Diamond Dai's Diary

2011-10-04T01:18:00.000-07:00

BRIGHTON BEACH MEMOIRS

The 2011 FantasyCon was held in Brighton during the middle of a heatwave, so it really felt like a holiday. This year, it was a time of strange experiences.

Strange experience 1; finding out that my room was a very odd shape, like a square turning into a triangle. The TV in the corner almost touched both walls, and I half suspect that someone built it as a rather spectacular jest and no one noticed! Still, it made for an amusing picture on the facebook page.

The Royal Albion Hotel is just across the road from The Palace Pier; which has some great places to get a meal, and so that was my first port of call (and by that time, I was starving, as I arrived at the same time as a coach party and was forced to queue up for 45 minutes to book in at reception ... with a great sense of irony, there was a notice on the door saying 'Staff Required'; with two young girls trying to book in more than a hundred people at the same time, I couldn't help thinking 'Yes, they're required right now!). Still, I can tell you that a meal of freshly cooked fish and chips, eaten on a pier whilst surrounded by a bracing sea air, tastes exquisite.
Strange experience 2 was a burlesque night on Saturday, with a chap called John Probert sending up a couple of old horror films (with his partner Kate) and introducing a number of dancers who stripped off to a blaring soundtrack (not The Full Monty, you understand, this was a family show - however, Led Zeppelin's 'Immigration Song' will never sound quite the same again!) They were lovely ladies, and the chaps in the front row (who I shall not name, lest I drop them in the proverbial with their absent spouses) were duly appreciative ... until, that is, a male stripper walked on and they proceeded to do a rather good impression of a row of goldfish! A memorable night in more ways than one. (Strange experience 3, of course, was the baking hot weather in October).
However, there was a snag; the hotel's air conditioning was practically non-existent, so we were less inclined to go around attending panels and events; and I was frequently drawn back to the pier, which had so many temptations (I really should have resisted the Belgian waffle covered in caramel, but the smell drew me to that booth like a magnet); and, unusually, I didn't go out for a curry. However, I did go out with Mark West, Stuart Hughes, Paul Edwards and his wife Mandy, and a chap called Richard on a search for food; on the pier, of course and we passed several good food outlets only to be tempted by a sign saying 'Pizza and a pint' outside Horatio's Bar... I think it's a given that we won't be partaking of the food in 'that' particular establishment again. Still, it filled a gap.
Sunday, and it was all coming to an end, so all that was left to do was enjoy a quiet get-together in the hotel bar before saying goodbye to the likes of Mark, Chris Teague, Steve Upham, John Travis (with that beard) Stuart Young (also with a beard), Terry Grimwood, Gary and Soozy, Simon and his other half Liz, and Alison Littlewood, who is now enjoying much-deserved success with her new novel (A Cold Season) due out in February (plus many more, who I'm sure will berate me for forgetting to give them a mention!) Next year, the convention is to be held in Corby, which sounds about as alluring as a soggy kipper - still, I'm sure that normal service will be resumed ... whatever that is!

2011-05-04T06:40:00.000-07:00

A NEW PASSPORT

I am now in possession of a brand new passport. Ironically, it arrived a day after the announcement of the death of Osama Bin Laden. Why ironically? Because it reminds me why I got the old passport in the first place. It was the summer of 2001, my 40th birthday was coming up, and I had never been to America, something I had always wanted to do. So I decided to spend that particular birthday in New York. I sorted out the paperwork, and then booked up a short stay in The Big Apple (from the 17th of September). Of course, I never got there. On the 11th of September I drove out to Porthcawl for a bit of a day trip. When I got back, I had a phone call telling me to switch on the television. I hardly need to tell you what I spent the next few hours watching.

So the next day was spent cancelling the whole thing. The chances of getting to America any time soon seemed a little remote, but I was there just six months later for the 2002 World Horror Convention (in Chicago). Three years later, I finally made it to New York, and had a great time in a city that had really picked itself up after that terrible day. Now I have renewed my passport, and I'm wondering where the last ten years have gone; and, for that matter, why I didn't make more use of that old passport, which was only stamped three times in ten years; Chicago, 2002 - New York, 2005 - and Toronto, Canada, 2007. Well, I suppose we can't all be globe trotters, but given the cost of a new passport these days, I am planning to get plenty of use out of it during the next ten years.
Mind you, it has been pointed out that the weather, just recently, was a lot better here that in most other countries; which is true, but I am a sight-seer. Seeing the Statue of Liberty was wonderful, as was the view of New York from the top of The Empire State Building. In Canada, a visit to the Niagara Falls really made the trip; and although it was many years ago, I still remember sitting on a bench and drinking a bottle of Coke in the shadow of The Eiffel Tower in Paris. What else do I want to see? The Taj Mahal, The Great Wall of China, The Sphynx and The Pyramids perhaps? Well, I'm not getting any younger, so the next ten years will be as good a time as any to sort all this out; and after suffering a few health problems last year, this is my little bucket list in the making. Hopefully, I'll have quite a few adventures to look back on in ten years time.

2011-04-28T03:54:00.000-07:00

RUDDY BANKS!

Banks can be a pain in the arse! So I've got most of my bills sorted out by direct debit, one or two others I pay off with my debit card. Naturally, I leave a healthy amount in my current account, which the staff were never happy about. "Rather a lot in your account, sir." ... "Yes, pays the bills." ... So, after brushing them off for years, they finally made it a policy that no-one could have more than two grand in their current account, and without so much as a by-your-leave the excess was hived off into a First Reserve account. Fine; they sent me another card, which I made a payment on. However, the next time I tried to make a payment on it, the bank wouldn 't cough up (as the bill was for my car insurance, they nearly dropped me right in it - luckily, I sorted out that payment with a couple of days to spare).

Of course, I went around to find out what was going on. Helpfully, they opened up a third account ... a Special Reserve. "When do I get a card?" ... "You don't?" ... "Huh? What if I have a big bill to pay? Do I write a cheque?" ... "Not for the Special Reserve." ... "Then how do I get to it?" ... "If you need to do that, see us and we'll transfer whatever amount you need into your current account." ... "Why not just leave it in there?" ... "We can't do that, sir; policy.
You see, The First Reserve holds the money and earns a few pence in interest, but you can get into it. A special Reserve account earns no interest, and is - in effect - an invisible current account; except, of course, you have to see a member of staff and ask them to transfer it into your real current account if you want to access it (Policy, you see!).

Jesus! Nat West. The bank that really likes to mess you around! There's a lot to be said for keeping your money in a mattress under the bed.

2011-01-12T08:53:00.000-08:00

An Invitation To Get A Life!

I am not on Twitter; I never have been on Twitter, and I never will be on Twitter. There, I've said it. How long that statement will remain true is anybodies guess, for I am now in possession of quite a number of things I never wanted in the first place. Five years ago, I was quite happy with five television channels; now I have around 35, but no greater choice of programmes. I resisted the Internet up until the year 2000, when the Millennium Bug never happened and I ran out of excuses not to go on-line. Now we have a world of Facebook-addicted computer geeks who can't drag themselves away from their laptops long enough to get out and enjoy the real world. I practically had to be dragged into the Carphone Warehouse when I first got a mobile 'phone back in 2002. It may be a good thing to have, but you can hardly have a decent conversation down the pub for people twittering, texting, or checking out their bloody facebook pages. Of course, I have to have the Internet, as that is where I am kept up to speed on conventions and such; but there are limits. I don't carry my mobile 'phone around unless I absolutely have to. I'm told that's what it's for, but I argue that I don't want to be on call 24/7.

Alright, I have a website and it's a good place to link up my on-line fiction and collect favoured sites and blogs together in a 'Links' section (as a short story writer, I obviously don't object to Internet magazines giving an extra outlet for my tales). But it's getting a bit much when people can't get through a day without their Blackberry's!

Still, the days when I would fight against technology are long gone, and a Twitter page is probably another of those things I'll end up with whether I want it or not (like my digital TV, which uploads new channels automatically - something I rarely bothered with when I had a now-obsolete digi-box, and had to completely reset it when a new channel came up!). It is said that newspapers will be obsolete by 2019 (in paper form - those editors and gossip columnists will still be able to spout their bilge on-line!), but let's face it, with 24 hour news channels, who needs them?

Alright, I'm making this rant on a blog page I've been maintaining for the last 6 years; and if you're reading it, you probably clicked the link on my facebook page; that irony is not entirely lost on me. And I will admit that my digital camera is a little miracle, enabling me to upload stuff on Youtube; so, not a complete luddite then. But when you're down the pub, would it kill you to switch off that mobile 'phone for a couple of hours? In my local, there's a sign inviting people to bring down their laptops and treat the place like an office. Frankly, I get pissed off with loud-voiced idiots treating it like a telephone box! Soon, it will be getting so you can't put your pint on the table for laptop computers. Still, the world and technology marches on. I can keep telling people to get a life, but with cellphones plastered to their ears and their noses glued to a computer screen, who is going to listen? It's 2011, and things can only get worse!

On the writing front, the year started with a publication of one of my stories on a website called 'Bewildering Stories'. Inspired by an old abandoned railway bridge in my village (and a few recent events) The Hidey-Hole (http://www.bewilderingstories.com/issue413/hidey_hole1.html ) neatly takes me into my 15th year as a published writer. I knew I'd find something positive to say about technology. Have a great new year.

2010-11-14T05:10:00.000-08:00

A SECOND CHANCE

This was the year my life changed. One day I was a typical beer-swilling bloke, the next I was in hospital undergoing tests. Still, that chapter has been fully covered in an earlier blog, and hopefully this is the last word of that particular saga. A few weeks ago I went back for another consultation with the heart-failure Nurse. She increased my medication and arranged for another scan. To say I didn't like the sound of this would be an understatement. However, on the 12th of November I duly presented myself at the hospital, took the scan and returned to the waiting room. The Doctor, I was told, would see me when they got the results. It was a very long twenty minutes, but I was walking on air when I left the surgery; my heart, although still enlarged, was almost back to normal; blood pressure healthy, no sign of clotting; I could stop taking a drug called Warfarin (wonderful! I no longer need to report to my local clinic every Monday to give a blood sample).

This is known as an INR (International Normalised Ratio) test , the purpose being to check the level of my blood and set the amount of Warfarin I would have to take over the course of a week; as this was a drug that thinned my blood, activities like visiting the Dentist became a minefield. I'm still taking a lot of medication, which may also be reduced in time, but coming off Warfarin is a huge step forward. I can now enjoy the odd drink (as a treat on 'special occasions'; so on that night I enjoyed a smashing pint of lager before returning to my usual soda water and lime) and I can make plans for the furure. I will not, however, be going back to my bad old ways. Those weeks in hospital (the tests, treatment and uncertainty) have all left their mark, and it is not a part of my life that I want to go through again. This is a second chance and I'm not going to blow it.

Alright, I can't get too carried away; no one is using the word 'cured', and I know what to expect if I stop leading this healthier lifestyle; so if my heart gets back to normal, it will be up to me to keep it that way. I certainly have plenty of incentive. (Pessimistically, I still have the Warfarin tablets and all the booklets - you know, in case someone suddenly says 'oh dear, I think we were a little premature taking you off that medication!'. It would be just my luck, but think positive.)

Right, I might as well have a little rant while I'm here; which will make this entry a little more entertaining if nothing else. So I get home from hospital, and a few weeks later I get a letter from SWALEC (South Wales Electricity, who supply my gas and electric) saying they are sorry I decided to leave them. Which was news to me, so I got straight on the phone and asked them what they were talking about. It seemed that I had changed my account over to British Gas on the 20th of June. No I bloody hadn't, I was still in hospital and I certainly didn't get a bedside visit from a representitive of B.G. So I gave the lady on the other end of the line the authority to change my account back to theirs, and agreed to pay British Gas for one month's supply when the time came.

Fine, but when that bill arrived it had an entirely ficticious name on it (Mr Popop Popopp, would you believe!) Now, far be it from me to suggest that some vile little ratbag had taken advantage of my absense to indulge in a little skullduggery and poach a SWALEC customer, but 'something' underhand had taken place! I rang British Gas and told them, in no uncertain terms, that I would pay their bill, and then I never wanted to hear from them again. So I went to the bank and paid up. End of story? Not a chance. For some reason the payment never went through, and I got a letter saying that my debt would be sold on if I didn't cough up. Rang BG helpline and demanded to know what the Hell was going on. No record of payment, could I check with the bank? Did so, no record of payment there , so I made the transaction again and kept the receipt safe. Thankfully, when I rang the helpline again, the payment had gone through; so I told the nice lady on the other end of the line to terminate my account, and repeated the fact that 'I - NEVER - WANT - TO - HEAR - FROM - BRITISH - GAS - EVER - AGAIN!!!'

In the meantime, I enjoyed a Fantasy Convention in Nottingham, where I finally planted my second foot into the modern age by taking along a newly-purchased digital camera. It took a week or two to get used to it, but I'm even putting stuff on YouTube now (got my own channel, how cool is that?) Not such a luddite after all:-) So the year 2010 is drawing to a close, and its not one I shall look back on too fondly. It will be 2011 when I write my next blog. Who knows what I will have written about at this time next year?

2010-09-23T10:45:00.000-07:00

Carry On Nurse.

A visit to The University Hospital in Cardiff, and a quick once over from a nurse. Medication just right, she said, but may have to increase the dose of a beta blocker drug I'm using. Not good, but I have been told that it will be alright to have a couple of beers on a couple of nights out (and no, that doesn't mean I can have four pints if I just go out on the one night; it doesn't work that way). More appointments booked for October and November, but no sign of having my medication reduced. Looks like I'll have to live with it.

