BRISCON - THE 1967 EASTERCON"They called it what!?" - Moshe Feder
The convention took place over Easter weekend of 24th - 27th March 1967 at the Hawthorns Hotel, Bristol. Guest of Honour was John Brunner and registrations exceeded 200. The con was organised by the BaD (Bristol and District) Group and the Programme Book lists the committee thus:
The following list has been gleaned from con reports, photos, and the like. Known Attendees:
An image of the badge for this convention has so far not been located. Report below edited together from those written by the individuals noted. Comments inserted by me appear in parentheses or are italicised, or both. Source notes and links to complete, unedited versions of those reports can be found here. The photos presented herein come from a variety of collections, though this doesn't mean a particular picture was taken by that person. The collection photos are from, where known, is noted in parentheses thus: (ns) Norman Shorrock, (sn) Stan Nicholls, {ts) Tom Schlück, (hr) Howard Rosenblum, (hb) Harry Bell, (jpkr) unknown. As always, a tip of the hat to Peter Weston for identifying many of the people in these photos and for supplying them in the first place. Here are links to pages devoted to the individual days and to convention literature.
Thursday 23rd MarchDARROLL PARDOE:Conventions are such wonderful things, that it's a shame they last so short a time; only four days and then it's home to mundane life for another year. This one was no exception, but I cheated a bit and travelled to Bristol on the Thursday, squeezing in an extra day and a pre-con get-together at the Walshes'. The events of the weekend really began as I was walking up to that ridiculously-situated booking office on Paddington station to buy my ticket to Bristol. Just as I passed the bookstall a poor old chap standing close by had some kind of fit or stroke and collapsed to the ground almost at my feet. Fortunately it didn't turn out to be a bad omen for the success of the convention, which I can safely say was one of the most enjoyable I've yet attended (although I like them all). It was a pleasant day, so I walked from Temple Meads station up to the hotel to book in, and then strolled on to the Walshes', where I was met by a very doubtful look from Simone before she would let me into the house. You see, I had this beard last time I was there. I was glad to meet Heinrich Arenz for the first time, who naturally looked nothing like I thought he would (no fan ever does). Some time during the evening Pete Weston and Rog Peyton arrived, bringing the total of Brummies present to three (3). The party was still going on when I left, together with the contents of three bottles of Guinness which I'd transferred to the interior of my stomach during the evening. I walked back to the hotel and went to bed, to get some sleep for the nights ahead.
Distance from the Walsh home at 61 Halsbury Road to The Hawthorns on the corner of Woodland Road and Elton Road was around a mile, so an easy walk.
 PETER WESTON: Starting out early on the Thursday afternoon, Rog and I made the now-familiar drive down the A38 to the Walshes' house in Bristol for a pre-con warm-up party. Darroll Pardoe arrived, as did some of the local fans including Graham Boak, who had recently started the BaD group fanzine, BaDINAGE (title courtesy of Archie Mercer, of course). We consumed large quantities of Guinness ... and eventually most of us settled down on mattresses in the back room. BRIAN HAMPTON: Thursday Night was spent in the convivial snore-wrenched atmosphere on the Walshes' back-room floor. GRAHAM BOAK: When Eddie [Jones] sleeps, nobody sleeps. BRIAN HAMPTON: In the morning, Tony had decided that we were all going out to breakfast, about which I daren't say more for fear of prosecution.
Friday 24th MarchTONY WALSH:Exhilaration; elation; empathy; effortlessly, endlessly. For me the Con is a time out of normal time. It is in a parallel time track that has a temporal sphincter around the hotel entrance, opening in Good Friday and closing in Easter Monday. And the language of normal time does not have the same meaning in there, it needs subtle change. I could write for a month and the words would not be fitting description. Exhilaration endlessly. Elation effortlessly. Empathy. Booze helps a lot of course. It is always a good aid to a good time and the man who discovered it should have a planet renamed after him. More important though is the right company; and at a Con the company is the nearest to right that I have ever found. It doesn't need a lot of alcohol to improve it, just enough to enhance it. DARROLL PARDOE: Next morning dawned with the sound of muttering and clattering just outside the window. I looked out, and there on the car-park was a party of highly assorted folk loading themselves and their equipment into a motorcoach. This performance, incidentally, was repeated every morning during the weekend. I found out later that this was a convention of geologists; they were no trouble to us fans, though, as they were away from the hotel from early morning to late at night. It was no use trying to get back to sleep, so I went downstairs to an excellent breakfast in the hotel restaurant... a portent of the meals to come, which were uniformly excellent and reasonably priced – an unusual situation for a con-hotel. I adopted my usual practice during the morning of sitting in the front lounge and observing the arrivals as they came. During this time I talked to Ella Parker and Ethel Lindsay, who had arrived at one of the smallest of hours that morning. Ella soon had the service of tea sorted out, and a continual stream of trays of teapots and things began flowing in our direction. During lunch Ken Cheslin put in an appearance, bringing the total of Brummies to four (4).
