Saturday 9th AprilALLEN:The journey to Kettering was a long and tedious one. I was far too excited to sleep and did not want to in case I missed my station, so the journey on the seven pm train from Newcastle began on Good Friday with me reading Chuck Harris's 'Through Darkest Ireland' and ended at 3am on the Saturday with me feeling very tired and cold. Bleary eyed, I staggered with my suitcase from Kettering Station into the darkness of the night, luckily a taxi was in the station yard so I boarded it, mumbled out our destination to the driver and ten minutes later I was sipping life-giving-coffee in the home of Denny Cowen. I gratefully slept there that night - well, for what was left of the night, and when daylight finally came I dressed, dashed downstairs to a nice breakfast, chatted with Denny about the previous day, and then at nine am we set out for the George Hotel. It was a beautiful morning, the sun was shining brightly in the clear blue sky and the birds were singing merrily in the tree-tops. The George Hotel looked peaceful and far too respectable a place for fans to gather to hold a convention, but this first impression proved to be wrong because the hotel was a real tru-fannish place - everyone, from the lowest chamber maid to the manager eventually joined in the fun. Denny took me into the convention hall which was already lined with tables displaying books, fanzines and paintings, he pointed out an empty table which I could use for my SATELLITE salesmanship. [This was Allen's fanzine.] There were two other fans in the hall at the time and Denny introduced me to them. Eric Jones is a real tru-fannish character and wore over the whole weekend a most wonderful beanie, it had aerials and antennae sticking out from all over it. (I forget who the other person was but I think it was Mrs. Ratigan.)
A few minutes later, after I had put the copies and leaflets of SATELLITE onto my table, the hall started to fill up and zap guns were appearing, so I decided to go around and meet people. After being introduced to Mike Wallace I noticed a pile of magazines moving down the hall. This turned out to be Ron Bennett looking for a table on which to dump his stuff, so I guided him to a one and then we introduced ourselves. "Got the - er - you-know-what?" Ron whispered, meaning the pre-printed pages for BURP! I pointed to my suitcase and answered yes and went on to tell him that somebody else had done me out of a room and I had nowhere to put my luggage. Ron said that I could put it in his room, and after further conversation as to where I was to sleep he offered me his floor. I accepted, and then we went up to his room. Once there I opened up my case and took out the pages for Burp, Ron jumped up and down with delight and prophesised a wonderful scoop. "We'll do it tonight when the film is on, can't do it this afternoon 'cos I'm playing Rugby!" he said. "You're what?!" I cried in astonishment. "I'm playing Rugby, for the local team." "How on earth did you get yourself into it then?" "I dunno, last night a great hefty muscle man came into the bar looking for me - said I'd written and asked to play......" "Oh you poor fan," I laughed, "you poor silly twisted fan..." Ron grimaced and mumbled that he would be a silly twisted fan after the game. "Aw c'mon," he said, "let's go down to the hall." So down we went. HARRIS: I was up bright and early on the Saturday and back to The George as soon as I'd had breakfast. Walt and Madeleine, my Sheila, and Mal were just coming down for their meal, so I trotted into the dining-room with them. The waiter seemed quite eager to provide me with another breakfast, but I just didn't have the heart to let him serve me, - I told him that I'd already eaten and didn't bother to mention that it was in another hotel just along the road. I was very pleased with the service in The George; after one glance at my transparently honest face and my name button, they accepted me as Archie Mercer (who was booked in there), and didn't hound me as a non-resident.