In the meantime, I have a new website called 'The David Price Cyberspace Experience' (http://daiprice.weebly.com/ ) . A good replacement for the old one, and I can upload a lot more pages. A bit of vanity on my part, but why not?

2010-08-07T11:40:00.000-07:00

TREATMENT

On April the 23rd, I went to the Doctor with breathing difficulties. An hour later I was in the back of an ambulance, an oxygen mask over my face. That was the start of it. I was kept in overnight, my blood pressure was checked every couple of hours. In the morning they let me go. More tests followed, I was given medication that didn't do the slightest bit of good. In the meantime, I went downhill fast.

Unable to sleep lying down, I had taken to sleeping in an armchair. Trips to the shop became an ordeal; in the end, I could hardly take a shower. Finally, I had to ring the surgery and tell them that I couldn't make it to a blood test. The Doctor came to see me later that evening. I don't know how bad I looked, but he wrote a letter and sent me straight to Llandough Hospital. By then he was using the term heart-failure, which didn't sound good. Four days later I had a scan, and the full problem was revealed. My heart was beating at less that 35% than normal; worse, a blood-clot had developed over my heart and they had to reduce it before I could have a full heart scan (one that would involve dropping a probe right inside my heart!).

I was put on a drip-feed for the first five days, which practically chained me to the bed for 22 hours a day. During this time I was given pills, injections and blood tests. My one bit of pleasure came when they finally took me off that drip. However, they had attached a heart moniter to me and I wasn't allowed to take it off for a minute (not even to wash, which turned that activity into an obstacle course!)

After 11 days, I was finally transferred to The University Hospital of Wales. The blood clot was still there, but they could work the scan around it. So they told me everything that could 'probably' go wrong, but 'almost certainly' wouldn't (the possibility of a heart-attack being mentioned) and then asked me to sign a consent form (presumably to abrogate responsibility should I be unfortunate enough to kick the bucket!)

An hour later (wearing a hospital gown) my bed was wheeled into the theatre where they finally deigned to to let me know that - should they be unable to get into my heart through a vein - they would insert the probe into my groin. Thankfully, despite being virtually bled dry after a series of blood tests, they managed to insert the probe into my right arm. Later that day I was given the first bit of positive news I'd had during my 2 weeks in hospital; there were no serious problems inside my heart, hopefully the medication would be enough (although a pacemaker might still be an option at a later date).

The treatment continued, then one day I was visited by the doctor. The hospital had done all it could, the course of medication seemed to be working; I could go home when I was ready. That night, for the first time in more than six weeks, I slept in my own bed.

Obviously, that wasn't the end of it. I'm still on a course of medication - Spironolactone, Ramipril, Carvedilol, Furosemide and Warfarin (one of them slows down my heart rate, which you might think would be the last thing I'd need!) - and I'm reporting to my local clinic every week for a blood test. The only bugbear is that I can't drink any beer (or Cranberry juice, for some reason; but I can live without that).

Otherwise, I'm in reasonably good shape after losing nearly four stone. With luck, I'll never have to take up residence in a hospital again.

Don't get me wrong, the doctor's did a marvellous job and I'm grateful; but for those three weeks I was confined to my ward, unable to move out of range with my heart-monitor. I did once, to get a newspaper from the ground floor shop in Llandough; a male nurse wasted no time in letting me know, in no uncertain terms, that I really shouldn't do this.

So my daily routine was restricted. Up in the morning when the nurses came clattering through the ward; have breakfast, wash; head off to The Day Room for a read.

Return for tests, have dinner, then return to Day Room to watch some telly. (As I was there during the entire period of the 2010 World Cup, this consisted of football, football ... and more friggin' football!) Watch the afternoon match, return for tea and whatever the doctors or nurses wanted you for, then back for the evening matches and whatever followed them.

Return at 10:30 for a late night cuppa before lights out at 11:00. Start the whole tedious process again at seven the next morning ... which is slightly better than spending 22 hours on a drip, I admit, but those 23 days I spent in hospital didn't exactly fly by.

Now my life is getting back to normal. I've returned to work, and I'll always remember the help and support I got at that time.

My brother, who came down with his wife Sue and his son Andrew, and made my home habitable in between visits.

My Aunt and Cousin, Audrey and Fred, who brought in a change of clothes when I needed it (and came to the hospital at a moment's notice when I needed a lift home). Even my Facebook friends, who posted so many messages of support on my homepage.

But it's not over yet. I will have to go back to the hospital for tests and scans, the Warfarin (an anticoagulant drug) is going to be needed for quite a while, and I still have to give blood samples. It's not perfect, but at least I'm leading a reasonably normal life. Wish I could have a few beers though!

Until next time ... take care.

2010-04-02T03:33:00.000-07:00

Brighton Rocked

My latest convention, and it's off to the gaudy seaside resort of Brighton for a healthy dose of sea air. The location is The Albion Hotel, a place not without its shortcomings, but still a reasonable venue (its location, right next to Brighton Pier, being a big plus).

I booked in and was told that the convention fee was already covered (which was one less dent in my wallet), and then I was handed the biggest WHC goodie bag ever (and, for that matter, the biggest name-tag ever, meant to be worn around the neck in a blue wallet. A trifle ostentatious, to say the least!).

I dumped the bag in my room and then went for my first walk along the pier, a novel experience in itself, and quite an enjoyable one - wooden boards creaking underfoot, the sea crashing all around me, the many fresh-food places (hot dogs, fish and chips, fried rice), games arcades and fun rides (including a ghost train; more about that later).

The first evening passed in the usual way, meeting old and new faces before trooping off for a meal in a restaurant (where we pretty much had to guess the contents on the menu!). All very pleasant, but the most memorable night was yet to come.

The highlight of Friday night was a huge party in Horatio's Bar, a pub on Brighton Pier. A large sum had been left behind the bar, and all the convention-goers had exclusive access to this shindig. I knew nothing about it, I was just trailing after Charles Rudkin and John Travis in search of food. A booth cooked up a fried rice meal while we waited, and that was when John pointed out The Horror Hotel to me. This was a ghost train ride, and he suggested returning the next day to try it out. "Why not?" I said, little realizing that I'd be trying it out a lot sooner than that.

Then Charles headed into Horatio's Bar. We followed, and I was surprised when the doormen checked our badges. It soon became clear that this was a party for the convention, hosted by a lady called Heather Graham (no, not that Heather Graham!) and that live music was the order of the night (Heather, herself, doing a lot of the singing)

The Guinness flowed, the music worked its magic, several ladies and then men took to the dance floor. Two more pints and I was on that floor myself, jigging away to the music of The Ramones. (I don't know how I looked, but it was a long time before Chris Teague could stop laughing!)

Dancing is thirsty work, so I went for another pint. However, as I set it down on the table, Ally Bird took my arm and said, "Come on."

"Where?"

I was led outside with Ally, Chris Teague and Steve Upham, then across the pier to The Haunted Hotel.

"You're kidding, right?"

She wasn't; as yet another treat for the convention-goers, the ghost ride had been opened up; so I stepped into a car with Chris Teague, the bar was lowered, and then we were on our way, all manner of ghouls and goblins jumping out at us. It was great fun, and even sobered us up a little by the time we got back to Horatio's.

We left shortly after midnight, and the walk back along the pier was quite pleasant; Brighton lit up before us, the wonderful sight of a pitch-black sea crashing towards the beach (almost, I would say, giving the impression of being on a ship). It had been a wonderful, madcap night and I think we were all still on a high. If nothing else, that party had made it a really memorable convention.

There were many panels and events, quite a few of which I missed. I made Chris Teague's talk about getting awards, a reading by Brian Lumley of one of his stories, a discussion panel with Tanith Lee (the subject in question has slipped my mind) and one or two others. But it was the interview with horror writer James Herbert that I was keen to attend. It started at noon, and the conference room started to fill up. It was quite a moment for me, as I have been reading his books for more than 20 years. Then he entered the room, and in an hour-long talk he entertained the audience with anecdotes, tales, a teaser for his up and coming novel, the odd bit of banter with other writers like Ramsey Campbell; he was certainly the convention's most relaxed and humourous guest. A few hours later he was doing signings, so I grabbed my copy of the convention book (Brighton Shock) and made my way to the dealers room.

The queue was long, so it was an hour and a half before I got to see him. Still, he was at a table, and there was a chair for people to sit on and exchange a few words while he signed their books. In the minute I had, I sat down and said, "I've been reading your books for most of my life."

"And look at you now," he said. Then, as he was signing my book, "From Liverpool, are you?"

"Well, Cardiff." An easy mistake to make, I suppose!

Then we shook hands, I said, "It was a pleasure to meet you," and walked away happy.

Now to find Ingrid Pitt,

In truth, I wouldn't have recognised her; sadly, she was in poor health and rather frail. All the same, she smiled and signed my book, thanked me for dropping by. I'll always remember her as that sassy and sexy star of those 70's horror films; but sometimes you get a sharp reminder of human mortality. Get well soon, Ingrid; you were a real star.

And so there were plenty of memories. Meeting old friends and making new acquaintences - Paul Finch's wife, Cathy; Debbie Kuhn, making a trip from Canada; Simon Maginn, who lives in Brighton, and so hadn't travelled at all. And the return of a few people I hadn't seen in ages; Gail Nina Anderson, and the unforgettable 'Whispering' John Carter, who hasn't changed a bit in the ten years since I last saw him!

Then there was John Travis getting all excited about catching sight of a fox on a roundabout. This event was certainly eventful.

So to the final night, the time of the customary 'Dead Dog Party' . Before that, I went out with Chris Teague, John Travis, Martin Roberts and his Girlfriend, Helen Hopley, in search of food. We ended up in a quaint old pub called The Essex, which served a delicious steak and a beautiful pint of Guinness-extra-cold. Then it was back to the hotel, where the final night was falling as flat as a pancake! The one problem with the hotel was the way a number of bar's were spread out, and so the convention-goers were mooching about all over the place.

Step forward a forthright Scottish chap called Paul. "This isnae a dead dog party, this is just fookin' dead! Wait here." Then he thundered off to find the rest of the convention-goers. Into another bar - 'Move yerselves, the party is upstairs.', and then, to the bar staff, "Put these lights out, we're going tae a party.'

Next thing I knew, the staff were hauling chairs and tables into the conference room, and within an hour we had our party. And so, thanks to this indomitable Highlander, a very pleasant time was had by all on the last night of the convention.

And that was it, the end of another World Horror Con. Bags packed, time to say a few farewells, and then a walk to the train station for the journey back to Cardiff. Past the pier, where I'd had a meal of fish and chips just hours before that party, along the seafront (a walk I had taken every morning to wake myself up), then home. In the words of a song, I'd been to a marvellous party.

2009-09-29T03:34:00.000-07:00

Nottingham Nights and a Piddle in the Hole

The annual FantasyCon, and the tenth anniversary of my own first attendance during that most paranoid of years, 1999. 'The Millennium Bug' never came, so I already knew quite a few of the convention-goers through Facebook ('friends' I was going to meet for the first time).

Into the bar, where I found Gary Greenwood partaking of a bottled beer with the somewhat unappetizing name of Piddle in the Hole . His wife, Ly, took a sip and pronounced it 'disgusting', but I tried a bottle anyway. Not the worst I've ever tasted, but at £3.30 a throw it wasn't likely to become my favoured tipple (not with Guinness at £2.00 a pint, and lager at £1.75).

As ever, the convention was well attended and the usual suspects started to arrive; but things were pretty hectic this year. Some of the people I shook hands with, and then only managed to catch the odd glimpse of. Other's, of course, were mixing business with pleasure. Terry Grimwood is trying to get his publishing interest, The Exaggerated Press, off the ground and was launching a collection of short stories by a writer called John Travis, who I have known for years. As a magazine editor back in the late '90's, I published one of his earlier tales, and so was keen to get hold of a copy of his collection, Mostly Monochrome Stories. I must say, the production looks good, but Terry really needs to construct a website and get himself on Facebook; it's just a matter of getting the publicity machine rolling. Still, I'm pleased to say that I became the first punter to buy a copy of John's book.

And on the whole it was a great convention, the highlight for many being the awards when a relative newcomer, Allyson Bird, took the prize for 'best collection'.

But there have been a few gripes about the hotel, and talk of a change of venue. True, there have been shortcomings in the past, especially with the staffing of the bar; but it was run efficiently enough this year, and the discount on the beer was a nice touch. As ever, we enjoyed a sumptuous breakfast, but there were misgivings about the buffet and one of the organizers was heard complaining about a lunch he had been served. These complaints were no doubt valid, but I am still in favour of keeping The Britannia as a venue; it might not be five-star, but it's well-located and fit for purpose. When we need to escape the confines of the hotel, Nottingham Castle is just around the corner , and if the hotel beer is nothing to write home about, you can be sure of a good pint of real cask ale in a wonderful old pub called Ye Olde Trip to Jerusalem (which also served me an excellent ploughmans lunch).

In short, the convention benefits from a familiar setting, and I'm sure that any problems can be ironed out. I obviously don't have a say in the matter, but I think that if it was put to the vote, most people would be in favour of retaining The Britannia as a FantasyCon venue.

However, there was a sense, this time around, of the event being a prelude the much anticipted 'World Horror Convention', held in Britain for the first time next year in the seaside resort of Brighton. Most attendees seemed to be going, or at least planning to, and with James Herbert and Ingrid Pitt as special guests, the success of the event is already assured. I've never been to Brighton, and while it doesn't have the appeal of the last three places I went to (Chicago, New York and Toronto), it should still make for a good, never-a-dull moment weekend; and as they've snagged one of the top hotels as a venue, I don't anticipate any complaints in that department. Brighton, here we come!

