Mary Reed (from GRIMWAB #1, January 1966)

Note: my timesense has completely gone, so if I have distorted facts, transposed incidents, forgotten names (or given the wrong ones) I apologise now.

The train to Birmingham was crowded and both halves of Banbury Fandom (being myself and Julia Stone) had to stand in the corridor with luggage. Things were livened up by various bods climbing over us, possibly to get to the George - I was leaning on the door like! An Irishman proposed to Julia, and she accepted. Apart from that, little incident...

We arrived at Snow Hill Station, and swept to the Hotel in great style in a taxi and after registering nipped down to the lobby. Here Julia disappeared and I got talking to Mike Moorcock and Lang Jones. A few minutes previously, a fan had come rushing up and said "Mike Moorcock's here, and he's got a bearded bloke with him. Its Kyril Bonfiglioli!"; it had in fact, been Lang. However, during a short conversation, I learnt that Mike was ill, and was to appear on television (I missed it) and that both his and Lang's beards were in fact their eyelashes clipped in the appropriate shapes, After an interval I found myself in a room with a pile of people, including Arch Mercer, Beryl Henley, Doreen Parker, Ted Tubb, Brian Burgess, and a few more talking about CONJURE WIFE with J R Campbell (or is it JWC - not the American one anyhow!) who later seemed to appear everywhere, either behind you or just in front, or sitting by you. Uncanny it was - at one time I was talking to someone, turned round to say something and found myself staring at JRC. Also present were Chuck Partington, probably Bill Burns and Peter Day - a satanic-looking man if ever I saw one. Harry Nadler (I always get him mixed up with Chuck, because their names are so similar, tho' they look nothing like each other) arrived, festooned with cameras, which doubtless had nothing to do with the sudden exodus out of the room and into the corridor.

While wandering round downstairs, I heard someone yelling for a Mr Picton, intimating he was wanted on the 'phone. Rog Peyton? I thought, but no, it wasn't Rog. Wandering up to the main hall for the welcome/film show, I skulked outside and looked round the hall for a few moments, and then marched in with Julia and grabbed a couple of seats. Charlie Winstone came and told us that there was another female fan from the Banbury area, and so we went over to talk to her, sitting just in front of a young man with long hair, who turned out to be the Mr Picton everyone had been looking for. It turned out that she lived in Bodicote, a village on the outskirts of Banbury, and knew the mother of a boy Julia and I had worked with. It's a small world. By this time, however, Harry Harrison had arrived and he, Phil Rogers, Ted Tubb (?) and Mike Moorcock were having a raving time trying to persuade each other and the audience to go to the Yarcon. After this enjoyable mad half-hour (alas, I can remember nothing more, except that I laughed a lot) the film show was begun, with Dick Howett looking after the film. I seemed always to see him running around with a spool of film in one or both hands. The trouble was that the heating of the hotel was at a fantastic height all weekend and everyone became dehydrated. I know I drank more than I usually do - though nothing alcoholic. (Usual reaction - "How do you get thru a Con?"). Julia and I got into conversation with Pat and Phil, who as I said were just behind us, and persuaded them to accept a copy of LINK. We later found there weren't enough to go round. Of all the films, all I can say is FORBIDDEN PLANET isn't as I remembered it - which comment will probably go for this conrep. Wandering out from the hall, and ambling up the stairs, I met a crowd of folk - the only ones I can recall at the moment are Gray Hall and Dikk Richardson (who was carrying Dylan LPs) - and nipped down to the lobby with said crowd. I think I spent more time in the lobby, and wandering the corridors, than anything else. The porters were to cast many an anxious glance at us .... however, things waxed merry with fan coming and going. Pat beat Dikk on the head with a bottle (I don't know where it came from) and someone (Gray?) continued Dikk's persecution by removing his (Dikk's) boots and hiding them. At one time his two tormentors grabbed his legs and twisted them, raising fears that he would never walk again. It might have been then (or the same time on Saturday night) that Pat attempted - unsuccessfully - to teach me how to use a slide rule.

There is a huge blank, now, but I know we wandered the corridors. At one time Julia and I passed a door with a huge bunch of keys hanging out of the lock, so we banged on the door and told the occupant his keys were hanging about and wasn't it rather dangerous? He was not very pleased, about it - well, we thought we were being helpful. Eventually it came that one mob went one way and myself and Julia the other, trailed by a couple of porters. We told them about the keys and they explained that it was the chef's room and he was always doing it. We eventually wound up sitting in our rooms with a three-way connection to the switchboard at 3 a.m. talking to the two aforementioned porters.