Arthur Thomson arrived soon after breakfast - he'd got up at 4 a.m. and caught the first train out of London. The Official Programme was due to start at 11 o'clock, but after reassuring Sheila that it was just wishful thinking by the Committee, we all went down to the Royal to book Arthur in (we shared a room), talk, and send poctsarcds.... "Having wonderful time, wish you were." ALLEN: "You are Don Allen aren't you?" A voice from behind me asked. I turned around to see who it was who had recognized me. "Wa - yes - and you're Walt Willis..." I said feeling thrilled that Walt had recognised me. After handshakes and greetings Walt introduced me to his most charming and pleasant wife Madeleine. Walt is the same, easy to talk to and a wonderful person to know. We chatted for a while of fannish things and then Walt asked me if I had met everybody whom I wanted to meet? I replied that I had not. "Vin¢, have you met Vin¢ Clarke? You haven't, well come then and I'll introduce you." Vin¢ Clarke was talking to four other fans but I can only remember two of them, one Joy Goodwin and the other Chuck Harris. Chuck was arguing with this other person and I never got around to actually shaking his hand until the Sunday afternoon. I found Chuck to be a very nice person with a good sense of humour, the same goes for Vin¢ and Joy, real nice people full of fun and friendliness. Actually, this being my first convention I was greatly impressed by the overall friendliness and good spirit amongst fen and that weekend was one of the best I've ever had. After I had talked to Vin¢ and Joy for a while I want off in search of Mike Wallace but was stopped by a fan who flashed a card in my face, the card read 'The Lincoln Square'. This was Archie Mercer I thought, but I played dumb. "The Lincoln Square - hmm, now who do I know in Lincoln...?" I mused, then Archie turned the card over revealing his name. We laughed and shook hands when suddenly the back of my neck was drenched with water. I spun around in a flash only to receive a second drenching but this time right in my "Glug!" I gurgled wiping water from my eyes until they could focus normally "Man, dig this piece of curve!" I yelped as I saw my would-be assassin. "Who is she?" "You dunno who that is - oh shame on you, that's Shirley Marriott ..... " explained Archie. "Well, well, waddaya know ... now if only I had a zap gun...." no sooner the words out of my mouth when Mike Wallace asked me if I would like to buy one of his. (he had three). I said I did, and on receiving my purchase I headed for the cloakroom to load up. Back in the hall I sought out Marriott (a very easy job!), took aim and zzzap, perfect shot I thought, but she was with friends and they rallied forth to her rescue. Very soon a battle was raging, Mike Wallace came lumbering down the hall in pursuit of John Hall who was directly in my line of fire so I let him have it, this resulted in both of us dodging behind folks so as we wouldn't be zapped, but everybody was zapping everybody so nobody really knew who was zapping who! Phew! When finally the battle cooled off I felt as though I couldn't have got any wetter if I'd gone for a swim fully clothed. Mike and I decided to go out for dinner as the time was nearing twelve, but before doing this we went up to Mike's room to dry ourselves out. On our way we saw Bert Campbell arrive by car, obviously he wasn't taking any chances this year as we noticed spare tyres, and numerous other gear in the back for use in case of a breakdown! Mike and I walked to the far end of Kettering in search of a cafe and eventually found 'The London Grill' and believe me I think that they actually cooked the food in London and sent it up to Kettering by mule-train! However, apart from the lousy food the conversation was good. Two tables were pushed together to make one big one and around this were Ken Slater, Mike Wallace, Dave Cohen, Pete Royle, Pat Everest, Mike Mansfield, Eddie White and myself (Dave was taking down notes for the British S-F magazine so naturally we were all on good behaviour) . The menu was a strange thing, on it were the queerest meals you ever laid eyes on, stuff like, 'Margarine Egg' , 'Sausage Egg', 'Roll and Sam', and scribbled in pencil, BLOG! The puns in the conversation were terrific and I wish I could remember them all. WILLIS: At lunchtime that day the hotel manager had laid on lunch for fifty at 8/6 per head (or at least per person.) At one o'clock the vast organization had completed its preparations and stood ready to swing into action. Six waiters stood poised for zero hour, sworn to deal with the mad rush of starving fans or go down beneath their feet. By two o'clock six fans had appeared, the rest of them by this time finishing their fish and chips in cheap cafes. Denny Cowen didn't seem at all worried. He said the Manager had asked him for advice on how many he should provide for at lunch. 75? 