2009-03-13T10:31:00.000-07:00

Strike a Light!

Twenty-five years ago I was working in the Nantgarw/Windsor Colliery. Or rather, I should have been; I was, in fact, on strike, and would be for a whole year. Five Years earlier, Maggie Thatcher had been voted into power and was now waging war on the working classes; the Miners were on top of her 'hate-list'.

You may have seen a recent BBC drama, where she was seen getting into power after speaking up for the 'underprivileged', and even claiming to be one of them. Well Maggie, at least Judas Escariot took thirty pieces of silver for betraying his own; just be thankful that the BBC portrayed you as a modern-day Boudicca, instead of the modern-day Lady MacBeth that you really were (so sanitised was this play, the Miners Strike was never even mentioned!).

So the Miner's became The Enemy Within. Since when? Before she was born, the coal industry drove the country during the steam-age, heated homes and powered businesses, propelled ships and steam trains. 'The Enemy' were honest men with families, working hard to provide for them in the filthiest of conditions. But they also delivered a resounding kick in the bollocks to the Conservative Party, so this vile Grocer's daughter was determined to set the dogs on them.

I have to say, I was never a Scargill's man. From the start, he seemed on the lookout for a fight and we could all see where this was heading. One year later the Union had been divided and the seeds of death for the coal industry had been sown. The Enemy Within (good, honest, hard working men who weren't contemptible racist bigots like her husband, or common criminals like her son) were facing redundancy. Twenty-five years on, and the effects are still being felt - many family members are still not talking to each other, and old friends have become old enemies.

So what's changed? Very little, it has to be said; buoyed up by her petty victory, Maggie became power-crazed and continued her war on the working classes. The Poll Tax was a turning point, a system where an old woman living in a caravan was charged the same amount as a Lord living in a mansion. The Tory's 'finally' realized that this particular mad dog had to be put down, and maggie Thatcher was history; but for most, it came far too late. South Wales now has a lot of dead area's that used to be thriving mining communities and a once great industry no longer exists. This is the Tory legacy.

Incredibly, people now want to vote them back into power; as if we'd be better off without Gordon Brown. This is not the case; the Conservative party has a history of mischief and the working classes can only expect more of the same. David Cameron is appealing to younger voters who probably have very little memory of 1984 (when unarmed working men - and women, for that matter - were baton-charged by police on horseback in full riot gear; when they were stopped in their own cars and told that they could not travel to certain parts of their own towns and cities). Even the papers started drawing comparisons with George Orwell's vision of the future in that harrowing novel. Certainly, Maggie Thatcher had no qualms about abusing human rights!

Still, my memories of the strike aren't all terrible. There was a lot of support for the Miners (though you might not have thought so, reading the papers) , and people actually took an interest when I told them that I worked in a Colliery. I made friends with other strikers and we campaigned on the street and met up in pubs. And it was a terrific summer, I remember that.

But our time had come. In December 1986, Nantgarw/ Windsor Colliery closed and I transferred to the Taff Merthyr Colliery. When that closed, in 1990, I took my redundancy and left the industry for good. Coal was a thing of the past and there was no point in hanging on. These days, I have a coin and a pewter tankard to remind me of those times. It was another world, and while I'd never go back, I'm quite pleased that I was once a part of it.

The Enemy Within?

It is rather amusing to remember that, at the end of the day, Maggie's 'real' enemies were within her own cabinet - and they knifed her big time! Just like most of the country, the old bitch was out of a job. A little late, it has to be said, but good riddance. At least we got to enjoy her ignominious exit from 10 Downing Street:-D

2009-02-26T06:39:00.000-08:00

Beer, Barroom Tales and Tanky Smith

There is nothing like a good reunion, and a gathering of the so-called Terror Scribes was long overdue. Time was, we hung out on the notice boards of a website called Terror Tales. Then the site finished and most of us lost contact with each other. Recently, through the dubious medium of Facebook, Sue Phillips brought us all back together, leading the way to a modest, and very enjoyable gathering in Leicester.

With a fair way to travel, I arrived on the Friday evening, booked into a rather quaint guesthouse called The Croft Hotel, and then went to a pub called The Old Horse for a meal (steak and ale pie, with thick chunks of steak - delicious!). The next morning I met John B. Ford and Des Knight at the station. Having left their bags in my room, we had a look around Leicester before making our way to The Landsdown. After that, it was like stepping back in time as people (some of whom I hadn't seen in years) started drifting in. Sue, of course, with her husband Morgan and their daughter, Tilly; Joe Freeman and his family; Rob Rowntree and Derek Fox; Paul and Colleen Bradshaw; Mark West, Emma Lee (one of my first facebook 'friends' , who I was meeting for the first time), Selina Locke and her partner, Jay Eales; and Allyson Bird.

Feeling adventurous, the Fordster and myself decided to sample a rather potent brew called Hoegaarden beer (of which one pint was enough, if we wanted to keep our senses!).

Then it was time for talking, either catching up or making introductions. In time came the traditional readings; first a story from Allyson, then Joe and Mark. I came next, and decided that a little gusto would be in order. By the time I'd finished, they certainly knew they'd heard a story;-)

Derek made the last reading, a nostalgic tale about teenagers getting to see their first 'X' rated film (Dracula) back in the fifties. As a writer, Derek has always managed to come up with a great turn of phrase, and this was a fun, entertaining way to close the reading session.

We spent a few hours catching up after this, then it was time for another tradition to be upheld; the visit to a curry house, in this case an establishment called Agra (the sign on the facade of the building being written in such huge white letters, I'd swear NASA could have picked it up with their space telescope!). A new place out to impress, it served up a feast, and my Chicken Tikka was so thick I could have stood my fork up in it. At the end of the meal they gave us a free Liqueur. Mark West was driving, so he pushed his glass across the table and told me to enjoy it. I did!

This was where we started parting company, and soon it was just John, Des, Mark and myself. So we set off up the road, where Mark had parked his car.

And this is where we encountered a certain Francis 'Tanky' Smith.

Not in person, you understand, as Tanky shuffled off his mortal coil back in 1888. But here was his legacy, written on a blue plaque. (City of Leicester, Top Hat Terrace ... built by ... Francis "Tanky" Smith (d 1888) ... Leicester's first Private Detective). The plaque went on to inform us ... (Each of the carved heads on the building represent Tanky Smith in one of his many disguises). And there were those carved heads on the building; the same face, but wearing a different hat. The image was so absurd, that we couldn't help but take the Mick out of old Tanky. So that's the secret of a great disguise? Just pop a different hat on your noggin and no-one will recognize you? We've certainly come a long way since the Victorian era:-)

Saying goodbye to Mark, I went to The Old Horse for a last couple of drinks with Des and John; there were still a lot of great times to reminisce about.

Now, the Leicester gathering of February, 2009, has become another of those great memories. Say what you will about facebook, it really does bring old friends back together.

2009-01-23T09:59:00.001-08:00

Facebook Follies

I signed up for facebook ... and immediately tried to get off it when my in-box started filling up. However, as I posted on a writers forum, I was soon getting 'be-my-friend' requests (mostly off people I knew, but a couple off complete strangers; still, I'm told people on this site collect 'friends' like a philatelist collects stamps, so nothing unusual there, it seems). Which is all very well, but I'm going to get really pissed off if my in-box starts to fill up with 'So and So has just posted a message on your forum' notices. As these postings rarely get beyond one or two lines, and no one ever posts anything of importance, I hardly need e-mailed updates to tell me this! Even more irritating, the sodding thing kept rejecting my password; after a whole week of resetting the damn thing, I finally came up with one it accepted. This was more infuriating, as I only kept the facebook page because I couldn't get rid of it (and I tried, believe me!)

So what of Facebook? Mostly crap, it has to be said. useful for organizing events and sending out invitations, but mostly a collection of banal comments which leave me feeling that some people really need to get a life. Still, I'm there now; just remember a few things if you want to pal up with me on it;

I do not want to 'join a vampire club and bite someone on the ass', and I do not want to 'join a high stakes poker game and play cards on-line'. This is some of the things I've blocked so far, and the same goes for anything else in this vain; I do not spend all my spare time on the ruddy internet!

However, I may as well make the most of it; it might be amusing, and there's a few people it will be good to keep in touch with. I just wish I'd known what I was letting myself in for when I signed up for it!

2008-10-22T07:06:00.000-07:00

Congratulations Sarah & Guy

Now I get to write about a pretty wonderful weekend, where I finally got to attend the wedding of my niece, Sarah Jayne. The venue was The Botleigh Grange Hotel, in Hampshire; a quaint, old-fashioned establishment that is the perfect venue for such an occasion. I booked in on the Friday, and was pleasantly surprised to receive an actual room key (as opposed to one of those blasted swipe cards) ; a long silver one with a fob at the end, stating your room number. A solid wooden door, an elegant room with a large bed; this was a classy place. All we could do now was hope that everything went well on the day.

Saturday, and after a gloomy week the sun was out and the day was warm. Ideal for a photo-shoot in the sprawling, picturesque gardens behind the hotel. First, there was much fretting and pre-wedding nerves, but I'm pleased to report that the occasion couldn't have run more smoothly. Sarah married Guy, pictures were taken on the grounds, the bridesmaids cried their eyes out, the after wedding speeches were suitably amusing. The climax was the traditional disco, complete with a sumptuous buffet. Whatever the cost of the wedding, the hotel certainly justified every penny of it.

I wish Sarah Jayne and Guy all the best for the future. Married life certainly got off to a great start for them.

2008-10-04T04:33:00.000-07:00

I AM TESTATE

Finally got around to the grim business of making a will. A painless enough process, and I now know that my family will be provided for when I kick the bucket (as opposed to those grasping vipers The Council, who'd be entitled to grab my property had I been careless enough to die intestate.

All this beggeed the question, is there such a word as 'testate'? Quick check, and the answer is yes. Now I can put that wretched document away and forget about it.

This was sorted out in time for me to enjoy the annual FantasyCon in Nottingham, where I once again celebrated my birthday. And once again it was a cracking get-together, and I got to enjoy some excellent beer in Ye Olde Trip to Jerusalem, while meeting up with some 'olde' friends.
It seems that the World Horror Convention for 2010 is going to be held in Brighton, its first ever staging in Britain. I'm up for that, but it won't have the appeal of Chicago, New York or Toronto, which I have had the pleasure of attending in the past.

However, next thing on the agenday is a trip to Southampton for my niece Sarah's wedding. Expect a suitable humourous addition to this blog. 'Till next time ...

2008-06-23T11:31:00.000-07:00

June 21, the Summer Solstice; a good day for a writers convention, this time at the University of Glamorgan, in Pontypridd (birthplace of Tom Jones ... just thought I'd mention it). I didn't know much about this one, it had just been mentioned in passing on an internet message board. Still, a writer called Sue Phillips, who I hadn't seen in ages, happened to be in Wales for the weekend to give a talk at the Cardiff University, so we agreed to attend this event (The Space, Time, Machine and Monsters Convention) and meet up.

I arrived at about five past nine to find the place deserted, scouted around, and eventually got directions to the car park. Luckily, the first building I checked out had a poster in the window, so I had found the right place. Now I just had to wait for people to start arriving (especially Sue and Morgan, who were depending on a Sat-Nav to get them there!)

The guests finally started to arrive, and I soon had a text message off Sue; 'Dave, we are now next to the sports hall, the only muses thing nearby is halls of residence x.' I got directions and went to get them (an act that entailed bolting up a flight of steps), looked around - then got another message saying they were now in the right place!

Returned to see quite a few familiar faces, and one or two new one's (including Rhys Hughes; I've read quite a lot of his work, but in over ten years of convention-going, this was the first time that I actually got to meet him).

We registered, then Sue, Morgan and I decided to attend a talk by the writer Philip Gross, which encouraged a collaboration process when he started a story with a location, a disturbing noise ... then left the rest up to us, and several groups came up with a number of weird and wonderful scenarios. After this, in was into the adjoining room for a discussion by Rhys Hughes on the more experimental methods of writing fiction and prose; some of which I might try, some of which I have, and some of which is totally beyond me. Either way, the sessions (as well as an excellent presentation of short films) had certainly given me back the writing bug.

At lunch time Sue left to deliver her own talk, and I caught up with the likes of Chris Teague, Brian Willis, Gary Greenwood and others. Also bought books by Tony Richards and Rhys Hughes, plus a slim collection called 'Doorways', featuring the works of half a dozen or so writers.

After lunch I passed up a (no-doubt fascinating) discussion about Doctor Who and Torchwood to attend a reading and talk by Tim Lebbon, then a final discussion about genre fiction. A few people mentioned the fact that the whole thing could have been better publicized, but the turn out was quite respectable. My only regret was that most of the panels overlapped, so I had to pass a few up (and we can't hear too much about Doctor Who and Torchwood, can we?)

There will be another outing next year, and the building is certainly well equipped for such conventions. For people with a love of the written word, it made for a fascinating day out; and it was certainly good to meet a few old friends again.

2008-04-23T07:36:00.000-07:00

There's an amusing flash fiction site called 'Micro-Horror'. Two of my stories can now be found there at http://www.microhorror.com/microhorror/category/author/david-price/ . Enjoy.

2008-03-29T15:34:00.000-07:00

HEATHROW HELL

The long awaited Terminal 5, at Heathrow, has finally opened; and to the surprise of no-one who has had the misfortune to pass through that incompetently-run aircraft hangar, all Hell has broken loose; hundreds of cancelled flights and thousands of lost bags, less than half the staff knowing what they are doing. No change there, then!