Later that morning Julia and I crawled into breakfast and were joined by Rich Gordon (whom I had met briefly the nite before, learning that he had arrived at the ungodly hour of 7 a.m. -or 8 a.m. - on the Friday morning) who later disappeared for some hours. Julia's birthday had been two days before the Con, and I'd not bought her a present, so, clapping my hat on, Gray (also with hat) and I marched off to buy her an e.p. We walked round, a couple of shops, bought an e.p. (Kinks), dropped into the Army & Navy Surplus Stores to see if they had received any hats, and looked round the market for a bit. On the way round we passed a building being demolished and Gray informed me, with tears in his eyes, that this was once one of THE places in B'ham. I hang my head in shame, and admit that I've forgotten the name of the place. Passing a few pubs, from whence either himself or Dikk had been emulating their idol Red Kitchen in being thrown out, we arrived at a square with fountains, opposite the Art Gallery. We looked in the fountains for coins, and being disappointed, visited the Art Gallery. Admittedly, our hats weren't exactly city bowlers, but I felt folk were rather rude, staring at us..., mayhap it was my roomkey, which I wore hanging on my skirt-belt since I had no pockets. What exactly was wrong with wearing a key on my skirt-belt I never found out, for after finding we couldn't buy a postcard of a painting we had admired (tho' we eventually got photos of it, but that's another story) we settled for one of a gentleman with a particularly evil expression, and headed back for the hotel. We met. Mike, (another one in a hat), Lang and Chas Platt, and retraced our steps to the local 'boozery' where they stocked up with various drinks and carried them back to the hotel. Back at Mike's room we listened in disbelief to the Jack Jackson show. Funnier was Mike and Lang's 'turn' which I can only liken to something vaguely based on a music-hall performance, and twice as hilarious.

Off Julia, Gray, Chas Platt, another gent (didn't catch his name) and myself went to scoff at an establishment where the waitresses have no legs, so they say. Halfway thru it all, in wandered Dikk (with hat) who joined us. On the way back we somehow lost the unnamed gent (I never saw him again) and wound up standing in the door of an off-licence watching the rain from a sudden downpour. Suggestions that we held a Minicon on the steps of the shop were turned down, and Julia and Chas decided to risk the rain and disappeared to go back to the hotel. We wound up in a booksellers basement, listening to an l.p. We did, however, get back to the hotel - after deciding against singing on a corner - and I eventually arrived at Lang's room where Mike and Lang were 'tuning up'.

The place was a mass of cables and wires, leading to the lights. (I hate to think of the electricity bill), with various musical instruments taking up the rest of the floorspace, and a taper on the bed. Mike sang and played his guitar, Norman (Sherlock?) arrived and played on the bongos, Lang hammered the electronic organ - at one point he suddenly screamed that he'd managed to get a tricky bit right - I banged a tambourine now and again and cccasionally we joined in the chorus, and passed a bottle around. It is much easier to feel at ease at this sort of gathering, and whilst commenting on two different tunes for 'Santians' I aired me tonsils and sang a few bars of the tune I know. They listened without flinching, and Mike played a few bars of the tune he knew, followed by his version of THIS LAND IS YOUR LAND (which I'd just heard on a Dylan l.p.). Remarking to Lang that he knew a little tune, he and Lang began playing the famed WE MET ON THE STEPS. Julia recognised it immediately, but I (having missed it the previous year) was hearing it for the first time. Tho' I'm told Pete Taylor usually sings it also, he wasn't there, but it didn't seem to matter. I had heard it, and could die happy!

Mike disappeared (they eventually had folk looking for him) and Dikk and Gray arrived, adding harmonica to the ensemble. Dikk was quite taken with the kazoo, and managed to get a few tunes out of it. Gray grabbed the bongos, and warbled a la Crumford "Whaaat have they done to the rain?". I have a feeling Chas Platt wandered in for a few moments but I can't remember exactly when. Some time later D and G trotted off on business of their own, and I wandered back to my room, eventually winding up sitting on the floor outside with Chuck Partington and Julia , discussing various subjects. This was swelled when a mob joined us - I can only recall Chas Winstone, Pat Picton, Alan Roblin, Bill Burns, and Peter Day - and Lang went racing past in a floppy hat a la Cavalier! At one time a trio of late-arriving guests picked their way through us, goggle-eyed. Voices wore raised and began echoing around the corridor, and a further mundane, quite reasonably, requested us to move. Carrying Alan, who had quietly flaked out some time before,.we marched off to the conhall, losing some of the people with us as we walked downstairs. By the time we got to the hall only Pat, Chuck, Peter Day, myself and, I think, Bill Burns were left, but the discussion went on. Although it had originally begun as a discussion about love, by now it was an argument about Pat's philosophy. This was roughly that by making us argue, he had made us think (he did an' all) and by making us think we moved forward, thus carrying him forward without much effort on his part - and if I've qot it wrong, my apologies to you, Pat. By now, there was a waving of hands and a shouting .... in the end they almost came to blows. Someone produced a curtain out in the corridor, and Pat was wrapped up in it, tied up and left struggling on the floor, still arguing. Someone poured some cider on his hair - I could have wept! News came that Alan had last been seen sitting/lying on the floor of the George, so while the boys investigated, I waited outside and saw a couple of nite-porters dashing around looking for a knife with which to cut Pat free.

