who produced bad novels with hackneyed themes - in effect non-too-efficiently reinventing incandescent gas and gunpowder. He named no names at the time, but later, quoted "On The Beach" as a prime example.

Thirdly, through the influence of television where there is little differentiation between merit and de-merit and through the association of the earth-satellite programmes it was becoming, in the public mind, a synonym for space-travel fiction. In actual fact only rarely was sf, concerned with space-travel as such, in the majority of cases space ships occupied the same position as the transatlantic liner or the railways in mainstream literature.

He then changed to a more optimistic note when he maintained that modern sf was wholly worthwhile and getting more so all the time. It was coming-of-age in a big way, many more novels were being produced than in earlier days and novel-length plots were not so frequently being cramped into novelettes and short stories. The flowering of the hard-cover novel was a good thing, especially as they were being published under more diverse and better range imprints, this making then acceptable to a wider audience. With a smile he added that it was a pity that sf authors generally were so poorly paid, which remark was greeted with heartfelt groans by certain members of the audience.

Ending on a high note Montgomery suggested that sf had produced the only major literary revolution since Marlowe and Shakespeare. He described it as a kind of 'origin-of-species' fiction in that it accepted the Darwinian theories of Man as but a small part of Creation rather than the focal point or end product.

After a brief period of questions Harry Harrison took the mike to give his talk, provocatively entitled "Sex and Censorship in Science-fiction". It is extremely difficult to do a fair report of Harry's speech, for despite the gag-a-minute approach it was obvious that he was dealing with a subject close to his heart. He started out by handing a large quantity of leaflets out, which on examination proved to advertise the Esperanto system and whilst these were being fought over pinned up his three exhibits. These were, a large-sized nude (large in every way) a copy of an cartoon depicting two children seated on their pots, and an American pb entitled "Damn It!"

His main theme was the peculiar world of pulp publishers. Covers strongly suggested rape, captions promising vicarious thrills, yet inside the writing censored to a degree of unnatural purity. Pointing at Exhibit A, the nude, he announced that this was culled from a magazine which had deleted the word "breast" from one of the stories. Sf writers had been conditioned to this pulp attitude to sex; evidence Heinlein's "Stranger In A Strange Land" which was supposed to herald the new 'liberal' Heinlein, untrammelled, modern and without taboos. Whilst the story implied such things as free-love, and group copulation (in one great rotting heap, I think his words were) in actual fact the nearest the book approached to a direct description of sex was in the phrase "Their lips met".

Harry was explaining how, in DEATHWORLD, after the hero had suffered mightily for more than 200 pages he had felt it reasonable that he might put into the hero's mouth the word 'Damn'. This was excluded by Analog from the published version. It was during this part of the speech that Ted Carnell rather astonished this naive member of the audience by admitting that if a word or phrase offended him personally, then it was deleted. Ted, for example, dislikes 'Bastard' and, as Harry said, there are many more prurient minds than Ted's in editing.

This certainly touched off a response in me, for I prefer not to have my reading expurgated, having a reasonable desire to know in the author's own words what point he is making. By all means exterminate the filth for filth's sake, but let the magazines grow up by removing their suggestive covers and, at the same time, printing fiction written with an adult audience in mind, and uncastrated. Kama Sutra anyone?

A second auction session followed, ending the morning programme and we wended our way out for lunch. We decided, for once, to give the Great Wall a miss and instead went next door to the Wimpy bar. In the thirty minutes it took to provide us with our Hamburgers, the debate on the Harrison talk flourished. The main protagonists were Ella Parker and Bobbie Gray with occasional encouragement from Ethel, Frances, Ken Cheslin, and I. Many of the expurgateable words were given an airing. I can well appreciate Ella's objections to censorship, if you carry it to the logical conclusion she might as well cut her tongue out.

The afternoon's proceedings started with the third and final auction, this time presided over by the master salesman, Ted Tubb. It is useless to try and report a Tubb auction, indeed dangerous. A good quote may well cost you five bob with a copy of New Worlds thrown in if Ted Catches you. Anyone who has seen Ted in action needs no report from me, anyone who hasn't should make it a number one priority - but come along prepared to pay for the pleasure. Without any doubt, one of the highspots of the con.

After half an hour or so Ted's place was taken by Ken Slater, a sad anti-climax, nobody, but nobody, should follow Tubb in this game. We sat in embarrassed silence whilst Jeeves's "Soggy" illos were auctioned off at a tanner apiece. Even worse was the sale of the original typescripts of the Aldiss novels HOTHOUSE and NONSTOP. One was sold at the ridiculous reserve price of £1 to Jimmy Groves and the other, for which no offer at all was made, was later disposed of privately to Mike Rosenblum. The price that these would have raised on the American market make this a farce, a £100 might easily have been obtained. I feel strongly that any future acquisitions of this type should not be restricted to sale at the Con, but should be offered to the American market as well. The effective sale of these two manuscripts alone could and should turn a moderate loss into a good profit.