My trip to New York, a few years ago, was eventful enough; ticket checked, and then directed to gate 55 (and yes, this did mean walking past gate's 1, 2, 3 etc). I got to that gate after a twenty minute walk, but that was nothing compared with my trip to Canada, when the woman checking my ticket hadn't the faintest idea where to send me. I was directed across the terminal, up a flight of stairs, outside of the building and across a road, up another flight of stairs. Finally, and after checking the departures on a television screen, I realized that I was in the right place. When I did, eventually, take my seat on the plane, it felt like quite an achievement; the airport staff had been no help at all. My experience at the airport in Canada was pleasant in comparison. The same checks, but with a competent staff, and a layout that a blind man could follow. Upon leaving ,I got there early, and then spent an enjoyable couple of hours browsing in the shops. So no stress, no running around. It must be said that, with it's habit of treating passengers like cattle, Heathrow was an international disgrace, even before the fiasco of T.5.

So now the bosses are sorry, the passengers are jeering the staff, BA are facing a two million pound fine. Not before time, I say, for this is surely the worst airport in the world (although I've yet to hear a good word about Gatwick).

Last word to the shame-faced Heathrow bosses; visit a few other airports and see how it should be done, because you are in serious need of a few lessons.

In other words ... Heathrow sucks!

2008-03-12T09:31:00.000-07:00

Seeing Orange at the Movies

Had a visit from the family recently, and as usual I went to the cinema with my nephew, Andrew; this time to see a bruising British thriller called 'The Bank Job'.

Which has now set me off on a rant about all the bullshit you have to sit through while waiting for the film to start.

First, there is a sketch where someone makes a good impression by ordering their cinema tickets on-line; Film's sold out, but that's okay - we'll just pick up our tickets at the box office," announces some nerd with the pride of someone who has just discovered the Holy Grail.

Then come the commercials. Is it just me, or these ads getting more cretinous and irritating all the time? A pet hate of mine are those blue-costumed gospel singers in that U-Switch campaign (Yooooo-oooo-oooo Gotta Switch!) Yeah, switch the bastard sound down every time those idiots come on :-(

Then, after the up-and-coming movie trailers, there is the now-usual prelude; the 'Don't let a mobile phone ruin your movie!' series, in which a number of well known has-been actors pitch an idea to a mobile-phone obsessed producer. These have gone beyond irritating to really pissing me off!

Finally, after sitting through about twenty minutes of guff ... we get another ad, telling us how great Dolby sound is. Then, at last, they show the bloody film ... in Dolby sound; so why waste two minutes of everyone's time advertising it? It's not like we get an option on what sound system we get.

Cinema-going never used to be like like this. A few trailers, a few ads, and then the film. At times, there would be a documentary, or maybe a short film (half hour comedy or something): but now, after all the threats about piracy, and warnings about mobile 'phones, there's no time for anything like that. Just a sigh of relief from the audience when they finally start the film (remember when it used to be called the main feature?)

Well mobile 'phones have 'never' spoiled my movie. A pity I can't say the same for those frigging trailers!

2007-11-13T08:49:00.001-08:00

MOAN BITCH GRUMBLE !!!

I often watch the series Grumpy Old Men on the BBC. Amusing as I find it, I try not to sound like them. However, as I am frequently having technology forced on me, I do find a little grumping in order.

For a start, I was quite happy with five television channels. Then came digital. Did I want it? Not really, there wasn't enough on to tempt me. Then the option was taken away. 'Analogue is to be removed, so go digital or lose your television programmes.' So last year I bought a digi-box, and now I know how Springsteen must have felt when he wrote 57 Channels and nothing on!

Well fine, no doubt the government will rake in a fortune in tax, from the sales, as millions of people purchase digi-boxes. Mind you, as all future TV's will be made digital as a matter of course, those millions of boxes are going to form an impressive pile of environment-unfriendly rubbish in a few years time.

Okay, not my problem; but I do feel as if I have been blackmailed into making an upgrade. And it's not the first time. For years, I was happy with the cheaper Internet Dial-up system. Then a year ago my server started bombarding me with suggestions and offers to upgrade, all of which I ignored. Then all of a sudden, I couldn't get on-line; I'd dial up, ten minutes later the screen would freeze; or I'd be shut out with a 'Page Cannot Be Displayed' message; or the whole process would die the death after about 20 minutes. So I went broadband ... and my problems were miraculously solved. Of course, I'm still using the same computer I bought back in 2000 (when we finally discovered that the Millennium Bug was a load of bull) so I'm no better off.

Now, I certainly wouldn't accuse my server of sabotaging the internet access I was paying them a monthly fee for; but when I change computers, it is certain that I shall be dispensing with their services; I can't do much about the digital revolution, but I can certainly choose who I surf with.

Haven't quite finiahed grumping yet, as I have had to visit the dentist; and like most people, I am finding it rather costly without the services of the NHS.

I saw a picture of a chap in the papers a few weeks ago who, rather rashly, had pulled his own teeth out with a pair of pliers, rather than pay a dentists bill. Now, in need of a cap and a filling, I know how he feels ... It's bloody expensive ! Still, I'm rather attached to my gnashers, so it's money I'll have to spend; but like the extra pounds I'm forking out for the broadband, it's money I begrudge.

Anyway, back to digital TV. There is a new channel with my name on. 'Dave' came about because, it seems, just about everyone has a mate called Dave, and this is intended as a 'blokes' channel. Every time I flip it on, there is a repeat of 'Top Gear' or 'A Question Of Sport'. If I cared to tune in later (which I don't!) There are repeats of 'Never Mind The Buzzcocks', or some crappy banter show with Stephen Fry. Wow! If they must have a channel with my name on, you'd think they could show some decent bleeding programmes. (As you can guess, I'm not impressed:-( )

Anyway, Christmas is coming, a time of year that usually sends my grumping into overdrive. Still, it's a great time for ghost stories, and one of mine 'The Shadow on the Bridge', will be going on-line next month. Keep watching this space for details. (In other words, I'll be posting a link.)

Be seeing you.

2007-09-30T07:06:00.000-07:00

THREE NIGHT'S IN SHOTTINGHAM !!!

FantasyCon 2007, and a second trip to Nottingham; a city that would probably like to forget that rather unfortunate nickname. Well, the men who put the 'Shot' into Nottingham are now behind bars, so maybe it's time to drag out that old chestnut, The Legend of Robin Hood. Not, of course, gory enough for the Science Fiction, Fantasy and Horror buffs descending on the Britannia hotel for a weekend's grue-fest.

Day one was also my birthday, so a good drink was in order. Acquaintances old and new turned up, and while it was a little quieter than the previous year, there was still much to enjoy.

First evening, and we went out looking for The Taj Mahal, an all-you-can-eat for a tenner joint we had found last year; but in the maze of streets we had no chance, and settled on a Turkish establishment, which generously handed out free fruit and Turkish Delight once we had paid for our meal. That night I was in the company of Ally Byrd, Stuart Young and John Travis. It had been a great way to spend the evening.

The next day I paid a visit to Nottingham Castle, where a Gala day was in full flow; men on stilts, an opera singer, various events to entertain the children. Best of all, the admission fee for the day had been waived, so I could enjoy a free visit.

In the film show room, they were screening a half-hour documentary about the cave systen under the castle (built on top of a hill). Another convention-goer, Bill Webb, had also drifted into that show and we decided to take the tour. Which we did, after a brief return to the hotel for some dinner.

The tour was an hour long, and as it entailed walking through about a mile of caves, it was not an adventure to be taken by the seriously underfit. Our tour guide was a young lady called Cath, who related the tales of torture, murder and execution with such relish, it was clear that she would have enjoyed a visit to the FantasyCon herself. We emerged at the bottom of the cliff, right next to Ye Olde Trip to Jerusalem. Tempting, but we returned to the hotel.

That night, it was once again 'off-for-a-curry', and Nottingham native Alison L.R. Davies had booked an Indian restaurant called Chutneys. She'd asked for 16 places; luckily, they were able to accommodate the 20-plus who eventually turned up.

That night came the obligatory raffle, and this year there was a little twist. I had donated several books and an old video. They made a note of my name, something they had never done before, and I soon found out why. As the tickets were drawn, there was not only a description of the prize, but a mention of the donor, and as the M.O.C Michael Marshall Smith name-checked me several times (This has been donated by David Price' ... David Price has generously donated this book after reading it' ... Still getting through prizes donated by David Price!' ...), I was glad that (with the exception of that video --- a 1980 horror film called Alligator) I hadn't handed over the kind of shite I'd dumped on them in the past. Well, they said they were looking for quality control, and they might well have ensured it for future raffles.

Next day was the annual FantasyCon awards, and this time I actually attended the whole thing. A big winner was Joe Hill, whose debut novel Heart-Shaped Box, I had recently enjoyed. Mind you, there had been rumours about him at previous conventions ... something about his father. I'd checked his website, but there'd been no mention of his father. Finally, we we were let in on Joe Hill's little secret. And you know ... I'd never have guessed.

Most of the guests drifted away after that, so after the usual round of handshakes and farewell's, I made my way to Ye Olde Trip to Jerusalem. And a pleasant evening it was; swapping ghost stories with a writer called Marion Arnott, and then playing a bizarre game called 'Baiting the Bull'. Basically, there is a bull's horn on a plaque nailed to the wall; a brass ring on a length of string hanging from the roof; and you hurl that ring at the horn in a bizarre variation of the hoopla game. On the wall are past pictures of game champions (called 'The Lords of the Ring' ... I'm not kidding!) Three of us played, I was the only one who failed miserably to ring the horn. All the same, it had been fun.

The following morning I had a final slap-up breakfast before taking a walk to the railway station. It was all over for another year. I'll be back; but that trek through the caves of Nottingham Castle showed me that I really did need to get in shape. Salads from now on, I think.

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ROLL CALL

Allyson Byrd http://www.birdsnest.me.uk/

Chris Teague http://pendragonpress.livejournal.com/

Nottingham Castle http://nottinghamcastle.info/

Ye Olde Trip to Jerusalem http://yeoldetriptojerusalem.com/ & http://eerie.evenings.com/

2007-09-20T06:43:00.000-07:00

MY KIND OF TOWN (Memories of Chicago - 2002)

(In the past, I have written about my conventions. However, when I attended my first American one, Blogs did not exist. At the time, I was hanging out on a website called 'Terror Tales', and the writer Paul Kane asked me to supply an account. The site is long gone, but I made a record of that article. The flowing appeared in April of that year.)

I arrived in Chicago at around 18:00 hrs, US time, and when the free hotel shuttle failed to turn up, I took a white-knuckle taxi ride to the hotel (courtesy of a driver who spoke very little English, but certainly had endless colourful descriptives for the other road users!). Arriving at the reception, I booked in and then went to my room.
First thought; wow ... is this all mine?
With all due respect for British hotels, their rooms tend to be matchbox affairs in which the bed accounts for most of the floor space. This room had two double beds, a writing desk, a large television, and a comfortable armchair (with footrest) if you fancied settling down in front of it. Hey, welcome to America!

Thirsty after a nine hour flight, I made my way to the bar ... and promptly bumped into RazorBlade press editor, Darren Floyd. I ordered a can of Fosters (and got a can the size of a small bucket!) then ambled over to a group of familiar faces; Darren's wife June, Stuart Young, Mark Samuels, Chris Teague and Gary Greenwood. My convention had started in earnest. However, my first night didn't exactly go according to plan. A night in a Blues Club had been arranged, but no-one at reception seemed to know anything about it. So I registered at the convention desk, dumped the obligatory goody bag in my room, and returned to the foyer ... only to discover that the bus had turned up, and everyone had buggered off without me.
(Er, cheers lads ... thanks a bloody bunch!)

Anyway, I met up with Mick Sims, who introduced me to a writer called Paul Melniczek, and the three of us spent the evening chatting about the independent press in the hotel bar. It was here that Paul encouraged me to try a rather tasty American brew called Samuel Adams beer, which was the closest thing to British Ale there was, and became my favoured tipple for the rest of the convention. At eleven 0'clock I trotted off to my hotel room, thinking that a good night's sleep would get me over the jet-lag. However, I woke up at 04:30 in the morning, so that was something else that hadn't gone according to plan.

So, day 2, and yours tuly is up bright and early. Mark McLaughlin and an enthusiastic troupe were performing his story, 'When We Was Flab', and at this point, I met up with Matt Cardin for the first time. Later that day he joined me, Chris, Darren and June, Mark Samuels and Stuart Young on a trip into Downtown Chicago. With map in hand, June acted as our guide, and we went via the subway. In the big city Itself, I saw a difference. At the lights crossing the road, you stop when a palm-up hand is dispalyed, cross when it's a little white man. But ... the lights tend to change when you are halfway across and the drivers in Chicago take no prisoners. In an incident that can only happen in America, a driver became so incensed with the behaviour of a cyclist that he got out of his van, and the two of them had a stand-up argument in the middle of the road ... at a busy intersection with cars streaming past them on both sides, horns blaring. Still, pressing on, we let them get on with it. (The cyclist passed us a few minutes later, throwing a very rude gesture over his shoulder!)

First up, food. So we entered a pokey little basement bar, where a bartender refused to serve us without identification. Never mind, a deli served up some very filling club sandwiches (a tuna mix called a Sorry Charlie went down a treat) and a carton of Root Beer. Then it was on to The John Hancock Tower, where yet another plan was kicked into touch. We had planned to go to the top of the building for a spectacular view of Chicago, but, in spite of the fact that we had terrific weather for the rest of the convention, a low cloud enshrouded the top of the building, and they wouldn't allow us to go up. So we had coffee, bought souvinirs in a gift shop, and pressed on into The Windy City.