100? "Well," said Denny thoughtfully, "I think you could safely allow for about six. Maybe seven. Or, if you want to take a chance, perhaps even eight." The Manager was incredulous. There were over a hundred people there; surely most of them would want lunch. "Not," said Denny firmly, "at 8/6 a throw." And so it turned out. I didn't have lunch there myself, but I hear the service was pretty good. Next day the hotel put on what was evidently a "Fans' Special" at 6/-, but it was too late; the pattern had been set. The imperturbable Cowen took the view that the Manager had had fair warning and had only himself to blame, which was quite true. In any case the hotel cleared enough on the bar to win on the swigs what they lost on the roustabouts. They say Norman Wansborough took a bath in cherry brandy every night. ALLEN: On arriving back at the hotel at 1.30 I sat in the American Bar, a lovely place real Yankee style, listening to Walt, Chuck, Mal, Denny, Eric Bentcliffe, Shamey [ie. 'Shameless' Shirley Marriott], and Wansborough talking of nothing that I can remember. Musta bin the dinner!! It was then that I remembered that Ron Bennett was going to play Rugby and that I had better get the key to his room in case I needed something out of my case. It was a fruitless search, I couldn't find the nut, though I combed the hotel high and low, maybe I should have used a bigger comb because suddenly, just as I'd given up hope and had sat down in the con-hall, he appeared. "I am off to play Rugby now, Don, would you like the key to my room in case you need somethin'?" he said. Me, I was speechless, but I got the key and Ron went on his way. I wondered if we would see him again. By now the walls of the hall were covered with adverts for various fanzines, prozines and BLOG! Chairs, books, tables were all buried in quote-cards. Archie Mercer distributed the largest amount of quote-cards, he must have had thousands, other cards came from the Liverpool boys but these were mostly adverts for their tape-recording which they wore putting on at three-thirty sponsored by BLOG an imaginary product that 'caught on' better than I think was expected. The barmen in the American Bar put up an advert for the stuff saying that BLOG would shortly be on sale and I did hear that regular customers of the hotel had actually been enquiring about it and when it was to be on sale? The barmen and waiters were right in the groove of things and played along fine answering all enquiries saying that BLOG would be on sale soon!
Yes indeed, a real tru-fannish place, the manager was delighted with everything and the barmen even went as far as getting their own zap guns. BLOG adverts were all over the hotel and so were Archie's quote cards. I pinned up ads for SATELLITE on every available place I could find. The con hall at two pm was a most fannish scene indeed, zap gun duels were being held, pros were talking in groups, beanies bobbing up and down, fen chasing femmes, Burgess jerking around...oh yes Burgess had a lovely hat, a bit unconventional maybe, but very attractive(?) . This hat was one of those Alpine type with a fifteen inch feather stuck in it, the hat was green and the feather white, and he wore it over the whole weekend except when somebody took it from him and emptied his zap gun in it! HARRIS: The Convention officially began just after two o 'clock when Ted Carnell and Bert Campbell started the ball rolling. Anglofandom owes a great deal to these two and to Ted Tubb. I don't think there would be any sort of programme without them, and if they can't make it one year there will be the biggest godawful fiasco we've yet seen. I'm not kidding, these three carry the convention programmes on that their backs; without them, the rest of us seem to do nothing except trek back and forwards to the bar. WILLIS: The Official Programme began at 2:18pm with a 50 cycle hum on the PA system and speeches by Ted Carnell and Bert Campbell. I hear that Denny Cowen had attempted to start it at the advertised time of 11am, but no one was there to appreciate this whimsical gesture. It came to an end some ninety minutes later, but no blame can be attached to Ted or Bert. Ted maundered on for a while, first about short stories not selling, and then about increasing people's reading speeds...as if he was resolved to convert all stories into short stories and put an end to the whole sorry business...but he soon became again the engaging soul of indiscretion we enjoy every year. ALLEN: Bert Campbell sauntered up to the mic and said he was not going to say anything but would answer questions! Alan Burns asked the first which was, "What is the future of Space Opera?", To this Bert just shrugged and replied, "I don't think it has a future!" The hall echoed with fannish laughter and then Frances Evans asked Bert why there had been no fanzine reviews in the last 'Authentic'? Bert said that a true unbiased opinion of a fanzine was unwelcome and caused much controversy so therefore no reviews unless a faned particularly asks for one. Ted Tubb and Ken Slater asked most of the questions that followed and while was answering one of them Burgess crept up and took a photo of him. The flash caused Bert to close his eyes and stand still for a moment, he was obviously trying to teleport Burgess from Kettering. Seeing Bert in this condition somebody near me remarked, "Doesn't he look like Jesus!"
WILLIS: Bert was at first uncharacteristically subdued under heavy fire directed at his fmz reviews....a sitting target....and was also most unbertlike in his defence of the Authentic Book of Space. He allowed his old enemies to retire in triumph from the field after the following brisk bombardment....