People were thinking of retiring now, and I wandered around, banging on odd doors, and observing the fire 'blind' being pulled down (heck of a racket it made, too). In the end, I went to bed for my first good sleep since Thursday. I vaguely recall hearing music and was later told there was a party held next door - and I'm normally a light sleeper! Julia banged on me door later that morning and as I let her in, Chas wandered past in his pyjamas. I was later told that he and Peter White (?) had just been thrown out of Rog's room. Sunday morning and afternoon remain a bit of a blur, with a bid for Syracuse and a long question and answer session dimly remembered. I do remember the auction, which has been described far better than I could ever do, and all I will remark is that it was one of the highlights of the Con. The drink was passed out and groups formed round the Hall - I wound up in a group with mainly Brummies and a few others, including Pat, to whom I talked a long time. After pouring some drink over my head (which made it even blonder than usual after the con) we talked for something like two hours, or so I was told. It didn't seem as long. However, after this prolonged gab, the talked turned to long hair and the rest of the bunch (who had been muttering amongst themselves) joined us. Being a supporter of long hair for everyone I was on Pat's side, and I was surprised at the rudeness one or two fen showed him. As I said then, and I say again now, if you didn't want to talk, you could have gone elsewhere. Sometime around then Chas was observed up a stepladder which toppled over, taking him most of the way with it. After a few moments we moved en masse to Rog's room where Peter White (?) remarked on the aforementioned roomkey-in-skirt-belt and said it was highly significant. He was also worried, about the bongos being in there- - I don't know how they got there, either. For some reason this started us off on the subject of emotions - just after which Pat was thrown out.

Immediately after this incident everyone left and wandered about, eventually coming to rest on the stops in the corridor outside Lang's room. The top of his door displayed a hole, which, we were informed in hushed whispers, was the doing of Chas Platt. He was, it was said, stoned ....... one of the Aliens appeared briefly, shot at us - to this day I'm not sure if it was a real bullet or not - and then disappeared. The fen were gradually dozing, legs stretched out everywhere and voices began to quieten. Suddenly round the corner came Ted Tubb who announced that Chas had passed out and was sleeping peacefully. He took pity on us and we all crammed into his room, and after a drink or three they all planned to march round the hotel. By now I was half asleep - lack of sleep was catching up on me - and when they marched off, chanting 'Go Back to Your Wives' and clanking a bottle, I dozed for a while.

When Ted, Mike and two (American) gents returned they discussed bowling alleys and I gave up the struggle, said goodnight and went back to my room to sleep. I was woken at 7-30 the same morning and went round to see Julia. On the way there I met Peter White in his pyjamas, who said that he had been sleeping on someone's floor. Julia was up, dressed and had her luggage half -packed when I arrived, and Pete clambered onto her bed to luxuriate . For some reason the sheets were missing. Talking as Julia finished packing, we heard of some of the incidents we had not witnessed, such as Chas being imprisoned in a wardrobe, how Pete himself had spied a lonely figure wandering around the corridors and had rushed up to him and beat him with Lang's aforementioned hat - only to find that it was the manager or some such; how two mundancs had been discussing the Con and wondering what it was, and as Lang had wandered past had said, with clearing brows "Oh, it's a religious Con!", and so on.

Julia wandered off in search of something or other and Lang looked in for a quick talk. He had been gone but a few moments when two maids walked in and looked at us. One looked at Pete and said "It's not your room, I know!" and locked at me. Flabbergasted, I explained how the hordes had just gone and that we would be off soon and so on, and with a loud sniff she departed. I shall never forget the look on her face. A few mins later Julia arrived with a tale of a woman going around turfing freeloaders out of rooms, and Peter had better hurry up and be off. He shoved off to get dressed in the bathroom while we collected our junk and went downstairs. We passed the freeloader-turfing-out woman as Julia tried to abandon her Easter Egg (I had felt a bit mad at the time and had given her one) and in the end we gave it to Cliff of the Brummies. On the landing the fen were sitting round saying goodbye, and we paid, up, said hurried goodbyes, and went to the station, thro' the blizzard that was, by then, howling. Already I was feeling the twinges of the usual postcon attack of tonsilitis, and looked at the world with an even more jaded eye than usual. Walking along the platform to Banbury we waved to a couple of early-leaving congoers and then headed for home in the bitter wind that had sprung up.

And now, on looking back, I realise that many more incidents have been omitted, as for example, the time I was wandering the streets of Birmingham with Dikk and Gray while Dikk played BRING IT TO JEROME on his harmonica, and I was carting a couple of bottles of beer around. Although I missed a lot of the official programme, all in all I enjoyed myself, and what more can you ask of a con than that?