Inevitably, we ended up in a bookstore before the exotic clothes shops lured June and Dazza away, and we had to make our way back to the subway, sans our guide. By chance, we all met up again outside O'Hare airport, while we were waiting for the shuttle to take us back to The Radisson Hotel. That night, I attended my first party.

Now at British conventions, in the evening, we retire to the bar for a quiet chat. In America they take over hotel rooms, fill a bathtub up with ice, and drink until the early hours of the morning. They also like to dress up. One women walked around with a decaying corpse (plastic) strapped to her back, other's dressed in outrageous goth outfits. At some point, Mick Sims introduced me to Phil J. Locasio, a Chicago-based writer starting to make a name for himself in the independent press. He found my reference to 'the tube station' instead of 'the subway' hysterical. Maybe the term has a sexual connotation in America. Mind you, I think he had rather generously availed himself of the hotel's hospitality at that point.

Oh yes, there were shenanigans with blow-up dolls and the like, but enough said on that score.

I had quite an eventful time of it myself. First, I got talking to a goth woman who had really gone the whole hog; skimpy dress, fangs in her mouth, weird catlike contact lenses.

"Let's pose for a photograph," I suggested.

"Sure, down on your knees, big boy."

Then I was cornered by a Welsh woman who had lived in Canada most of her life. She, too, had availed herself of the hospitality, and bent my ear, big time, about 'the olde home town' (which she couldn't even remember!) for the next half hour. I also have vague mamories of Tim Lebbon waving a severed hand around (wax) but by that time, I was in a delightful alcoholic haze myself. At around two in the morning I retired to bed with a huge grin on my face. God Bless America:-)

In spite of the much-improved weather, we didn't venture back into the city the next day. There were books to be bought, prize-givings to attend, panels that you just had to go to.

In the morning, I went with Matt Cardin to a talk by an American actress called Patricia Tallman, who had starred in the series 'Babylon 5'. It took a while to find the room, and when we got there, the talk had already started. Still, just slip in quietly.

Of course, it was the one room with a step, I didn't see it, and I lumbered into the room like a baby elephant.

"Hey. fellah, mind the step back there. Come on in, there's a couple of seats right here in the front."

I really needed that!

Still, we made our way to the seats. It was easy to understand Matt's enthusiasm; for she was a very attractive lady, even if she did manage to talk at twice the speed of sound, and I enjoyed her anecdotes about the series, and the films she had worked on (like Jurassic Park). However, it was the afternoon lecture that I was keen to attend. John Wayne Gacy was Chicago's most notorious murderer, killing over 300 men and burying them under his house. The speaker was one of the prosecuting lawyers, and he gave a very detailed - and fascinating - account of Gacy's life, murder's, arrest and trial. Over a hundred people attended, and a Q & A session took the lecture almost an hour over schedule. It had still been well worth attending.

That night we wandered from party to party, bursting forth into song, drinking, posing for bizarre photographs, attending a way-out goth disco (which resembled a scene from The Vampire Chronicals) and generally having a good time. But the next morning was Sunday, and most of the guests - including Mark Samuels and Stuart Young - were leaving. It was all over bar the shouting, so I went with Chris Teague, Dazza and June to a Chicago diner (not one of us finished the titanic portion placed in front of us) then returned to the hotel bar for an hour before seeking out the last of the parties. The next day I went home on the same plane as Chris Teague. I'd had a great time, it had been agreed that WHC 2004 would be held in London, and I now have some very pleasant memories (not all of which have been included in this report!!!)

So yes, I definitely want to do it all again someday. Kansas City, Missouri, April 2003. Keep the beer on ice, guys, the Terror Scribes are oming back.

2007-07-17T07:58:00.000-07:00

MULTIPLEX MADNESS

Got hold of a free DVD (well, free bar the price of a newspaper) a few weeks ago; Roger Moore in Gold, a film about goldmining in South Africa. I also have a collection of James Bond DVD's, among them Diamonds Are Forever. This took me back to the autumn of 1976; when, as a birthday treat, I went to see these films on a double bill at the long-gone Capital Cinema, in Cardiff. Don't ask me why anyone thought to put them together; both about precious gems, one starring Sean Connery as James Bond, the other starring his successor? On a whim, I watched them back to back (Gold then Diamonds Are Forever, the same order they were shown in all those years ago) on a particularly wet afternoon. And let's face it, that's the only way you'll get to see a double bill these days.

At the time, I had the choice of seeing a film in the balcony, or the stalls. Today, of course, we have the Multiplex, and films are rolled out on a conveyor belt (cinema, DVD, subscription channel) as the film-makers go for a fast buck in the celluloid version of fast food. No longer do you see banners proclaiming 'Retained for a sixteenth fantastic week!' as a film is shown every hour (every half hour, if there's a real demand for it) until it has exhausted it's box office potential. This also means no more queueing around the block (which I also sort of miss; did I really queue up for an hour and a half to see Close Encounters of the Third Kind , back in 1978, and Grease, a few months later?)

And so it's a farewell to the double bill, but I saw some good one's. James Bond couplets were a regular event. Horror films, of course; I first saw The Exorcist on a rerun with Exorcist 2 - The Heretic, when they showed the sequel first; David Cronenberg's Shivers & Rabid was a spectacularly stomach churning pairing, while Magnum Force and The Enforcer introduced me to Dirty Harry (I can't think why they showed the two sequels instead of the original, either).
In the months leading up to the realease of The Return of the Jedi, Star Wars & The Empire Strikes Back were screened under the banner heading 'Together and as they should be seen - on the big screen'. Sequels, of course, were a regular event; Rocky & Rocky 2, Every Which Way But Loose & Any Which Which Way You Can. You could certainly get your monies worth in those days, as film makers tried to grab that little bit extra at the box office.

There is a fascinating 60's trailer on the 'extra's' selection of one of my Bond DVDs.
'Can one film contain this much adventure? Can one film contain this much excitement? Can one film contain this many girls? ... NO! Catch 'Thunderball' & 'You Only Live Twice' at a cinema near you!.
Sadly, those days have gone forever. CGI is king, an good stories have (all but ) been sacrificed for a compendium of ever more improbable action sequences; spectacular, but when the cast are reduced to special effects themselves, it's difficult to get involved. 28 Days Later was a gripping tale of survival, 28 Weeks Later was a shooting match where the plight of the survivors took second place to the carnage. Bruce Willis became a star in Die Hard, then walked through the sequels; John McClane is now the sum of his one-liners (or 'zingers' as they are known in the trade). Films just aint what they used to be.

Or are they? What's with all these frigging remakes? The Omen was a pointless cash-in on the 06-06-06 release date.
Forgetting the debacle that was Sly Stallone in Get Carter, The Long Good Friday is to suffer the indignity of a Chicago-set rehash (somebody kick the moron who greenlighted this blasphemy ... IMMEDIATELY!)
What was the point of The Hitcher with Sean Bean, or The Hills Have Eyes? Now, it seems, we're going to get The Fly (a remake of a remake!) . Ocean's 13 was a sequel to a sequel to a remake. Was The Hills have Eyes 2 a remake of a sequel to the original, or a sequel to the remake of the original? Who cares, these films usually go straight to DVD, or they are costly flops like the recent Poseidon. Peter Jackson's 'King Kong' is a nice companion to the 1933 original, but that is a unique exception to the rule (Casino Royale doesn't really count as a remake, even if it is the 3rd version of the story).

In short (not that I often do things that way) get some new idea's ... And stop remaking Michael Caine films!!!

Now where was I? Oh yes, no more double bills. On second thoughts, maybe I didn't know when I was well off!

2007-04-09T05:31:00.000-07:00

OH CANADA

Right, having imaginitively name-checked the National Anthem, it is time to make an account of my recent visit to that rather splendid country for the 2007 World Horror Convention; the location was Toronto, and an Air Canada plane (with a decidedly ropey selection of in-flight movies) served as my mode of transport.
As luck would have it, I met up with fellow convention-goers, Mick Sims and Len Maynard, at Heathrow Airport; so, having checked through customs, we split the price of a taxi to the Marriott Hotel. And a very sumptuous place it was; I've never had a hotel room with such a huge bed.
Slowly but surely, familiar faces began to arrive; Chris Teague, Stuart Young, John Tarvis, Allyson Bird, Gary McMahon, Paul Kane and Marie O'Regan (recently married and making a honeymoon of the convention). That night, several of us made our way across the city and enjoyed a brew in a pub called 'The Elephant & Castle'. It was a very English place, only the baseball games on the television screens spoiling the illusion. I began to think that Toronto was a damn fine place to hold a convention.

Up early in the morning, and almost having to drag myself out of that wonderfully comfortable bed, I partook of a cooked breakfast before making my way to The Eaton Mall Shopping Center for a look around. Frustratingly, no-one seemed keen to open any of the shops, so I returned to the hotel empty-handed. (The shops, I later found out, opened at ten-thirty, so I bought my souvenirs later that afternoon.) Kept up with world events, courtesy of the free newspapers left outside the guest bedrooms in the mornings; nothing cheerful going on, but at least we were having a good time; so much so that - outside of the dealer room (where I tried, to no avail, not to buy any books) - we didn't get to see all that much of the convention. Still, when you travel 3000 miles to a location, you don't want to spend all your time in a hotel; and Toronto certainly had its share of attractions.

Occasionally, we chilled out in the hotel lounge bar, and it was here that we had a chat about (or, more accurately, Steve Saville delivered a lecture on the subject of) Doctor Who. Later that night, I went out with John Travis, Stuart Young and Chris Teague in search of food; however, this search ended up in the Eaton Mall, where we were served a rather mediocre chinese meal. We returned to the hotel, and ended up in the Hotel's Sport's Bar; which served an excellent pint of Guinness and became our preferred watering hole for the rest of the convention. (The women's wrestling matches, shown nightly on the television screens, had nothing to do with this preferance, I hasten to add:-)

Mind you, it was the beer at the convention parties that drove us there :-(

Guy goes to Toronto, see's a sign saying Drink Canada Dry, and says ... 'I'll certainly try!' Well we did; literally ... the provided beer was a particularly gassy brew, so we ended up drinking cans of that world famous ginger beer, which someone had provided with a great sense of occasion.

Saturday Morning, and it was time to go on our travels. Stuart Young and Ally Bird decided to stick around the convention, but I set off with Chris Teague and John Travis on a visit to that spectacular attraction, The Niagara Falls, a lady called Gill Ainsworth and her bubbly teenage daughter, Kim, joining us. Making our way to the bus station, we purchased return tickets ... and I finally got to travel on a Greyhound Bus.

Settling into a comfortable seat (blue, with a pattern of leaping greyhounds woven into the design) I enjoyed a relaxing journey that had me wondering (as I tried to stay awake and admire the Canadian scenery) why British coaches aren't nearly so comfortable. Admittedly, in The Americas they have a lot further to travel, but all the same ...

I fell into conversation with Gill, a discussion that was cut short when a sleepy young lady poked her head out of a blanket and said, "Hello - Yelling over there?"

Well no, actually, we weren't; and I certainly wasn't aware that I was taking a ride in the little madam's private bedroom; still, minutes away from our destination, I refrained from any sarcastic remarks and allowed her to resume her beauty sleep.

The Falls are a stunning natural feature, but you really need to go there dressed as an Eskimo; for this raging maelstrom is surrounded by its own private winter. Ice crystals surround the area like snow, and the crashing waters throw up a spectacular column (known as The Lady of the Mist) that rains down on the surrounding area for hundreds of yards all around. The waters of the Niagara leading up to The Falls boil like a storm-tossed sea, even when the weather is perfectly calm.

We ventured into the cave system that took us around the back of The Falls, snapped a few photographs and got thoroughly cold and wet ... but this magnificent spectacle had really made the journey to Canada worthwhile.

Back to the hotel for the climax to the convention, The Stoker Awards; a ticketed event, alas, so I was somewhat precluded; however, as the women were turning up in stunning dresses and the men had donned their best bib and tucker, I was a little underdressed in my jeans and Toronto - Canada tee-shirt. later in the bar I bought a book off Gill Ainsworth and commiserated with her failure to pick up an award for her anthology Aegri Somnia ( http://www.apexdigest.com ) .

Later that night, I attended a reading by Conrad Williams before catching the end of the Gross-out competition, in which several writers tried to see who could be the most outrageous. (The winner told the story of a man who was convinced that the ghost of his late wife was living up the butt of a dead dog ... and as that's probably too much information already, I'll leave the rest to your imagination - suffice to say, it wasn't for the faint-hearted!)

Next day was Sunday, and it was time to start saying our goodbyes. There was a closing ceremony, where we got to applaud the organizers, and then a final party in a hotel room. On a ledge, a laptop computer piped music into the room. Trust Chris Teague to place his beer bottle on that ledge! There was a clatter, a hiss of spilled beer, and a look of sheer panic on the face of Mister Teague. The lady who owned the laptop raced across the room (with impressive speed, I might add) with a handful of tissues and a catastrophe was narrowly averted. Instructing the room in general (and a somewhat sheepish Chris Teague in particular) to put their blasted bottles on the table where they belonged, she returned to her duties as hostess. That was when we decided it was time for a sharp exit to the sports bar for a last look at those female wrestlers ... er, for a final few pints of that excellent draught Guinness (ahem) before retiring for the night.

The next day, after a final visit to The Eaton Mall to buy a few gifts, I made my way (again splitting a taxi with Mick Sims and Len Maynard) to the airport; it was all over for another year.

