Sunday 14 AprilJAMES WHITE:Next morning I could not find Bob's room to wake him for breakfast, so that when he surfaced around ten-thirty he was hungry. We met Bill Pettit who was also hungry. Over scrambled eggs and Coca Cola, he told us of his disturbed night when a girl fan had opened his room door with a pass-key, looked at him and yelled to someone out in the corridor, "He's not one of ours," and then left again, forgetting to switch off the lights. About an hour later, around five-thirty, a bunch of about twenty fans used another pass-key to come in to help him round off his party. Apparently pass-keys were like train timetables in that hotel, available on request.
ETHEL LINDSAY: We had breakfast on Sunday morning with Mary Reed and her friend whose name I forget. First chance I've ever had to talk to Mary although we have shared the same con for a few years now; but then it was a *friendly* con and the mixing around was very good. I then got routed out of the lounge by Don wanting to go for a walk; we were joined by John Roles. As it was a pleasant sunny morning we enjoyed our tour of this pretty town. I was entertained by Don and John exchanging reminiscences of Olaf Stapledon. At one time, apparently, John was in the same folk dance group as Stapledon. John hastened to say that he was very young at the time and suitably awed at the thought of mixing with such a personage.
JULIA STONE: After breakfast the Annual General Meeting of the BSFA Ltd. took place and lasted from 10.00 till noon. ARCHIE MERCER: Five members of the Management Council retired in rotation. Four of them - your Bulletin Editor fails to recall precisely who - were promptly re-elected by the meeting without opposition. The fifth, David S. Barber, wished to retire both as a member of the Management Council and as Treasurer. John. A.J. Hart, of Hadleigh, Essex, a bank official by profession, was unanimously elected to succeed him on the Management Council, and will shortly assume the office of Treasurer also. Cambridge having withdrawn its previously-accepted offer to stage the Association's 1969 Convention (lack of suitable accommodation being the main reason), a sub-committee was appointed to find a site for the event elsewhere. The sub-committee comprised, when last heard, of five people: Ted Tubb, Jean Muggooh, Daphne Sewell, and Gerry and Anne [Keylock]. Registration fee of 10/- ... full particulars as and when known. No arrangements have so far been made in respect of the 1970 Convention (which, being at Easter, does not clash with the International Convention with hoped-for World Convention status that is being organised in Heidelberg later that year). Thus the idea of having two years in which to prepare for a BSFA Convention seems to have gone at present by the board. STEVE STILES: I don't know what happened to those damned good guys, but Ella had the hotel ring me up at 11 that Sunday morning. As usual, the room was frigid. I dressed hurriedly in the chill air, went down to eat lunch in time to catch the pro panel with Ken Bulmer, Tom Disch, and John Brunner. I didn't take notes and have forgotten what was said, but most likely it was about science fiction's New Wave and its flag ship, New Worlds.
Actually, I was a bit too tense to take notes: I was to speak next, and I was really nervous. Fortunately, I had had a bit of inspiration the evening before, and had written sections of my speech down on Idiot Cards for someone to hold up in the wild hope of getting some laughs. I had also met Alex and Phyllis Eisenstein the night before and had asked them to heckle me to liven things up. And lastly, I had talked Ella Parker into heckling me off the stage at a prearranged signal. At last the time for me to stumble up onto the stage arrived, and sweating profusely, I did lurch up on the stage to look at all those bright, shining expectant faces all peering up at me in hushed expectancy. Yow! Chuck Partington held up the cards, and I squinted at them and, as haltingly as I could, read off what were intended to be casual off- hand remarks, explaining that this was the way Asimov and Ellison had broken into public speaking. I didn't save the cards, but I remember that the punch line had something to do with Social Diseases, and that the cards drew laughs. That relaxed me. Suddenly, all nervousness left me; like, these people were with me! I thanked the fifteen people in the UK who had voted in the TAFF election, damned the rest, and noted that it was good to be in the land of New Worlds and Norman G. Wansborough.
"RUBBISH!" shouted Phyllis Eisenstein. Heads swivelled around to give Phyllis looks of strong disapproval. I hadn't anticipated that.... It was funny: I had been hoping to get the speech over as soon as possible, and now I was greedily sorry I only had fifteen or twenty minutes left to go. I talked about TAFF, about how I had been investigated by Military Intelligence officers for my connections with fandom (Dick Ellington, actually), and parodied William S. Burroughs. Alex Eisenstein shouted out a "RUBBISH!" and visibly wilted at the hostile reaction from the audience. Ulp.... I finally wound up my speech with the story of how Ella Parker, during her trip to the US, had bullied me out of my shy neofan condition, prying me out of my wallflower cocoon with the crowbar of her Don Rickles-like wit. As Ted White once observed, I haven't shut up since then.... That was Ella's signal. "Take off, Yank!" she yelled. "You've said quite enough, thank you!" Regretfully, I returned to my seat, while people dumped on poor Ella for having scared me off. The speech went better than I had expected, but in the process I had created three targets of hostility from the audience. Alex, Phyllis, Ella - mea culpa!! The next item on the program was an auction. John Ramsey Campbell was the auctioneer and had the usual Campbell elan to coax the bread out of the unwary. I stayed long enough to notice that Eric Bentcliffe's fanzines - the ones he had spent an afternoon sorting out - weren't selling.
