Saturday 20th AprilAfter a hearty four hours sleep we had breakfast and Rusty and I spent some time touring the local antique shops. After exposing one of those dealers as a fraud (who does he think we are, stupid Americans?) we returned to the hotel and found a party of fen - Wild Bill Harry, Bennett and Mercer - preparing to go out and have some lunch at a cheaper price than the hotel. The Redhead had had enough walking so she decided to eat in the hotel with Ina.
This was just as well, because it requires a brave heart, dauntless stamina and a strong stomach to eat at the cheapest places in England. Here begins a digression. All fen who approach the shores of England: BEWARE! The food is terrible, awful, miserable, nauseating and generally lousy. And there are few Englishmen who will disagree with this. Restaurant owners operate on the idea that they are doing you a favour by waiting on you. While eating at a restaurant in Southampton (the most exclusive one and supposedly the best) I decided that I would like tea with my lunch. Now, this is not a terrible or unjust request; nor does it involve much effort on the part of the restaurant. It consists merely of putting a couple of tablespoons of tea in a pot, adding hot water and presto: tea, and a satisfied customer. The waitress informed me that tea was never served with lunch. I pleaded and begged, but to no avail. Finally, I was told "It's something you'll just have to get used to." I was beginning to froth at the mouth and Rusty barely refrained from committing murder. Imagine! England and no tea! Later I found out that, a few years back, tea had been rationed and it had become the custom not to serve tea for lunch. I got my revenge by not leaving any tip. That's something the waitress will just have to get used to!
So it was rather fearfully that I accompanied these stalwart adventurers, knowing full well that my stomach could not endure what theirs could. The first place we looked into was a fish and chip house. I choked back my revulsion at the sickening odour exuding from the place and gritted my teeth. If they could take it, by Ghod, so could I. Luckily, they couldn't take it and we moved on. We finally settled on a place to eat and went upstairs to the first floor and took a table next to the window, looking down on the street. We were handed a menu that was barely decipherable, scrawled as it was in pencil on a sheet of grimy paper well stained by mustard, ketchup, and several less recognizable liquids. After much deliberation, I picked cold ham and chips (french fries) and tea (because less damage can be done to tea). We settled down to wait and more fans came in, including Dave Newman, carrying several bottles of beer. After a while, the meal arrived and was not too appetizing. The chips were inedible; this restaurant had discovered a way of making tea undrinkable; and the sugar had a fuzzy, hairy thing in it, roughly resembling a spider. To make matters worse there were two old women sitting across the street in another restaurant eyeing us in a peculiar manner. It is bad enough being a fan without people staring at you. In retaliation we stared back and later, all waved in unison. This had the desired effect. The ladies looked insulted and elsewhere. We finished the meal somehow and went downstairs to pay the bill. Ron Bennett mistook a little coin box with something on it about donating to crippled and blind children for a slot machine and dropped a penny in it. Discovering his mistake he endeavoured to get back his penny. We were there for fifteen minutes shaking the box and twisting it. A small crowd gathered in awe, several offering suggestions. At last Ron remembered his stamp tweezers and managed to extricate the money with no further trouble.
On the way back to the hotel, we visited a stamp and used magazine store called The Collectors' Shop, and began wildly sorting thru piles of magazines. After finding several things I wanted, I asked the proprietor if he had any Edgar Rice Burroughs books. From behind a cabinet he produced a small pile of them for my inspection. Among them I found in fairly good condition two copies of JUNGLE GIRL, a book that, in the U.S., I'd never managed to find and that I'd seen advertised at fabulous prices. Trembling a little I asked the proprietor what they were worth got them for l/9d (less than 25 cents) each. I have one of them for sale at the same price I paid for it - 25 cents - plus four dollars for handling and wrapping. Back at the George Hotel, Rusty told us about the wonderful meal she'd had, complete with three courses for the same amount we had paid. We looked at each other a little sheepishly.
Next time I checked I found myself listening to Sandy Sandfield rending - err - rendering 'Good Night, Irene', complete with guitar accompaniment. Plans were made that night to meet Eric Bentcliffe, of TRIODE fame, at the railway station with glasses of beer. I wasn't on hand to cover that event.