Eric Jones: "At what age was the Authentic Book Of Space aimed?" But after this just retribution by two of the famous Misfits, Bert brightened up a bit and became more like his usual outrageous but likeable self. HARRIS: Walt suggested last year that Tubb should be hired by the Concommittee along with the hall - and I don't think he was kidding either. Whilst Carnell and Campbell handle the 'official business' (and indeed this has to be handled if there's going to be a convention the next year), Tubb keeps things moving and provides many of the bright intervals. Later in the programme Cowen made a presentation to Ted - a lighter and cigarette gimmick for "The Year's Most Popular Author" - and the gesture got the biggest applause of the day. For the first, and probably the only time in his life, Ted was almost at a loss for words. He managed one crack about how he had refused to enter for the International Fantasy Award and then had gotten off the stage long before the applause had died down. There were several of these presentations and I think it would be a Good Thing if they were made annual affairs. Ken Slater (he's out of the Army and was wearing a very fine bowler hat fitted with a little propeller), was obviously touched when he received the Fan Of The Year Award that Forry sent over for him, and so was Vin¢ when he collected the NEW WORLDS cover painting that was the Fanzine of the Year award for himself and the other editors of EYE. I think most of the audience finished this session with blisters on both palms.
Soon afterwards Sheila made a private presentation to me. I was elected "Fan Of The Year (1866)" by "The Bradford Society For The Care And Feeding Of Elderly Sex-Fiends" and was given a mint copy of "Dimension of Illion" - the very latest ninepennyworth in the Tit-Bits Science-Fiction Library. I was hoping that Mal would be carried away by the occasion and present me with Sheila herself, but he seemed unenthusiastic about the idea even though I offered him three part-worn paramours and a free sub to HYPHEN in exchange. The next bit of the official programme was the tape-recorded play of the Liverpool Group - THE MARCH OF SLIME!.....a commercial broadcast sponsored by the makers of BLOG. Dave Newman and Norm and Ina Shorrock lent me the only copy of the script afterwards [Chuck being deaf]. It's wonderful, superbly fannish stuff and I would have loved to have been able to publish it myself, but Eric Bentcliffe got there before I did and it will be coming up in TRIODE shortly. For me, the highspot of the play was the "entry of Willis into the Convention Hall ".... "a fanfare heralds the Maestro... .he waves a hand in greeting as the people bow and curtsey.. .and Bert Campbell steps on his own beard and topples over." I told Walt afterwards that it wasn't a genuineflection - it was just a false salaam... but somehow he didn't really appreciate me.
WILLIS: The Liverpool Group's famous tapera ... was so good that the sensitive fannish audience sub-consciously realised that anything else, even Ken Slater lecturing with laryngitis, would be an anticlimax. They voted for an interval with their feet, leaving a publisher who had begged a five minute spot in the Programme for a plug with the task of selling his spring list to 120 chairs. (My brain received a message from the rear what they could do with them.)
My nerves were still shot to pieces; I was, as the old gag has it, shaking like an aspirin. Ever since the Chicon I seem to have been living Conventions backwards ...I start off with the hangover and finish on top of the world. The turning point this time came when Arthur Thomson, Roscoe reward him, recommended Alka Seltzer and went out with me to buy some. We came back, ordered two glasses of water from the astounded bartender and drank the mystic potion. Having carefully read the booklet of instructions I began to feel better at once and, hearing that Mal Ashworth was ill with flu I went up to his room with Chuck Harris, the bottle of Alka Seltzer and an unsolicited testimonial. Poor Sheila was speculating mournfully as to how much it would cost to ship a body back to Bradford, but after we'd been talking to him for a while Mal brightened up in sheer self defence and began to fight back. Sheila, still morbidly minded, had pointed out that there were tiny skulls in the wallpaper pattern. "It must have been meant for a scullery not a bedroom," said Mal. Satisfied that he was going to live....though whether or not he deserved to was another question....we went back downstairs. ALLEN: I dashed from the hall and up to Ron's room to get a wash and freshen up for tea. On the way back down the Rugby Champion Himself was seen staggering - no, crawling up the stairs! He had returned from his game! "Hi Ron'." I greeted him but all the acknowledgement I got was a low moan. "'What's up - get hurt in the game?" Ron moaned again, but louder this time. "Mus' go lie down - mus' rest - mus' go..." he groaned turning nearly closed eyes in my direction. "Okay, here's your key, I'm away now for something to eat - er can you manage the climb to your room?" Ron nodded his head causing bits of caked blood and mud fall to the floor. I dropped the key into his pocket and ran off down the stairs leaving Ron to continue his painful journey. On reaching the first floor I ran crash-bang into Ted Tubb, not realizing who it was at first, it's very difficult to focus your eyes while you are bouncing from wall to wall, but as soon as I steadied myself and realised my position my apologies immediately burst forth. "You're Don Allen aren't you?" Ted said after looking me over, "I recognize you from your picture on the last Satellite." I was amazed, this was wonderful, Ted Tubb recognising me - oh the fame!!! Ted was going out for something to eat also so we both went out together.