ETHEL LINDSAY: I was asked to help with the collection of money for the auction and did so for Eric Bentcliffe feeling as if it were old times. This was something else that reminded me of the Supermancon. But oh..the difference in the bidding and the prices! Artwork went like a bomb thanks to the Americans in the audience, a Kelly Freas going for £11. When it came to the sf books and mags it was a different story. Eric had brought along a lot of early sf and took it all home again in disgust at the prices offered. The young fans just don't seem to want to collect anymore, and they will not bid above a few shillings. It seems to me that British cons ought to give up on this; it's not as if they need the auction money anymore. Time was when it played a vital part in the con finances but the increased numbers of attendees now attend to that. STEVE STILES: I thought about all those old CRYs and Don Wollheim's essay on Michelism. And then I thought some more about my own sprawling collection of fanzines and turned to go up to my room for a snooze. I was intercepted by Charles Platt, who was hawking New Worlds. It might have been a guilty conscience that made me buy six copies, but more likely it was curiosity over the magazine's offbeat layouts and its promotion of experimental literary techniques. This was the last I saw of Platt - a crisis back home forced him to leave the convention later that day, I was told. PETER WESTON: My old nemesis and sparring-partner Charles Platt, made a fleeting visit to the con, along with Michael Moorcock and Tom Disch. I had first noticed him in the book-room, peddling back issues of New Worlds in a shaggy overcoat too big for him, with a great growth of gingery whiskers and bare feet. Curious, I asked why he wasn't wearing shoes, on what was after all a pretty cold Easter weekend, but he just looked at me blankly. I think he was making some sort of Statement.
JAMES WHITE: The Quizmaster Final which followed, with Phil Rogers asking difficult questions about early s-f stories, was won tentacles down by Ken Bulmer because, he said later, "of knowledge gained during a misspent youth." Dave Kyle spoke enthusiastically on the subject of the film, "2001, A Space Odyssey," to which someone must have given him a free pass. I remarked to Bob that he was making me feel all twisted up inside with envy because we in Belfast would not get a chance to see it for years. Bob said yes, the year 2001. The next item, the second pro-authors' panel was cancelled. It was to have been a discussion on "The Relation Between Real Life and Fictional Speculation", and I was glad, glad. STEVE STILES: "THIS IS YOUR FAN LIFE" went on at eight. It was quite a production as it developed. Eric Bentcliffe was the MC, obviously enjoying the festivities and in a fine fettle despite the failure of the fickle fans to buy many of those fanzines at the auction. I don't have to tell you what famed old TV program this bit was modelled on, but it ran true to the format in a good natured and studiously corny way. Harry asked Ella Parker to come up on the stage, and just after that happened, there was a blast of stirring music, and a startled Harry Nadler, the real subject of the "program" was hustled to the front.
ETHEL LINDSAY: The subject turned out to be Harry Nadler. So they were able to utilise some of his monster filming. It wasn't as funny as some I recall - I think the funniest one ever was the one done for Eric Jones. A highlight of that was a small acting cameo by Alan Rispin dressed as an Indian. Still, this fan life of Harry did have a grand climax - all the Liverpool Group doing a big kick dance; Norman Weedall, Eddie Jones, Dave Kyle, Norman Shorrock etc all cavorting around was amusing to watch. You'll not be surprised to learn that the best legs on display in the line-up were Ina's. STEVE STILES: The next item on Sunday evening's program was the presentation of the Doc Weir Award, handled by Archie and Beryl Mercer, for fannish services rendered. This year's winner was attractive Mary Reed, publisher of the popular Crab Apple. Mary was pretty surprised, and promptly burst into tears.
JAMES WHITE: The Doc Weir Award presentation followed, which this year went to Mary Reed, and then came the Trieste S-F Film Festival Award Winner, "Voyage to the End of the Universe." The photography was very good but every corny situation that had ever appeared in an s-f film turned up in this one: everything from spaceships which made loud, zipping noises to dread diseases and a baby born while a brooding menace of some description (it was never fully explained) tried to put everyone on the ship to sleep. It was much more successful with the audience! Then there was the stupid old robot who sacrificed itself, and the way words like Universe, Galaxy and Solar System were used interchangeably - a piece of careless translation which was particularly annoying to lapsed members of the British Interplanetary Society like myself. In fairness I should say that there wore no Indian attacks or charges by the United States Cavalry, but I may have dozed during those bits. As several people around us said when it finished, "If *that* won first place I'd hate to see the film that came last...."
ETHEL LINDSAY: For the St Fanthony ceremony I had asked the favour of being allowed to 'grab' somebody for the ceremony I had always longed to do this ever since Ina had crept up behind and grabbed me when it was my turn. So I was kindly given the job to grab Ken McIntyre. I went through the routine of walking up and down for a bit as if I were not sure where the guy I wanted was seated. Actually he had been guarded for us for over an hour by Irene Boothroyd. When I pounced on Ken - I've never seen anyone who looked so astonished - Ken is modest as well as nice.