ERIC BENTCLIFFE: Kettering ... was very fine this year...more like a large house-party than a convention and all the more enjoyable because of this. The only newcomers to the Kettering scene were Dave and Rusty Jenrette, and Ted Tubb's wife (now we know why you've been hiding her, Ted), and they fitted in nicely. Dave and Rusty making a welcome addition to the small band of dusk till dawn Brag enthusists. A ploy was played on me at the George.... As I was the last arrival I was honoured with an Apple Pie Bed. [one which has been made with one of the sheets folded back on itself so that your legs can't be stretched out.] However, the conspirators gave themselves away by over-acting and I soon found out that something was amiss. I mean, if only one femme fan had prostrated herself on my bed to stop me sitting on it I should have suspected nothing ... but when three do it, well! One of the highspots of this session was the announcement of a new fannish Order, The Knights of Saint Fantony, by the Cheltenham Group. Who initiated the band of fen from Liverpool into the Order.
TERRY JEEVES: Kettering proved an unqualified success, and the thanks for this must go to Dave Newman. I don't remember much about the affair, other than the fact that Eric did not discover his apple-pie bed. On the other hand, he did discover several tons of winkles deposited in his room by Geoff Shadoock. Geoff incidentally, came down with me and posed as a press photographer. He even borrowed the equipment and took several photographs. Perhaps the best one being that taken in the bar. Geoff posed his group, fiddled around with flash and camera, called out, "Hold it !" and a blinding flash was followed by a dull thud as the plate fell out of the camera... Ah well, remember the old slogan... .. "Have a winkle" Incidentally, Dave found the hood of his duffle coat filled with the things. Naturally, he blamed Geoff, and proceeded to fill Geoff's glass (of beer) with winkles. This really amused me. I was the geezer who had filled the hood with winkles. The best sight of the weekend was undoubtedly Peter Reaney...I managed to coerce him into showing his co-ordination by stretching his arms wide and then bringing his finger tips together. He had to do this six times with eyes closed. The event took place in the crowded bar, and when Peter opened his eyes at the end, he found himself alone but for goggle-eyed residents. DAVE JENRETTE: Rusty and I decided to lie down for an hour or so before the evening's party started and, when we awoke, it was 4.45 am. I dressed frenziedly and rushed up and down corridors searching for the carefree sounds of fanactivity. All was serenely silent. What could I do? I went back to bed.
Sunday 21st AprilThat day, Sunday, included some Brag (Rusty joined me among the ranks of the losers) in which Eric Bentcliffe won an alarming amount of money. We heard the sterling production of LAST AND FIRST FEN on tape. It makes you proud deep down inside, to be a fan. Eric bought us all dinner out of his winnings.
There was a party later on in which Peter Reaney was tried for that most heinous of all crimes - failure to consume alcoholic beverages during a convention. Punishment was a tall glass of rum, to be consumed at one drink. Reaney accomplished this and then practically passed out, though Ted Tubb assured me that it was well watered. Eric and Margaret Jones busily managed to record The Trial of Reaney, with Dave Newman as judge, Ted Tubb as prosecutor, and various others as jurymen and executioners.
Ken Slater, only huckster present, managed to get Rusty and I off alone and sold us some smuggled U.S. magazines.
About this time a certain fan managed to earn the PLOY award for outstanding service to fandom by concealing Sandy Sandfield's guitar. Party-like madness prevailed until early a.m. Newman discovered the madness of opening warm canned beer that had been carefully shaken (by yours truly). There was assorted bopping going on to the tunes of Little Richard and Elvis Presley. Some people became interested in other people's wives; a few people tried to commit suicide; and others got drunk. Truly, a fan's convention. Next morning we left, taking Ron Bennett along with us. Total commentary on English fandom: it's practically impossible to tell it from the U.S. variety.
WALT WILLIS: Arthur Thomson ... comes over in June. Chuck will be here too then, all of which reconciles me to missing the Eastercon at Kettering. And, by the way, thanks to the fans who sent me from there an envelope-full of bus tickets, cafe bills, menus, pieces or cork, and other autographed souvenirs. I now have as many tangible effects from the Con as anyone. [2] JOY CLARKE:
Convention falls on Easter Day JOHN BRUNNER: I hear from Sandy Sandfield that you had a great time at Kettering over Easter. Me, I wasn't there. I couldn't afford to go *and* have a holiday as well. Maybe it's owing to the good company, but at any fan gathering my money leaves my pocket as fast as it possibly can. So while the attendees were debauching themselves, I was busy packing and making sure I hadn't forgotten my francs and things like that. I'd been working solidly except for a brief break at Christmas for nearly a year, and so Marjorie and I went off to Paris for five days. [4]
[1] MIMOSA #26 (December 2000, ed. Dick & Nicki Lynch)
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