The afternoon, according to the programme, was given over to an 'Open House' where the people of Peterboro' were invited in to meet fandom. The populace streamed uncaring past the Bull and fandom, left to its own devices, talked, read, drank tea, and even wandered out to inspect the town. The most unsuccessful part of the programme, and one that does not require a repeat.

The programme began again rather wearily, rather late, with a slide show JOURNEY INTO SPACE given by Peter Hammerton of the Lincoln Astronomical Soc. This may well be described as a Child's Tour of the Solar System and we were hard put to not doze gently through the performance. Well-meaning I suppose, but not good convention material.

Back to the Great Wall for dinner which was soon overflowing with fandom escaping the rigours of the Bull-pen. Harry Harrison called loudly for a pot of tea and Brian W disturbed the management's Oriental calm by insisting on having two tables pushed together, then ordering such a variety of dishes that the cook must have had heart failure. One thing is certain - fans generally eat just as well as they drink.

The evening was set aside for the Fancy Dress party. For a long time the hired band plugged away in an empty room and throughout the whole evening only one couple attempted to dance on the carpeted surface. All in all the band appear to have been pointless, a tape-recorded background would have been cheaper and better. As it was, those nearest the band, had to shout to make then selves heard above the din. Slowly however, the fancy dresses started to appear, Alan Rispin and Ken Cheslin being among the early arrivals, followed closely by Ethel attired in a torn evening gown, loaded with jewellery as a drunken looter "after the end". (Who was it said to me, "Isn't Ethel coming in fancy dress then?".)

A sensation was caused by the arrival of the four Salford/ Manchester lads, first time con attendees, Harry Nadler, Chas. Partington, Tony Edwards and Tom Holt in really excellent costumes. It occasioned a great rush of amateur photographers. There was no surprise when Harry Nadler won the prize as "Best Monster" and was subjected to great attention by Press and ITV cameramen. Pity was they all couldn't got an award. A special prize was given to Janet Shorrock as a young she-devil. Unfortunately Ina was prevented from appearing in her costume by bairn trouble.

I felt that the "theme" dismayed several of the entrants and the prize here went to Tony Walsh wearing a sandwich-board with the slogans 'Prepare to meet your Beginning" and "The Beginning is at hand". To quote Ken Slater, this prize was awarded for it's simplicity. Perhaps if the other entrants had been given the opportunity of a parade and a proper introduction, describing the aspect they were portraying, the judges might have reached a different conclusion. Ted Tubb, surprisingly, arrived in costume, but too late for the judging. He certainly deserved commendation for originality, a patriarchial beard a gown of tattered manuscripts and a selection of placards bewailing the lot of the poor author. It took me a few moments to realise that it was Ted inside the garb.

The party faded out after the parade and the next stop was the party in 258 open-house held by Ella and Ethel. the start was rather delayed due to large numbers of people disappearing to watch TWTWTW (That Was The Week That Was) on the telly. When it did get going the party was a roaring success, too successful in fact. An astonishing number of bodies jammed themselves into the room and the scene gradually faded in a pall of smoke and steam. Every so often the seething mass swirled and in one of these Frances and I wore erupted into the passageway where Aldiss and Harrison were in full cry, eventually disappearing down the fire-escape. This was, we discovered later, part of a deep laid plot which led to the Case of the Missing Pork Pies. Great rivalry had broken out between the Burgess Pie Marketing Board and the Aldiss Combine. Returning up the fire-escape the two anti-heroes had broken into the Burgess hideout and, discovering the stock of pies laid out on the bed, had secreted them in the wardrobe. This occasioned Brian no little discomfiture and his heavy tread and dirgeful voice were heard throughout the night as he searched for the missing provender. One up, indeed to Aldiss, but beware the wrath of Burgess in 64!

Unaware of the high drama being enacted elsewhere we had entered a draw-poker school and again my better-half (better indeed!) was scraping it in whilst I was quietly losing our fare home.

Sunday morning we missed breakfast and also the heavy traffic noises of the previous day. Still we were all present and correct when Ethel opened the programme with her TAFF talk supported by Ron Bennett and Eric Bentcliffe. The three TAFFers were almost inundated by a brag-school set up by Phil Rogers on their table, the rest of the space being taken up by the Lindsay tea-tray. The session began some fifteen minutes late, in front of a surprisingly good audience, with Ethel giving a resume of the history and purpose of TAFF and outlining ambitions for the future.