PETER WESTON: I wanted to get to the hotel early, so that I could set up a little display stand, constructed from collapsible Dexion tubing and lightweight panels salvaged from an unwanted BSA exhibition stand. My idea was to try to promote SPECULATION a bit more, attract new subscribers and maybe even sign up a few contributors, so I built the display in a corner of the book room, pinned some covers of previous issues to the front panel, and put out my subscription forms. It would be a good place to hang around and talk to people, I thought, even if I didn't sell a single copy. This time I was also thinking of producing a special convention issue, and was on the lookout for material. The Hawthorns was actually the headquarters of the Berni Inn chain and served cheap and enjoyable food, sirloin steaks, duck in orange sauce, schooners of sherry, that sort of thing, in a variety of restaurants replete with oak furniture and orange lampshades. And bars. There were any number of different bars in every corner of the building, as visiting Australian Mervyn Barrett quickly found: "There were signs indicating the way to the Scotch Bar, the Mexican Bar, and god-knows how many others. For a while I suspected they only had one bar but lots of corridors and lots of signs, the name of the bar depending on one's direction of approach." At some past time the hotel had been converted from a half-dozen huge mansions, all built to different plans and elevations, and in consequence there were stairs, doors, passages, floors, and rooms leading off at literally all angles. Fans were delighted with one corridor, between the main block and the "Gay Nineties" wing on the third floor, which had no ceiling—it was just a glorified catwalk over the rooftops, open to the stars. All weekend lost souls were wandering in search of their rooms, Ted Tubb being particularly incensed because he was in a sort of private Ivory Tower, far away from the rest of the con, with an untrustworthy lift as his only means of escape. DARROLL PARDOE: There was one place where to get to a part of the hotel you had to go over a bridge, three floors up and open to the elements. Every time I had occasions to go over it, it seemed to be raining. I reckon it was a bridge into an alternative universe where it rains all the time. PETER ROBERTS: In 1967, an innocent schoolboy stood outside the Bristol convention hotel and debated whether to go inside and mix it with Jack Vance, Phil Dick, Kurt Vonnegut, William Burroughs, and all the other science fictioneers. I chickened out, which is probably just as well. The reality of St Fantony, the Doc Weir Award, and the powers that didn't lie behind the BSFA was shocking enough for a newcomer a year later. PETER WESTON: I finally met Gerry Webb and his girlfriend Anne Keylock, so nearly encountered on my abortive visit to London, back in 1963. Gerry was tall and slim, with glasses and an infectious grin, and was smartly dressed in blazer and cravat. He talked almost non-stop about his job in the space programme, though I didn't quite understand exactly what he did. It certainly involved frequent visits to Sweden to launch rockets, I gathered enviously.