In all, this event had had the most British feel of them all; British style pubs, a park with a statue of Winston Churchill, a panel with Peter Crowther and the estimable Ramsay Campbell thundering about the place. Now I'm back in Blighty, with some really great memories of the first World Horror Convention to take place outside of America. In 2008 it's to be held in Salt Lake City, Utah, which doesn't sound nearly so inviting ... then again, who knows? I suppose The Mormon State is as good a place as any .

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

And speaking of Chris Teague, here's his take on events http://www.pendragonpress.co.uk/bookpages/whc07.htm

2006-12-10T09:38:00.000-08:00

FLASH THE ASH!!!

It will be the end of an era. On April the 2nd, 2007, smoking in public places will be banned in Wales; England will follow this example a month later. Die hard smokers are not happy, but it was inevitable.

It will, of course, hit the tobacco industry; but the cancer wards might be a little less overcrowded.

So what of the entertainment world? When we first meet James Bond in the novel Casino Royale, he gets back to his hotel room and lights up his 70th cigarette of the day, while in the film Dr No, Sean Connery introduces himself with that immortal line 'Bond - James Bond' while lighting up a fag. Since Connery, only Timothy Dalton has been seen playing Bond with a fag in his hand - and there were complaints about that; hence Pierce Brosnan punching out a smoking baddie with the line 'Filthy habit!' in the Tomorrow Never Dies pre-credit sequence (and getting slagged off for puffing on a cigar in a later film!).

And of course, there will be no more cigar-chomping fictional characters like Columbo, Rumpole of the Bailey, Hannibal of The A Team; no celebrities with trademark cigars like Groucho Marx, Terry Thomas, Lord Grade ... or Winston Churchill, for that matter.

On the positive side, it will help a lot of people to quit; the one's who earnestly want to pack in the weed, only to have their resolve crack when they enter the smokey atmosphere of a pub or club.

Helpfully, Smoking has become anti-social, where it was once considered cool. Watch a few episodes of a series made years ago, and you almost wince as you see people lighting up in restaurants.

In the late 80's I went to see a play with Keith Michell and Gerald Harper called The Royal Baccarat Scandal. In a crucial scene the cast were smoking cigars, and from where I was sitting (in the front row of the stalls) you could actually smell them. Now, of course, you will have situations (as in a Scottish theatre recently) where Mel Smith played Churchill and had to tote around an unlit cigar because of the smoking ban. This is a price that has to be paid, but in ten years time (I imagine) it will be hard to believe that we ever smoked in public places at all.

Will I miss the smokey atmosphere of a pub? Somehow, the fug of nicotine gave the place a certain ambience --- an unhealthy ambience, it's worth remembering. So will smoking die out altogether? It wouldn't be such a bad thing, but I doubt it; not for a while, anyway. One way and another, this has been a bold move on the part of the government (considering the revenue from the tobacco industry), but I think it will prove a good one.

So, come April the 1st, cigar smokers will have one last chance to bite down on a cigar and give vent to their finest George Peppard impersonation: I love it when a plan comes together.

2006-10-02T02:49:00.000-07:00

It's that time of the year again, The FantasyCon, and this year it was held in Nottingham. Direction's to Britannia Hotel - one mile from station, hotel a few minutes walk from Nottingham Castle. Easy enough, I thought; leave train station, look for the castle and walk towards it. So left station, looked for the castle, couldn't see it, hopped in a taxi.

"Something wrong with the cab in front, mate?"

"Huh?"

This was a taxi rank, and it seemed etiquette dictated that I jump into the lead vehicle. I would have put this matter right, but a woman jumped into the lead vehicle even as the driver was pointing this out to me; so he drove me to the hotel ... where I nevertheless gave the grumpy old sod a tip.

I booked in, and as I was waiting for the receptionist to clear payment on my room from my debit card, the dulcet tones of Chris Teague shattered the silence.

"DAI PRICE!!

I turned around and there was Chris, accompanied by Gary Greenwood, who I hadn't seen at a convention in years. Having dumped my travel bag in my room, I joined them in the bar. We were soon joined by Steve Saville and Simon Clark, and we chatted for a while before I set off in search of some dinner. I'd missed the hotel lunch, so I hit the street and was scandalously over-charged for a cheese and ham toastie in a nearby deli.

The weather wasn't too clever, so we didn't wander too far from the hotel that night; and thereby hung a tale, for the barstaff were obviously unused to having a hoard of thirsty convention goers descending on the bar. Two barstaff and not enough beer to go round, hmph! Mutiny was in the air. Still, we were sure they'd get their act together the following day, when the convention would begin in earnest.

Slowly, the usual suspects began to arrive; Paul Kane and Marie 0'Regan, Stuart Young and Katy, Ramsay Campbell, the editors, writers and publishers ... one or two of the barstaff nearly fainted. Anyway, the night went well, with everyone indulging in the usual boozing and 'bullshitting' that precedes such an event. In the evening I joined John Tarvis, Tony Richards, Gary's Fry and McMahon, Stuart Young and his girlfriend Katy in the traditional hunt for a curry house, a quest that ended up in an all-you-can-eat-for-a-tenner joint called The Taj Mahal; a venue we happily directed Chris Teague to as we made our way back to the hotel.

The next day, the weather had cleared up a treat, so I set out to explore Nottingham. There was a Robin Hood Museum next to the hotel, and young ladies dressed as Maid Marian tried to lure the punters in; however, there was an £8 entrance fee, and as I'd been assured it wasn't worth it, I decided to visit the castle instead (which was a lot cheaper to get into, and a lot more interesting to see).

When I got to there, I found a group of convention-goers (led by Ramsay Campbell) waiting to go in. I followed them as far as the museum, then drifted away. A few hours later I knew quite a bit more about the city of Nottingham that I ever had (courtesy of a twenty-minute film show ... which never once mentioned Robin Hood!)

As I left the castle, I was approached by a woman looking for a pub that was, apparantly, built into the castle walls. I knew nothing about it, of course, but following the castle wall was a simple enough matter, and I soon came across Ye Olde Trippe To Jerusalem , 'The Oldest Pub In Britain'.

Now this is a very atmospheric little place, consisting of about half a dozen very small rooms. The back wall is the side of a mountain, and I couldn't resist partaking of the local brew, 'Cursed Galleon Ale'. This 'haunted' pub was quite a find, and I told everyone about it. Soon, it became 'the' place to visit (helped, no doubt, by the still struggling barstaff ...)

(Mind you, I did make the mistake of saying that I came across it while walking off the previous night's drinking session, which brough about the response "You were walking off last night's beer and you called into a pub for a pint? Somewhat defeats the object of the exercise!" Gary Greenwood doesn't miss a thing:-)

At this point, Mark West turned up and most of us went to the convention room for the interview with guest of honour, Clive Barker; who has lived for many years in The States, but still retains a wonderfully British sense of humour (a particularly salty joke cracked interviewer Paul Kane up so much, he couldn't ask the next question!).

After this it was into the dealer's room to purchase a few books, and once again, I bought more than intended, so will no doubt have plenty to read up until Christmas.

Then Alison Davies arrived with boyfriend Scott, there to promote her new book, 'Shrouded By Darkness', which is raising money for a charity called DebRA. Now Scott is a plain-speaking Scotsman, who responded to my 'How're you doing?' with 'Ahm bloody pissed, mate!' which pretty much set the scene for the evening.

Supper that night was taken in Ye Olde Trippe To Jerusalem, in the company of Alison and Scott, Chris Teague, David Howe and his wife, Gary Greenwood and a few others; and Mark West, who was somewhat perturbed at missing out on a curry, but quite enjoyed a burger while Scott held forth on the subject of ... Marmite. I never realized that a pot of goo could produce such a heated debate. 'Ah hate the fookin' stuff!' Scott said, and was promptly told off by a barmaid for swearing. It was put to a vote (which I abstained from, as I have no recollection whatsoever of actually eating the stuff) and it was agreed by a majority decision(including the barmaid, who described it as 'minging') that it was putridity in a pot. So now you know.

Food eaten, David Howe announced that it was time to get back for the raffle, so we dutifully trudged back to the hotel, Mark West announcing that he would be making tracks once said raffle was over. He obviously didn't know how long these things went on for!

And yes, it did go on, almost to The Witching Hour with Alison Davies waiting to tell her tales. It was the raffle where everyone won ... except me, although that was nothing to do with bad luck. All prizes are donated, and like most people who donate, I tend to use this event as a dumping ground for all my unwanted tat; books I'll never read again, DVD's that looked good but turned out to be a load of rubbish when I bought them; The FCon raffle got the lot. So, by the simple expedient of not shouting 'here' when my number was called, or holding up my hand when the cry of "anyone not won a prize yet?" preceded the handing out of yet more books, I managed not to walk off with anyone else's tat. (Needless to say, for the rest of the convention, unwanted books and video's could be found in various corners and crevices of the hotel, making it either a dream place for people with a passion for films with titles like 'Frankenstein and the Little Green Men From Mars', or a big headache for the cleaning ladies!)

Still, it finally came to an end, and we were all set for Alison's stories. Last year she enjoyed quite a big audience, but this time it was a more intimate affair; and she was as impressive as ever, reciting two of her stories from memory.

Then a most bizarre thing happened. An elderly lady, who we hadn't seen entering the room, approached the table in full Victorian dress (and, in fact, looking a little like Queen Victoria Herself) and, placing a plastic skull on the table, started telling her own story.

There were, of course, a few stifled giggles, but we had to admit she was pretty good; and like Alison, she did the whole thing from memory and delivered the entire recitation in a suitable dramatic style. Yes, she certainly had our attention, even if she had slightly delayed our presence at the bar. Still, being a Saturday night, that bar was open for the duration, so I didn't get to bed until 3'0'clock in the morning. (Pleased to report that the barstaff were finally starting to get that beer flowing by that time :-)

Sunday, and the build-up to the great FantasyCon climax; The FantasyCon Awards; and Stuart Young had actually got a nomination for his novella, The Mask Behind the Face. However, with people like Joe Hill up for the award, he didn't stand much of a chance, and he knew it; but it was, he said, nice to get a mention.

And sure enough ...

"And the winner for best novella is ... Stuart Young, for The Mask Behind the Face."

Now stuart is a master of words, as he amply displayed with his acceptance speech;

"Bu ... Burb ... bur ... th ... thanks."

And later in the corridor.

"Fucking Hell! I mean ... FUCKING HELL!!"

Back in the bar he ordered a bottle of champagne, and we toasted his most deserved success. He wasn't coming down from the clouds any time soon, and why should he? This was his big day, and I was glad I was there to share it with him.

Well, a celebration meal was in order, and where best to take it but at Ye Olde Trippe to Jerusalem; so off we went with Mark Samuels and his wife Adriana (clutching some Doctor Who stuff she'd won in the raffle) and a rather distinctive-looking chap called Gwilym Games, a fellow Welshman with a penchant for gothic clothes and the ghost stories of Arthur Machen. We ate, visited the pub's so-called haunted room, and had a few more jars of 'Cursed Galleon Ale'. Then we bid farewell to Mark and Adriana before making our way back to the hotel.

And that was it, the perfect end to a thoroughly enjoyable convention. It seems that The Britannia will be used again in '07, and this is a good thing. Not only is the food excellent, but the hotel is very convention-friendly; on 'Floor R' is the bar, restaurant, and two main halls that can serve as a dealers room, and the panel room; so instead of going from floor to floor chasing up events (which has been a bit of a bugbear at past conventions), we have no need to leave that particular area. And as I've now developed a taste for 'Cursed Galleon Ale', here's to my next Trippe to Jerusalem.

(For more information on my fellow convention-goers, see below)

2006-09-29T02:31:00.000-07:00

Just got back from a very enjoyable convention in Nottingham. I'll be putting my own spin on events soon, but for now, here's what Chris Teague http://www.pendragonpress.co.uk/bookpages/fcon06.htm , and Stuart Young http://stuyoung.blogspot.com had to say. Also good to meet a few new faces; Midnight Street editor Trevor Denyer http://www.midnightstreet.co.uk making his first visit, and Mark Samuels bringing along a fellow Welshman called Gwilym Games, who are both leading members of 'The Friends of Arthur Machen' http://www.machensoc.demon.co.uk .As you will see from the first two blogs, I'll have much to discuss:-)

2006-08-22T10:10:00.000-07:00

Popping to the shop the other day, I was held up by a film crew. They were shooting an episode of a series called Torchwood (the Dr Who spin off), and were using my old school (Radyr Primary) as a location. According to the notices, it's an episode about Fairy's at the bottom of a garden, and it's to be screened on December the 5th. They had to film one scene; a man driving a car out of the car park. I had to wait nearly an hour as he drove out, reversed back in, drove out ... three times in all, though for the life of me, I couldn't see what was wrong with the first take. Did the car fluff it's lines? Did a member of the crew fart? It it takes that long to film a car driving up a road, God knows how long it takes them to get the more technical stuff right! Still, I'll watch the episode with interest.

And now, I am in the 21st century. For the price of £29.99 I purchased a digi-box, and I now have more than 20 channels to chose from ... and there's still bugger all to watch! No change there, then.

2006-06-06T08:57:00.000-07:00

OUT WITH THE OLD, IN WITH THE NEW

Remember when the video recorder was a modern day miracle?. I think I watched one programme a dozen times during the first week I actually got hold of one. Well, I collected quite a database of video's over the years; so much so that they were stuffed into cupboards, drawers, even a corner of the living room.