Being very controversial for such an early hour Ted Tubb proposed that the administration should consider amending the voting system by allowing fans to buy more than one vote, paid for by doubling up so that, in effect, one vote would cost 2/6d, two 5/- and three 7/6 etc. After a heated discussion a vote was taken and only three hands were shown against this proposal being considered. A motion was also passed proposing that the voting subscription should be doubled to 5/- whether or not the Americans doubled their contributions.

Archie Mercer was then invited to the table to put forward a proposal. Firstly Archie stressed that he was not anti-TAFF, but rather, against open elections. He reasoned that in one year it was possible to have two excellent candidates competing against each other, yet in the following year have two second-rate contestants. The results were obvious to all as was the risk of bad feelings between the nominees. He therefore proposed that a panel of selectors be set up, consisting of three fans-in-good-standing, plus the last two trippers. This panel would select the most deserving fan to benefit from TAFF.

The proposal was discussed and eventually defeated, mainly on the grounds that a) a pressure group could still work on the panel and b) the voting and the contest brought in the cash. Ken Slater, worried at the delay in the programme interrupted the proceedings with a proposal that the present system, which apparently had the support of most fans, should be retained. This proposal was passed and the meeting closed by Madam Chairman.

Next in line was the B.S.F.A.-A.G.M. Having had enough of earnest discussion we retiree to the lounge for a long-awaited pot of tea, but rallied ourselves sufficiently to creep back for the closing minutes. The officers were being elected and Bobbie Gray, from the chair, was explaining at horrendous length why she couldn't explain why she couldn't be next year's Chairman - if you see what I mean. I think that all present got the point and were truly thankful that she couldn't explain why she couldn't take..oh hell, y'know what I mean. To crown the event she took on the job of Vice-chairman with Tony Walsh as first reserve. The meeting closed with everyone proposing a vote of thanks to everyone else, a most fraternal sight.

Silence fell as Ken Slater got up to announce the Doc Weir Award for this the first year and tumultuous applause greeted the announcement that Peter Mabey was the winner. A well-deserved award for one of the busiest backroom boys of fandom. Peter was unable to attend, and the job of passing him the handsome trophy was given to the SFCoL who promised to make a ceremonial presentation.

This is, perhaps, an appropriate moment to mention the Art Awards. The Best Colourwork and SFCoL Special Award went to Jack Wilson. Jeeves took the Cartoon Award. Marc Ashby's Conhall backdrop was highly commended by the judges which, in their opinion contributed greatly to the success of the convention.The photo competition was won by Jhim Linwood, but this is of miniscule interest; nothing on show deserved a second glance and the next committee should consider dropping this item. It suggests, in view of the large number of fan-photographers present, that they just are not interested or woefully incompetent. Even the Artshow proper was disappointing, there was little of it, and not much of merit. It suggested to me that the standard of artwork in Anglofandom was at a very low ebb.

After lunch Geoff Doherty gave his talk "New Lamps for Old". Unfortunately with the programme running late, this had to be drastically cut and so, what turned out to be one of the highspots of the programme, war reduced to a miserable half-hour. Considering the tedium induced by the following item it became, in retrospect, an even greater pity. He started by stating the obvious; science fiction is an entertainment and is, there, fore dismissed by many. In fact the question of entertainment is really irrelevant. Many books produced solely for entertainment have proved to be of lasting value. He referred to his own anthology, "Aspects of Science Fiction" produced as a reader for schools. The kids like sf, read it with intelligent interest. It held their attention where the normal school reader would fail. It was somewhat surprising to note that Tom Godwin's "Cold Equations" was their favourite story in the reader. He went on to say that a writer can only write about that which he feels and knows. Thus the experiences in sf must come within the spectrum of our own experience. The science is only a kind of backdrop to these understandable experiences. At this point Mr Doherty explained that he was going to cover some of the ground already covered by Bruce Montgomery. He agreed with what had been said; sf was different from other types of fiction. However there was an affinity between, for example, PILGRIM'S PROGRESS, PARADISE LOST and sf. In all three examples, Man was seen as a part of a wider system or philosophy and they are not concerned with the individual, as is current mainstream literature. There are people outside the field who would write stories akin to sf. Huxley had no interest in the genre when he wrote BRAVE NEW WORLD and could not be classed as an sf writer under any circumstances, but it was natural that, with the advancement of science, writers would become more and more prone to write similar books. Mr Doherty ended by saying that he was often called upon to justify his interest in sf which as a teacher he is compelled to do in the face of mainstream literature. His justification was that sf was an approach from a different, wider aspect, that this was a new attitude and one that is going to grow.