Outside the hotel we caught sight of various members of the London Circle and other fans and femmes so we caught up with them and once more I was walked to the far end of Kettering in search of a cafe. The one selected was much better than the previous joint where I had 'dinner'. I sat at a table along with Shirley Marriott and Brian Burgess, while around the other tables were Vin¢ Clarke, Joy Goodwin, Ted Tubb, Bert Campbell, The Buckmasters and three or four others whose names I can't remember. Shamey and Burgess talked about the places they had been to on the Continent and I butted in with an occasional, "Well when I was in York", or "I remember when I went to Blackpool". It was an interesting conversation all the same, but when they switched to foreign languages everything was all Greek to me. (Wish I'd talked broad Tyneside then I wouldn't have been too ignorant - well Mercer says Tyneside sounds like a flipping foreign language - ha, he should talk!) After tea we all returned to the hotel, there, until seven I spent the time wandering around talking to various folk. I was not very keen on seeing 'War of the Worlds' but I did want to see the Tom & Jerry cartoon. I was sitting in the back row with Marriott - pause while you read between the lines - when Ron Bennett, a recovered fan, and Mike Wallace told me that it was time to start on BURP!. I didn't want to go. Tom & Jerry were so funny so I said that I would come in a couple of minutes. That 'couple of minutes' turned out to be an hour. WILLIS: Some time during the afternoon word had been spread by runners through the various lounges that War Of The Worlds was going to be shown that evening. My Ghod, we thought, the Official Program walks again. I dropped in about half an hour after it had started to make sure that the Martians hadn't found out about Alka Seltzer, and discovered the makings of an even worse catastrophe. Someone had decided to help defend Terra against the alien hordes with his little zapgun. Apparently these high class silvered screens are allergic to water and the maddened operator had called in the Manager, complaining that his screen had been ruined and his projector was in imminent danger. He said he would cancel the show if he wasn't afraid the audience would riot. I assured him he needn't worry about that and if he'd explained the position to them there'd be no more trouble. Then after discussing it with Vin¢ I told him we'd lift a collection to pay for the damage to the screen. I got Bill Panter to make the announcement and the film show went on without further incident. During the interval Vin¢ and I went round with beanies and collected £2:12:3. The operator settled happily for £1:10 and of the remainder 10/- went to TAFF and the balance in gratuities to the hotel staff. Some people said afterwards that the people who did the damage should have paid for it, but I don't see how it could have been done in practice. I took the collection from the main culprit, a professional man with a University degree [Paul Hammett, according to Nic Oosterbaan], and he only gave me 2/6 and was far more concerned about his confiscated zapgun than anything else. Besides until recently zapguns have been quite comme il faut at British Conventions and in a convivial atmosphere anyone can be forgiven for failing to take into account the possibility that a film screen may be something other than an ordinary white All the same this incident could have ruined the Convention, and it seems to be the general opinion among the leaders of fannish thought that the zapgun should be outlawed. It had its uses in the dry-as-dust British Convention of a few years back, but we all know how to enjoy ourselves now without mechanical aids to informality. Many of the actifans left them behind in 1954 and hardly any BNFs toted them at Kettering. The trend will probably continue.