The first time I actually bought a tape, back in 1983, it cost £19.95 for two 4-hour tapes; these days, you can get three for a fiver, and a free box thrown in on a 'buy one get one free' basis. Me, I've just cleared up a load of space. The DVD is in, and I recently acquired a DVD/Video recorder; for the last few months I have been transferring all of those programmes and films I taped over the years onto blank DVD's; the old video's have gone into black plastic bags, and taken away by the binmen (over 60 so far, which is probably a good few hundred quid, If I cared to think about it)

Now the space taken up by those video's is free, and all the programmes I kept are in a neat box of 25 DVD's. Of course, I only kept half of those programmes; some video's were so badly degraded that I could only get white static when I played them back; other programmes I sat through and wondered why I'd wanted to keep them in the first place; tastes change, I suppose; but then, so does technology. Video reigned for a quarter of a century, but DVD's (as they are now) are already halfway obsolete. I'm told I might have to transfer again in the very near future; oh well, move with the times.

It's been a fascinating trip down memory lane, though, just watching old television commercials; The late Ronnie Barker advertising cigars; Leo McKern in a bank advert; a 1987 commercial for alcohol-free lager which sent up the big hit film of that year, 'The Untouchables', with a Kevin Costner look-a-like proclaiming 'Alcohol free ... who're they kidding' before ordering all of the bottles destroyed.

Prehaps the most memorable one is for Levi Jeans, in which a huge pair are constructed and then pulled down over the Twin Towers of The World Trade Centre. The final shot is of the jeans dominating the New York skyline, and it's quite a poignant image when seen today.

Still, I have the latest King Kong DVD in my possession, and the quality is superb; good as the old video's were, I don't think I'll miss them.

But I have noticed a new expression creeping into the English language. Take an old film, or an episode of a series that was made a few decades ago, and all of a sudden it is very much of its day. In the Radio Times recently, a reviewer said of a 1951 sci-fi film, 'the sfx are very much of their day. This was also said of a box-set for a 1970's tv series. Very much of it's day? What's wrong with saying that something's looking a bit dated these days? Guy's, stop being so pretentious! If something is a load of old tat, just say so.

2006-04-12T09:49:00.000-07:00

In Cardiff today, I was passing the St David's Hall when I noticed a poster of Gene Pitney. For a moment I wondered why it was still there. Then I took a closer look and saw that it was an invitation to sign a condolence book. Hours before he died, he brought down the house, and the audience gave him a standing ovation. He did what he always did, and performed like there was no tomorrow. He must have been on a high that night, which may be some comfort to his family, friends and fans. It is a sad loss, he was a great singer and performer. But if you have to go, that's the way to do it. I'm glad the citizens of Cardiff made his last night a great one.

2006-03-23T03:16:00.000-08:00

So, after the elation of last years Grand Slam, comes the inevitable comedown; one from the bottom of The 6 Nations table; just ahead of Italy, just behind England. It could have been worse, but we should be used to seeing the Welsh team tumbling from the top of the pile by now. Of course, defeat is never gracefully accepted. Scott Johnson is likely to quit as the Welsh coach, melodramatically claiming that backstabbers have left him feeling 'as bloodied as Braveheart'. England coach Andy Robinson looks set to fall on his sword in similar fashion. Whatever happened the expression, 'It's only a game.' ? Last year was fantastic, but it could never last. The 70's, a time when the Welsh squad really were unbeatable, are long gone. We were spoilt, and we may never see an era like that again; so lets enjoy the game and take the rough with the smooth. (Yeah, as if!)
Still, a bit of patriotic spirit never goes amiss, and if this wasn't our year ... well, maybe our time will come again. Here's to 2007.

2006-02-08T07:50:00.000-08:00

Ten Years.

My involvement in the Independent Press started over a game of pool. It was 1995, and I had dreams of being a writer. I'd penned a few short stories, but had no idea where to get them published. The subject of writing came up. My fellow player was a man called Tommy Sutton, a keen writer himself. He told me to call by his house a little later on. When I did, he handed me a shopping bag full of magazines (including an early issue of Peeping Tom, dating back to 1992, which I rather wish I'd kept). It also contained a copy of what was, at the time, the small press writers almanac; Zene. All of a sudden, I had a possible outlet for my writing.
A few weeks later, I had my first couple of acceptances. Finally, a magazine dropped through my letterbox. It was the third issue of a magazine called R.Q.C, edited by a chap called Gavin Wilson. I'll never forget the date; February the 28th, 1996, and nothing has quite matched the excitement of seeing my work in print for the first time. It even had a full-page illustration, which I was really excited about. At last, I was a writer.
Ten years, it's hard to believe. One thing's for sure, a lot has changed in that time. I'll discuss this in greater detail, but for now, a good way to look back is by reprinting an interview that came out five years ago.
Another writer making an early appearance in that issue was John B. Ford, and a couple of years later he was hosting a website caled Terror tales on-line. A collection of my stories, Evil Eye, was due for release and it was a great way to mark five years as a writer. TT On-line no longer exists, so I'll reproduce the interview here. As you'll see, we looked ahead to this moment in time, and I'm pleased to say, we are still here.

David Price interviewed by John B. Ford; Terror Tales on-line, 2001;

JBF: Well your first book, The Evil Eye, is about to be published, and it seems a very long time ago since we appeared in RQC magazine together at the start of our careers. We both arrived on the small press scene back in early 1996, and in those days everything was absolutely buzzing. How do you think the current UK market compares with that period, and is there more or less of an oppertunity for new authors to make a name for themselves?

DP: Looking back, it seemed that for every magazine that folded, three would spring up to take it's place. These days, every magazine that folds leaves a gap in the market. There are plenty of webzines, and they look good; but they are ephemeral, and tend to go off-line before you get a chance to read all the stories. Every week a link comes up inviting you to check out this or that webzine; but there are so many you rarely get a chance to check out more that the odd story here and there. In short, up and coming writers have as much chance of getting published, but probably less chance of getting established.

JBF: Over the years we've attended many Terror Scribes gatherings together and always had one hell of a good time, drinking venues dry and making new friends along the way. How important do you think it is for new authors to go out and meet like-minded people, and what do you think is the art of becoming the perfect terror scribe?

DP: Meeting up with fellow small press writers and becoming firm friends with people I'd never have known otherwise, has been one of my greatest pleasures. I remember the first one I attended; it was a wet Saturday afternoon in November, back in 1997; I'd never met any of you, so when you talked about putting this 'do' together, I decided to travel up. You were the first person I approached at the station. I was then introduced to Paul Finch, Derek M. Fox, Pete Attaway, Ritchie Bennett, Kim Padgett Clarke, Rob Gill, Paul Bradshaw, and Gary Greenwood. Then we went to the pub where the time passed just too damn quickly. When I got on the train back to Cardiff, I remember thinking,'what a great bunch, I hope that's not the last I see of them'. Thankfully, it wasn't. Important? I think so, as it gives small press writers a chance to chat about their writing. I don't know about you, but where I live there is absolutely no one who shares my interest. (Note; Tommy Sutton had long since moved house by the time if this interview - Dave) The art of becoming a perfect terror scribe? Just get your butts over to a venue and join us for a drink.

JBF: You've a wide variety of styles and subjects at your disposal. One thing I've always meant to ask you about is your influences, and favourite authors. Which writers were responsible for David Price picking up the pen himself, and which books have you enjoyed reading over the years?

DP: In the early years, Alistair Maclean and Jack Higgins, who wrote great adventure stories. Then, of course, there were the Pan and Fontana books of horror, which led me to horror fiction, and I started reading Edgar Allan Poe. Unfortunately, horror gained a bad name due to a proliferation of artless slasher-shockers, and I cooled to it a little. Then someone gave me a copy of James Herbert's 'The Magic Cottage'. It's considered one of his weaker books but I loved it, and I've been a fan ever since.

Other good writers are Clive Cussler and Wilbur Smith. H.G. Wells 'The Time Machine' is a real classic; the wonderful prose really drags you into the adventure. But as to horror, I tend to favour period pieces; the writing is more attractive and the times darker. Horror at sea works well because it's an alien environment with no escape. That is why Hope Hodgson's stories are still gripping today. But if this preference for period horror stems from anything, it is from watching Hammer and Universal horror films. Back in the 70's and 80's, BBC 2 used to screen horror film double bills on a Saturday night, and in the days before I was old enough to go down the pub (and in the late 70's, you couldn't go in if you were under 18) I used to really look forward to them. There were some modern horror flicks, but I always preferred the period ones.

Conan Doyle's Sherlock Holmes stories also gripped me from an early age.

Anyway, some more great books; 'The Sound of Thunder' by Wilbur Smith, 'HMS Ulysses' by Alistair Maclean, 'Strangers' by Dean Koontz, 'The Eagle has Landed' by Jack Higgins, 'Shrine' by James Herbert, 'By The Rivers of Babylon' by Nelson DeMille. I'm also a keen reader of the marvellous Dick Francis.

JBF: In the past couple of years we've been swept off our feet by the rapid expansion of the Internet and all the webzines that are devoted to horror fiction. I know from one of your editorials in 'Tales of the Grotesque & Arabesque' that you were vehemently opposed to new technology. Have your views changed at all since that time?

DP: Ah yes, that creative plague known as the Internet! I have changed my views; but I still hate the way it has decimated the market. When I started 'Tales of the Grotesque & Arabesque' back in '97, webzines were virtually unheard of. But in the last year or so we've all hooked up, and the Net is a good medium. I still say that you can't beat a good magazine, and I took a pride in designing my own; even if it was a pretty basic affair. But the Net is providing a market for fiction, so I have to grudgingly approve of it in that respect. But magazines have always been the medium, right back to the days of Edgar Allan Poe, and if it hadn't been for publicactions like 'The Strand', we'd never have heard of Sherlock Holmes. However, the last time I made a statement like that - on the 'Masters of Terror' website - I kicked off quite a debate. At the end of the day, we all have out own opinions and we can only go round and round in circles debating the matter. But I have to say that I really enjoy keeping in touch with the other terror scribes on a regular basis. The message boards are a great invention.

JBF: The American small press seems much more healthy than our own, with numerous magazines and small book publishers for authors to aim their work at. What do you think has gone wong in the UK? Do you think it is because printing prices are so much cheaper in the US, or maybe the Americans are just so much more enthusiastic than potential UK publishers?

DP: The American market can certainly boast a larger base of subscribers. In Britain - with the exception of publications like 'The Third Alternative' and 'Interzone' - a magazine can hope to shift, at best, around 300 copies. American editors can think in terms of thousands. As to why the UK small press is dying on its feet, who knows? Maybe prospective editors are seeing all these print magazines dying and thinking, why bother? It may not be terminal, but writers coming onto the scene have fewer markets to aim at than we did five years ago. Sadly, I'd have to conclude that the small press hey-day has gone.

JBF: As I've said, you write in quite a variety of styles very successfully, your fiction stretching from Victorian influence to a much more cutting edge, modern horror. Where do you get your ideas for such a wide variety of stories, and how much time do you spend outlining your work beforehand?

DP: Blimey John, that's quite a question; it tends to vary from story to story. The best I can do is give you a few examples. For instance, I am interested in history, and quite a few ideas have come from the history books. SplatterJack ('Hallowzine, 1996 & Enigmatic Tales, 1998), was set during the Napoleonic wars. The supernatural tale was fiction, but the conspiracy taking place in the background was real enough. I wrote 'The Transportee (Terror Tales, 1998) after flipping through a history book of Australia. A full chapter was given over to the penal colonies, and this gave me all the background I needed to tell a story about a transported criminal.

A few stories had to be planned and researched; one called 'Guardians of the Future (Zest, 1997) was set in the 1890's, and required a good working knowledge of London at the time, so I bought a book called 'Jack the Ripper - The Final Solution' , by Stephen Knight. It had maps, all the period descriptions I needed, and it was a subject that interested me. Better still, it was to inspire one of my more successful stories (Amphytrion, but more about that later), so I certainly got my monies worth out of that purchase.

Another example; I was in town one hot summers day, and I called into a Cardiff pub called 'The Old Orleans. I sat at a table with a cold lager, somebody was smoking a cigar, bluesy jazz music was playing in the background. I was mellowed, and thought it would make a great opening for a story. It led to 'Deathbed Confessor'. I didn't have a story when I started writing, but halfway through I had a great idea for a set piece. Suddenly, the plot came to me. The story was published in the American magazine 'Not One Of Us' in '98, giving me my first American credit. I was really glad I called into the pub that day.

I could go on quite a bit, but I'll just give you one more example; the title story of my collection, 'Evil Eye'. During the miners strike, a mate suggested I do a little spying down the Cardiff Docks with him; that is, note the names of the firms that were collecting imported coal. It sounded like a lark, but it was two hours of boredom. Later that night we went to a pub, prevented several barrels of lager from going sour, then drunkenly vowed to set fire to some of the lorries. We didn't, of course - even drunk we had more sense than that!- but I could still imagine the consequences, and ... well, you'll just have to read the story.

I hasten to add that this was back in 1984, and I've mellowed a lot since then!

As for setting out a story, I always write it out in long hand forst. Then I type it up, and spend a couple of weeks (sometimes months!) revising it. Most editors take a story from a disk, and I found that if I didn't clean up the spelling, punctuation and typos, They sure as hell wouldn't. It may be laborious, but it's worth it in the long run.

JBF: Since 2001 brings you to the grand old age of 40, perhaps it's time to take stock. What has been the highlight of your writing career so far, and do you think you'll still be active in the horror genre in five years time?

DP: The last five years have been pretty good. 'Tales of the Grotesque & Arabesque' was the highlight. It was never going to be one of the big boys, , but I was pleased with the reaction to it. It's been great meeting up with the terror scribes, and I hope to be around for some time.