I also envied Gerry his girlfriend, as did Rog and almost everyone else in the room. Anne was tall and platinum blonde, with a lot of make-up, bright pink lipstick and long black eyelashes, stiletto heels and a tight black skirt. At first, I was a bit frightened of her - she looked way out of my league - but she turned out to be friendly and a good sport. BILL BURNS: We arrived in the hotel car park in a rather beat-up Morris Oxford (antique style) at three thirty on Friday afternoon - much to our amazement. "See, I told you it'd make it!" Chuck [Partington] cries. Entering the imposing hotel by the revolting doors, we dropped our luggage in the foyer, and after checking in, sought the convention registration desk. Here, Archie and Beryl Mercer were waiting hands outstretched to collect our loot. Formalities completed and belongings deposited in our rooms, we spent the next half hour or so briefly meeting people - then on to the Bristol cafes.... DARROLL PARDOE: Soon the word got around that the registration desk was open, so I wandered down to the con hall and paid my ten bob, then settled down nearby to see who was coming in. I hadn't been there very long when Mary Reed turned up, (Ghod bless her), registered and sat down with a large pile of copies of CRABAPPLE, which she distributes to those deserving folk who were due to receive them. Soon a large crowd of fans, admirers and hangers-on had collected, and as people left the registration desk they came over and joined the group. Martin (Santos) Pitt and Martin Suter came in, thus completing the role call of Brummies at the con, making a grand total of six (6). Not bad considering that the BSFG died a lingering death more than six months ago. The Lunar Restaurant in Park Street is the traditional place in Bristol where fans go to eat on the occasion of a gathering, and I went there with a group of folk to assuage the pangs of hunger, before seating myself in the con hall for the start of the official programme. DAV GARNETT: Arrive at the Hawthorns Hotel just after six o'clock Friday, book in and go up to my room. What am I doing here? Don't know anyone. But can't hide forever. Go down and register. Pay another scrotum-tightening 10/- in addition to earlier 7/6 registration fee. For which get a name tag, programme booklet and two pens. Wander around, then back to room 261 to hide again. Finally, down to the con hall and bar. It's like a huge pub. Buy a drink and pretend to look for someone I know. Choose an empty table, also empty chair, and wait for programme to begin. Supposed to be eight o'clock, the Brian Aldiss show. Room begins to fill. Committee hope to break the 200 barrier over the weekend! People come and sit next to me: suddenly am no longer alone and begin talking.
Aldiss turns up late, hurrying in still wearing overcoat and claiming he's been waiting for us all in a hotel down the road. Introduces various authors and fans. Famous names suddenly become recognizable faces. Brunner and Bulmer, Disch and Merril, Moorcock and Platt, Tubb and White. Aldiss runs a quiz, asking them to name a book or story which starts/ends with a certain line. They win paperbacks for being right. As a consolation prize, they win paperbacks for being wrong. After this, head to the bar. Suddenly find myself standing next to an author. Never met one before. Thomas M. Disch – the famous Thomas M. Disch. Got to say something. What? Enquire whether he is a fan of E.C. Tubb, as he knew the line Aldiss quoted him was from a Tubb story. "No, Brian told me the answer first," he says
PETER WESTON: Friday night started slowly, with introductions made in "The Brian Aldiss Show," although with no Harry Harrison this year, and with an unusual lack of room parties. I spent most of the evening in the front lounge meeting friends from previous years like Chris Priest, Jim Marshall, Dick Ellingsworth and his wife Diane (she of the lovely, long black hair, looking none the worst for having been "sacrificed" at Repetercon). TONY WALSH: I remember a joke-telling session in the Regency Room with Pete Weston, Frank Herbert, and Jim Marshall when my sides cracked with laughter and great belting rushes of exhilaration slammed into and over me. I felt so high and so certain the feeling would never pass. It was crazy. I was critical. It was time. I was going nova. And yet something was wrong because the corners of the room wouldn't focus any more and a couple of fans who'd just stepped over were looking around their glasses at me with pity and expectancy. Whatever they were waiting for didn't happen. At least not then. But I must admit that the next couple of hours toll off confusedly. Room parties. Floors. More drinks. Talking walking. More drink. The fetch of the distance down the stretching corridor. Corridor laid with strangely exhilarating red carpet; endless, effortless to walk along and made, I felt sure, in Axminster by Elation Bros & Empathy (not limited!) Eventually the corners of the room were back in focus (God, I hope I never get pissed in a round room!) and I'd walked off the end of the carpet. By which time I was sitting amongst a group that was deep in a four a.m. euphoria in the front lounge, trying to recall the hours between and arguing with. Jill Adams and Ethel Lindsay who were insisting that the psychological differences of the sexes do not create conflicts. Heh, heh, heh.
Beryl Mercer: "Festerhead, I'd like you to meet Jon Williams, who is a member of the Welsh Nationalist
Army. And I think you'd better keep a wary eye on him, too."
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