The discussion prompted by this talk was cut off, virtually stillborn, to make way for the Pro-panel. There was such an abundance of professionals around this year it had been decided to ring the changes on the panel every two or three questions. The result was nobody really was able to get warmed up, those who were making a show were unceremoniously ejected and many follow-up questions died unspoken as the speaker they were intended for left the platform. As group after group of writers trooped up to the platform the listeners slowly began to filter away. As one writer fumbled his way through a semantic barrier, trying to express his thoughts a voice murmured in my ear "More cock from Moorcock.". This may well have been true, but certainly wasn't fair. Many of the experts were tongue-tied, inarticulate or just inaudible. There seems to be a mistaken view that because a man can write adequately he can also express himself on the public platform. That this is not so was unquestionably proved by the majority of the panellists. Future programme organisers might care to take this to heart and select only one panel chosen, if possible, for their gift of the gab, but in any case it would allow them to get warmed up to the job, The panel should be there to entertain the audience, not pander to every professional ego. Mind you it is only fair to say that many of the questions asked were not conductive of sparkling wit and so, in part, the audience were to blame.

Following the Pro-panel was Eric Bentcliffe's GAFIA SHOW consisting of colour slides showing scenes from Liverpool fan-life and shots taken during Eric's TAFF-trip, including the fancy dress ball and fangroups. These were padded out with holiday snaps of Rumania and Venice which wore of no fannish interest but which provoked a deal of worthwhile audience participation. This isn't by any means the ideal Con slide-show. What I wonder, happens to all the film exposed at conventions? Presumably it disappears into private archives, but surely these could, and should, be collected and presented at the succeeding convention.

The finale was the traditional film show consisting, this year, of Jean Cocteau's "Orphee" and Fritz Lang's "Metropolis". There is a convention in Anglofandom to groan whenever "Metropolis" is mentioned, but in actual fact it was in 1951 that the film was last shown. Not many of these present were around in fandom in 1951 as was soon proved by the incredulous joy with which the majority of the audience greeted it. The film was actually made in Germany in 1926 and some of the scenes, especially that of the flood, are remarkable even by today's standards. However, the overacting of the silent era induced audience participation and slowly the hilarity grew until devastating shafts flew from all sides. The identification of one burly bearded character with Archie Mercer was the source of much humour, the pity being that Archie himself was not present. The film ended in a tumult of laughter and there was a general agreement that this was one of the brightest items of the whole convention. There would seem to be a lot in favour of producing another silent epic for next year, for example the 1919 version of 'The Cabinet of Dr Caligari".

After the film, which finished shortly after midnight, there was a small gathering in 258. A dozen or so fans spread comfortably over chairs, beds or floor, a drink in hand, good conversation and a pleasant atmosphere made it a joy to be there. We learnt the Aldiss method for finding plots and this is now available to aspiring writers, price ten shillings, and will be forwarded under a plain brown cover. We would also like to offer Mack Reynold's method but he was too busy trying to persuade someone to play with his toes. Tom Boardman was holding forth on the publishing life in general and the peculiar habits of certain writers in particular. John Brunner was holding forth... Altogether a very pleasant evening and a most enjoyable end to the convention. There is an opinion, widely held, that all parties should be open to all comers, and there is much to be said for the spirit behind this. Personally though I can only truly enjoy a party if there is room to breathe and move in. I attended both parties in 258 and must say that the Sunday evening "closed" session was infinitely more preferable... but then I am speaking from the inside.

To sum up then, it was a good convention and I am positive that there are few who would disagree with me. Witness to this is borne by the fact that on the Monday morning when, with most of the Londoners we left to catch our train, over 50 registrations had been made for 1964. At this stage I would like to express my appreciation to the organisers for putting on a most enjoyable show. They must hove worked exceedingly hard indeed for our benefit.

Bouquets and brickbats? Well for me, the star turns were Ted Tubb, whether as auctioneer, panellist or the Dior of the Fancy dress parade; the Doherty talk; Metropolis; Aldiss both as MC and as himself; Harrison for his rampaging humour; the Hotel staff who, though not always available, gave cheerful service for hours of noise; the four Salfordians as a sign of the future of fandom, but above all the sociable atmosphere created by all those attending.

Brickbats? Well if I haven't said it already perhaps it's best left unsaid.

One final thing before we end. Why, in Ghu's name, do we bother with moronic reporters who turn up every year? The only decent report appeared in the only decent paper, The Guardian, and this was done by Geoff Doherty who just listened and then reported. The others were a waste of time and effort. As Harry Harrison said when he saw Monday's 'Telegraph':

"Four bloody hours for seven lines - and then they've misquoted!"

PETERBOROUGH IN 64 ANYONE????