So Vin¢ Clarke was just in time with the zapgun licenses he was selling at CYTRICON to raise momey for TAFF There was some speculation next morning as to what would take its place. Ken Slater was demonstrating a potato gun, but one hates to think of what fannish ingenuity might develop from this. Bombs loaded with cold mashed potatoes, bazookas firing half a stone at a time, french fried shrapnel, long range rocket missiles... maybe even guided potatoes, with electronic eyes. A horrible thought. Mal Ashworth and Ken Bulmer came up with the best idea -- a double-barreled shotgun with one barrel loaded with tar and the other with feathers. It could be used for running people out of fandom.... such as thoughtless zappers. After the film show a number of us had a very pleasant party in the Residents' Lounge...or at least I enjoyed it. Not too many people, only one talking at once, and everyone participating. Arthur was drawing cartoons, as usual - his graphic commentaries were one of the best features of the Convention, and became a sort of illustrated quotecard -- and Pamela stole a particularly brilliant one for UGH [her OMPAzine], hiding it down the neck of her dress. ("She's wearing a strapless evening cartoon.") ALLEN: Shamey and I got sick of the film, as did a few others, so we left the hotel to go on a sight seeing tour of Kettering. I must say that the fresh air freshened me up a lot and on returning to the hotel I felt just in the right mood for fun. Shamey agreed to coming up to Ron's room to help with BURP! I did manage to drag myself to help with the printing and just as I was halfway through cutting a cartoon Mike Wallace cried, "Good Ghod, it's time we were going, the party will be on soon!" Mass exit, of all but me, I had to finish the cartoon and then change into my party-shirt which is one of those American style-beach-shirts all bobby dazzly colours (Though mine was a little on the dull side!!).
HARRIS: Just before the bar closed in the evening Arthur joined the ranks of the Vile Pros by selling some artwork to Peter Hamilton for NEBULA. We all gave him our congratulations and our empty glasses. I don't know how much change he'll have left from his first cheque, but I doubt if it will be enough to pay for a pair of corduroy trousers to go with his new status. The parties began just as soon as the bar was shut. It was a very fine night indeed with the emphasis more on fun than on drink. I can't think of anybody who was really high at all. I remember stepping over Paul Hammett early in the evening, but whilst prostrate he was by no means paralytic - he was still able to clutch a glass. I think that the con-atmosphere is far more intoxicating than any booze and is responsible for the largest part of the high spirits. WILLIS: After a while the word began to go around that we should mingle. For some reason everyone went to Bert Campbell's room, which was already crowded. It was about the size of two telephone kiosks and at one time contained 35 people, not counting the ones under the carpet. When there was a knock at the door I reflected that if it was the house detective asking if Bert had a woman in there he could have called out "Only about 17." I asked myself what sort of creature would go to this place when there was a perfectly good lounge. The answer was a lemming.
The Liverpool group had decided to make theirs a fancy dress party and had come in costume. This was where costuming first truly started at British cons and some of those costumes were of a quality that wouldn't be matched again - other than by the Liverpool group - for many years. HARRIS: Our first stop was in Room 101 - a single bedroom with more than thirty people packed into it.... fifteen of them sitting on the tiny bed and the rest squeezed in around the walls. Bert Campbell, crammed alongside the washbasin at the far end, was pouring out drinks for anyone who came within range, and everybody was doing their best to keep him fully occupied. Even now, it's still mercifully hazy, but I can remember finding Eric Jones with a tumbler full of hock in one hand and an "Introduction to Elementary Psychology" in the other, and then squeezing past him to find Ina Shorrock sitting on the bed. Last year, dressing sensibly for the Mancunian weather, Ina wore a bathing suit to the Liverpool party, but this year she was much more cautious, and was dressed as a Viking in a winged helmet and a shiny metal corselet. I found a tin opener attachment on the corkscrew and moved in. It was blunt though.... and anyway, Bert wanted it back to open another
ALLEN: Downstairs fen were gathering in various places waiting for one of the big rooms, which the manager said we could have until seven the next morning, to be opened. The manager was also going around telling folk that if they were not a resident of the hotel then they could not stay, but of course nobody present was a non-resident so everything was alright.....but I still wonder why it was that he picked on me to ask what room I was staying in out of the couple of dozen fen that were present when he made this announcement. The party-room was opened up at ten and it was not long before it was full, so full that I couldn't find a place to sit except for the floor which was undoubtedly the best place to be - I wouldn't have far to fall! A bar had been erected at one end of the room and they were doing-a roaring trade. Shirley (Shamey) Marriott said she was going to get me drunk if it was the last thing she did and went off to the bar to get some booze. When she returned we sat at a table along with Paul Hammett, Meredith Chatterton, Ethel Lindsay, Ron Buckmaster and Pete Taylor.