STEVE STILES: A line of fans stood at the front of the hall dressed in medieval jousting costumes. I recognized Norman Weedall under a black headsman's hood. Several Knights circulated through the crowd, eyeing various fen eyeing the Knights. Knighthood into the order was a fannish honour in great demand. People held their breaths - suddenly there was a flurry of motion - startled little cries - and three people were bum-rushed up to the stage: Ken McIntyre, Beryl Mercer and Doreen Parker. After the first moment's surprise, they began to look pleased. Then Eric Bentcliffe explained that, as part of the ceremony, they would be required to drink the Waters of the Shrine of St. Fantony; all 102% proof of it. 102% proof was perhaps a conservative estimate - at any rate, it seemed that the smiles began to waver and take on the aspects of hollow bravado. Several fen stood behind Ken McIntyre, as if to catch a falling body.
JAMES WHITE: Officially the programme ended with the St Fantony Ceremony so that Harried Nadler and the rest of the hard-working con committee could relax and begin enjoying the convention with everyone else. Everyone was invited to the St Fantony party, but we divided the con attendance (close on two hundred) into the volume of the Shorrocks' room and decided to call in on 201 a little later. We started instead with Bill Pettit's room, but this began to break up around one o'clock when Ella started eating aspirin instead of potato crisps for her head and decided to go to bed. Don Wollheim wanted to go to bed, too, but was delayed by wall-to-wall fans apparently practicing group marriage outside his door. Bill Pettit was growing worried by the possibility of being invaded again by fans with pass-keys looking for his party and had the brilliant idea of putting his party on the road. This involved distributing his two remaining cases of beer between Bob, himself, and me and moving from room to room to confuse people (mostly, as it turned out, us). My sports coat has a special inside pocket designed to carry fanzines, rabbits and things, and I am able to store quite a lot of beer in it, especially when it is in bottles. Very soon it became impossible to read door numbers and we wore forced to use our acoustic sensors, or even our ears, to find the various parties. The German fans' party in particular was a roaring success.
STEVE STILES: Somebody passed me a note: "Mr. Steve Stiles - if you would try VURGUZZ, come to room 118 at ten." That was the party in the German Suite. When I got there, the place was packed with fans in every square inch of corridor and room. I had gotten past three bodies when somebody handed me a drink with the words, "Greetings mate - Ramblin' Jake is me name, and drinking is me Fame; here, you look dry." Ramblin' Jake was actually, I think, Jake Grigg, and was somewhat like a tall Mike McInerney in the vibes department. I never did get to meet his sister, Mumblin' Mary.... I found myself talking to Ken Bulmer and Ted Tubb, both of whom had just seen the film 2001 and were raving about it. I was a bit sceptical; up until then, the most "mature" and "adult" SF films had been on the level of, say, Destination Moon or Forbidden Planet. Bulmer and Tubb sounded too enthusiastic. Little did I know.... We were talking about 2001 and the New Wave when Hans Werner-Heinrichs handed me a tumbler with a bit of green liquid at the bottom. My interest was up. "What is it?" I asked, and was given to understand that this green stuff was "VURGUZZ" and was, in fact, alcoholic in content as well as being the continental version of blog. I felt flattered by Hans' bestowing the stuff on me, and casually drained the glass in one swallow. Bulmer, Tubb, and Heinrichs were aghast and as for me, as soon as the burning sensation in my throat and stomach wore off, as soon as my eyes stopped watering, I strangely lost interest in writing down TAFF report notes in my little brown pad. Soon things went round and round and round. Perhaps it was a Psychedelic Experience.... JAMES WHITE: Bob had just finished his first glass of Verguuz and his nostrils were making whistling sounds as he breathed through them. His eyes had retracted about two inches inside his head and his tear ducts were leaking. I tried to explain about the tortures of the damned to the German fan who was refilling Bob's glass, but without much success. Some time later John Brunner came past and yelled, "It doesn't translate, James, it doesn't translate." Somebody else was saying, "This is the sensitive fannish face which was stood on by James White," and Brian Burgess arrived in full armour. The place was so crowded he had more room inside it than we had outside, and I began to edge towards the corridor. As I left Bob was sipping from another glass of Verguuz, engaging in desultory conversation with a fan sleeping under the bed on one side and the couple occupying the wardrobe on the other. The other parties in the con hall, bar, corridors and other rooms were much the same. Most of even had Bill Pettit and Bob in them. Somebody started a humming and swaying party, and somebody else, mostly Ted Tubb and Bob Shaw, were struck with a fiendish new idea for wakening fans who had chickened out and gone to bed. At previous conventions Ted had led processions around the corridors clinking beer bottles and chanting, "Go back to your wives", but this was much less subtle. The idea was that they would launch themselves at the sleeping fan's door, singly and in small groups, and scream and claw at it. Bob gave it up after a short time because of wear and tear on his typing fingers and spent the rest of the night playing cards with Norman Shorrock.
The last thing I remember clearly about Sunday night as I returned to my hotel was the dawn breaking over Buxton and a high-pitched roaring - like the sound of an aeroplane engine under test - coming from the open window of the German fans' room.
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