WILLIS: Eventually everyone else had the same idea and we went down to the 'Basket Lounge' where the Liverpool Group, those masters of conventioneering, were throwing another classic party. It had quietened down by now, and you could almost see the other end of the room. This was more than could be said for the floor, where a well known femfan was holding court. Under the impression that one of her satellites was a certain Northern faned Chuck said "I'll bet Ted Mason doesn't report this" but when the police arrived at 4.20am it fortunately turned out to be someone else who *was* registered at the hotel. Chuck said "I'd rather go to jail myself than be Ron Bennett." HARRIS: Ghod only knows what happened after that, - and His notebook isn't available. I can remember kissing somebody in the corridor, but I'm not really certain if it was Ina Shorrock or Brian Burgess. (Although it was probably Ina - my critical judgement is the last thing to go.) I know that we stooped to decorate Varley's door with a "JUST MARRIED" sign, and then gilded the lily with two more notices that we found in the Conference Room---"QUIET PLEASE" and "PRIVATE MEETING" - but although I'd only had three or four drinks it's all very kaleidoscopic, ... something like living in a 3D world without the red and green spectacles. Next stop was the saturnalia in the Basket Lounge where the Kettering Anatomical Society was convened upon the floor and everybody was clutching a glass or a girl or both. Me, I had both. Pamela Bulmer was on my lap and I was trying earnestly to convince her that the reputation I have collected through HYPHEN is strictly fictitious and that actually I am just a shy, clean-living, decent, unassuming, honourable, chaste and modest boy. Ken Bulmer was sitting right next to us, gazing thoughtfully into the brown depths of his Guinness bottle and nodding emphatically at every adjective. The others were either busy on their own account or, like Madeleine and Joy Goodwin, doing their best not to look sceptical. Unfortunately, I had to drop everything, including Pamela, when Pete Taylor came up to warn us that we had to be back in The Royal by 4am if we intended to go back at all. It was ten minutes to the hour and most of the other Royalists had already left. I grabbed hold of Arthur and we ran off down the road like a couple of Cinderellas - and found that The Royal was already locked and barred. We couldn't possibly get back into The George, and, believe me, there's nothing funny about being out on the streets of a strange town at 4 o'clock in the morning. We saw a light burning way up on the third floor and guessed it was Pete Taylor's. We tried a couple of muted shouts (one of us shouting and the other making shushing noises alternately), but he never heard us. We walked around to try to find a tradesmen's entrance or something, but we couldn't even find an open window to crawl through. Eventually we found a bell-pull and hung onto that until somebody came down to open the door - it was probably the Ostler. I burbled something about a party and slipped him half a crown. For another sixpence he would have carried us upstairs. We didn't need his help though - we were able to manage on our own hands and knees.
ALLEN: Everything that happened after 10.30 is just a vague haze, I remember necking under a table with Shamey, punning with Archie Mercer and Eric Bentcliffe, receiving quote cards from Chuck Harris which read - "I bet Ted Mason doesn't report this"- talking into the tape-recorder, my bheer after somebody had doctored it which nearly killed me and a million other things. There were fen in fancy dress, Ina Shorrock was wearing a Space Maidens rig-out and looking very, very attractive indeed! My senses were brought back to normal when the law entered the room. The room was pretty near empty at this time, 4am, and I was lying on the floor behind Walt's chair. When I saw those familiar uniforms through the haze I shot bolt upright, a deathly hush fell over the room, then one of the policemen explained he was just checking up to see if everybody present was a resident. Quick glances and knowing winks passed from fan to femme as the ball started to roll and those present gave their names and room numbers, came my turn - "Ron Bennett," I said, "Room 101." The cop checked the register, said everything was in order and then left without even bothering to wake Harry Clements who was sprawled across a table sound asleep, he told me later that he slept there all night. After the cops had gone silence reigned for a while and this was not broken until a snore echoed from the sleeping beauty, every one laughed and started to talk at once, I flopped back to the floor with a sigh of relief. Shortly after this the party bust up and everyone drifted off to their rooms. Being nicely canned at this time I had a devil of a job finding Ron's room, I passed one room and heard much noise inside, it was the Liverpool boys holding a private party. Eventually I found room 101 and hammered on the door. A pyjama-clad figure opened, the door and peered out. "Good lor!" yawned Ron, "thought you'd got fixed up for the night with Marriott..." "No," I said as I entered, "noooo - bin lizznin' to Willis, 'n' Vinz 'n' ivrybudy - lovly puns 'n' all that..." Then the floor came looming up towards me. Even though I was on my knees it was still a long drop!
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