What will I be doing in five years time? Dreading my 45th birthday (Er ... no, as it happens - Dave, 5 years on) enjoying meeting terror scribes old and new (I got that right) ,and still trying to write a decent story. It would be nice to think I'll be an established author by then, but I wouldn't bet a months wages on it. (Just as well :-(

JBF: Finally can you name your own favourite stories from 'The Evil Eye', telling us a little about them and why you've chosen them?

DP: Of the stories, 'Amphytrion' and 'The Tower of Wisdom' got very positive reactions I've mentioned before that I got the idea for Amphytrion from a book about Jack the Ripper. In 'The Final Solution', one of the suspects is an English painter called Walter sickert. One of his paintings (called, of course 'Amphytrion') depicted an old legend; that of the God Jupiter (aka Zeus) coming to earth in the guise of a mortal man and leaving his seed in a woman. It gave me an idea; what if the descendants of that woman were still walking the earth today?

'The Tower of wisdom' is set in a post-apocalyptic future where everyone has to live in an artificially created environment. It was written after I had read A.J.P. Taylor's excellent account of the first world war. Reading about the political arrogance that prolonged that terrible campaign, I could still get incensed about it - even after eighty years. Although the story is set in the future, it was the events of World war 1 that inspired it.

Other stories? Hopefully, people will drop by on my notice board and let me know what they think; good, bad or indifferent. Either way, this collection is a great way to mark five years of writing for the small press. There'll be good times ahead, and I'm looking forward to more get-togethers, more drinking sessions, and more conventions; hopefully, I'll make next years WorldCon in Chicago. It would be nice to get acquainted with more of our American counterparts. (I did make that convention in Chicago, and more recently, New York; and yes, those americans really know how to party!)

Anyway, I shall now conclude this interview in the only way I know how; with a bit of humour.

The other week a group of terror scribes went line-dancing, but it was a complete disaster; they kept tripping over the pegs;-)

(Oh well, there goes my street cred!)

All the best, John, and here's to the next Alcohol haze.

2006-01-17T08:53:00.000-08:00

SO NOW THE FUTURE IS BEHIND US ...

It seems like only yesterday. We were all talking about the approach of a milestone; 2001, the official start of the new century/millennium, but also the most famous future date there was (thanks, largely, to Stanley Kubrick's 1968 epic).

First thought; 'Bloody Hell! Where have the last 5 years gone?'. Then I have to consider what this 'future' has been like. Pretty dull, if you take science fiction as a marker. We don't have a colony on the moon (as in Space 1999 ... although, thankfully, we do still have the moon). Wheel-shaped spaceships are not hovering around Jupiter, cars do not hover, people are not teleported from one place to the next. I don't know what a person transported from the mid-1970's to the present day would make of mobile 'phones or the internet, but I can imagine his general reaction; Is this it?

CD's and DVD's might seem pretty nifty (mind you, back then, a video recorder was unheard of) and e-mail would be a wonder.

What else?

Cars don't really look futuristic; we're still complaining about busses and trains running late; on TV there are far too many soap opera's (but with more channels, there are now far too many 'make over' and 'reality' shows to keep them company); the country is being run by an incompetent government and the monarchy is still a national joke (and speaking of jokes --- Sir Mick Jagger, Sir Cliff Richard, Sir Tom Jones, Sir Paul McCartney); we still have wars, we are not 'boldly going where no man has gone before', and people on a minimum wage are still living on the breadline. Millions are on the dole, in debt, or living in slum areas that should have gone out with the Victorian age. And if you want justice in the courts you have to be a lowlife criminal; honest and decent citizens get the book thrown at them for the least transgression, while hardened villains are paid thousands of pounds in compensation if they are not allowed to watch their favourite soap opera!

Well, I don't think our mythical 70's time traveller would be too dazzled by the new Millennium. Disappointed, maybe, as he'd hardly notice any difference. Still, Richard Branson is planning to take tourists into space, America still wants to send men to Mars (mind you, I have some picture cards - which came in packets of tea in the early 70's - which stated their plans to send a man there by 1981; so we can take that little claim with a pinch of salt!), so we'll have to wait and see just how futuristic the future is going to get.

But for now it's 2006, the 5th year of the 21st century, and very little has changed. Somehow, nostalgia seems a little redundant.

2005-11-20T05:19:00.000-08:00

I've just read John B Ford's collection, The Evil Entwines; it features a story we wrote a while back called The Man with the Haunted Eyes. It got me thinking about the fascinating business of story collaboration. The first time I ever did it was back in the late '90's. At my first ever FantasyCon, in Birmingham, I met D.F. Lewis for the first time. He had already done a number of collaborations and asked if I wanted to work with him. Naturally, I was keen to give it a go.

As it happened, I had a 2k word story that had started well, but had a poor ending. So I cut it in half and sent Des the first thousand words. It became a 3,500k word story called Disaffected Blood, and was published in Unhinged Magazine back in 2000. A second collaboration, Even Dogs Could Talk, appeared in Roadworks - Tales From the Hard Road a few months later; then a third, What Dreams May Come, appeared in a magazine called Redsine.

There were others --- To the Daemon - We Give Breath, with John B. Ford (Evil Eye, 2001); The Hurricane of Nightmares, with Paul Bradshaw (to be published in a future issue of Terror Tales); No Red Worms, with Sarah Crabtree (which appeared in a booklet jokingly called Zara - The Text Files); and one called David Bluestocking, which I wrote with Sarah Crabtree and John B. Ford.

Collaborating is a simple matter these days; you just write a section and e-mail it on; but when I first did it (with Des and John) back in the '90's, we had to rely on the GPO. So you wrote a section, posted it off, and then waited for the return post to see where your partner had taken it. Then, of course (if you had started the collaboration) you had to type up his contribution before taking up the thread. Then it was back in an envelope. Yes, the internet does have its benefits.

But it's a funny old business, collaborating. Sometimes it can work spectacularly well. Mick Sims and Len Maynard are a good team, as are Steve Lockley and Paul Lewis. But obviously, it doesn't always work. My favourite story in The Evil Entwines is The Cairn, which John wrote with Paul Finch. Together, they have crafted a dark, and absorbing tale of the supernatural. Less successful is The Winged Menace, written with D.F. Lewis, in which two completely different writing styles clash jarringly. If a co-writer can go with Des's style, you'll get a decent story. Unfortunately, and with all due respect, The Winged Menace is a bit of a mess. So, it's a bit of a rough-with-the-smooth affair, but generally worth the effort.

The main problem is that you are reluctant to edit your partner's contribution, but it has to be done. What Dreams May Come had several rejections before I realized that it had to be drastically pared down. I butchered it, and finally got it published. I learned a long time ago that a story is not your baby; it is a piece of meat, and will only be palatable when you have hacked off all the lean and cut out all the gristle; collaborations have to be regarded in the same way, only more so. It is all a matter of getting the narrative to flow, and this doesn't always happen when two or more people are working on a single story. So yes, it is always going to be a hit and miss affair, but it is often an interesting - and occasionally, rewarding - experience.

I'm pleased to say that the quality of The Evil Entwines (great title, that) is generally quite high, and with writers like Ramsay Campbell, Simon Clark, Tim Lebbon, Sims and Maynard, Derek M. Fox, Gary Greenwood and Thomas Ligotti involved, John could hardly go wrong. A knockout piece of artwork by Loretta Mansell completes the package nicely.

2005-11-18T06:16:00.000-08:00

I have now termininated my first, and last, brush with the stock market. In 2001 I had a handsome payoff on an investment I made in 1995 so my bank manager persuaded me to go with this investment firm. It was a 'risk' investment, but the economy was in reasonably good shape. A few months later came the 9/11 attacks on New York. The first statement I received showed a loss of more than £3000 on my investment. It went back up (and down and up and down and up ...) but the comeback has always been less than my original investment. Six months ago it was a thousand down and I was tempted to pull out then; however, the thought of losing a thousand pounds held me back. Thankfully, the latest statement was a hundred pounds over, so I finally withdrew it; however, that statement was over a month old so it had dropped again; so, having allowed this firm to sit on my money for more than five years, I made a profit of £48.06. I do not intend to make another investment like that; from now on I shall just sit back and watch the interest grow.

Which is just as well, with the government's pension proposals.

Work 'till 67!!

Stuff that; I have a private pension, and if I can boost it with a savings account, I shall retire at 55 (Oh for a win on the lottery!)

Working life is a drudge for some, and adding years to an overworked populations working life is not the greatest vote-winner that Tony Blair has ever come up with. I would never vote anything other than labour; but come on chaps, where's this feel-good factor you used to talk about?

2005-10-09T08:25:00.000-07:00

So, to the 29th FantasyCon, in Walsall, at The Quality Hotel - a venue so craftily hidden that most of the guests ended up back on the M6 Toll Road! (I passed the entrance 3 times, wound up in a strange part of town some miles away, and ended up paying a taxi driver to go there so I could follow him. So much for my AA Road map!)

Still, a few relaxing drinks later, and I was chilled out, even though I'd arrived a day early. The next morning I decided to go for a walk, but The Heaven's opened up, so I turned back. Just then, a taxi pulled up in front of me and out stepped Marie 0'Regan and Paul Kane. It was too early for them to book into their rooms, so we went to check in at the convention desk. Again, it was too early, so we helped the organizers to fill the obligatory 'Goody Bags' with books, flyers, and anything else that came to hand. Then we went back to the lounge and waited for the other guests to arrive.

First in was Chris Teague, of Pendragon Press, and then other's started to drift in. Of the Terror Scribes there was Rob Roundtree, Lisa Negus, Mark West and his wife Alison, Alison L. R. Davies (there to give a reading of two of her stories, and pretty nervous by that time), Len Maynard and Mick Sims. Later I would meet up with Gary's Fry and McMahon, (There to push the long-awaited Poe's Progeny anthology), Terry Gates Grimwood , who was setting up a dealer table for D-Press chapbooks, and the incomparable Jetse DeVries.

The rest of the time it was business as usual as we attended the numerous panel's and story-telling sessions, the whole event, as ever, benefitting from the larger-than-life presence of BFS Chairman Ramsay Campbell (who drew the first night to a close with a reading of his spooky new short story).

The panel's themselves were enjoyably diverse. Ramsay Campbell, Paul Kane, Simon Clark, Matthew Holness (star of the dark Channel 4 comedy series, Garth Marenghi's Dark Place http://www.garthmarenghi.com/ ) and a slightly late Joe Hill discussed comedy in horror, then Stephen Gallagher and Paul Finch talked about their (mostly frustrating) experiences writing for television. This included an audience-participation session in which we were asked to devise a television series. Then Paul Kane interviewed Simon Clark before we went for a buffet and a drink in the hotel bar.

Later on there was a quiz, which my team won, but don't ask me how; the questions were really bizarre. Other events included a raffle (in which Paul Finch was overjoyed to win a hammock!) and story-telling from Alison Davies (who calmed herself down with a glass of wine, then went on to wow the audience with an impressive, off-the-cuff recital) and Joe Hill, an American writer who read a selection from his new book of supernatural tales.

Finally, Graham Joyce opened the book launch and I purchased several titles, including Poe's Progeny, New Wave (an anthology by the newly-formed Crowswing Books www.crowswingbooks.co.uk ) , a number of D-Press chapbooks and The Life to Come by Tim Lees.

The launch went well, and once again the event was over all too soon. I said my farewells, threw all my purchases into the back of my car, and set off on the long drive back to Cardiff. Next year will be the 30th anniversary bash and big things are promised. With any luck, I'll be there; hopefully, in a hotel that's easier to find!

As ever, it's hats off the The British Fantasy Society for putting together a really enjoyable event ... and hoping that I get to enjoy many more.

2005-10-02T09:40:00.000-07:00

There is a review of my story 'Silhouette', which recently appeared in the magazine 'Jupiter' at http://www.laurahird.com/newreview/jupiterix.html . As you can see, I've been brought to book over my spelling of whisky. All I can say is, 'Won't do it again'. Still, the review is mostly positive, so I've posted the link.

Also, spent a pleasant weekend in Walsall attending the FantasyCon; it was good to meet old friends and make a few new one's. The event was good fun, and I'll make out a fuller report later. Great job on the part of the organizers

2005-09-21T10:04:00.000-07:00

And so another birthday has come around. 44 Years old, Jesus. Still, a couple of mates made sure I didn't get too thirsty last night, and I have a few saucy cards on display. Mind you, I'm beginning to wish that birthdays didn't come around quite so often :-(

2005-09-02T08:03:00.000-07:00

So while I'm on the subject of things that really get my goat ...

Those frigging Norwich Union ad's, where complete morons wet their knickers in joy because they get a cheaper car insurance.

British television. We used to regard cornball American programmes with contempt. Now they are sending over C.S.I - Crime Scene Investigation, The Shield, Law & Order, The Soprano's. All our lot can churn out are bad reality shows (I hope the tosser who devised Big Brother get's nits, not least of all for inflicting that mouth on legs, Davina McCall, on us), and those lamentable displays of amateur dramatics that are the British Soap Opera's; once used a fillers, these mind-numbing crap-fests now account for every single hour of the evening. Worse, you can't pick up a paper without reading about what these 'fictional' characters are doing ... like the whole country gives a shit !
I reckon they should get their own cable channel, which I will have the option not to subscribe to. People who hate soap opera's pay the licence fee as well, chaps, so give us a break :-(

Comedy icons they may be, but I could cheerfully live out my days without seeing another laughter-free, so-called American comedy starring Will Ferrell, Owen Wilson, Ben Stiller or Adam Sandler (or, for that matter, any other woefully unfunny 'comedian'). I recently sat through the dire Wedding Crashers and enough is enough. Sharing expenses on an 'Orange Wednesday' deal is fine, but I've sat through one too many films I didn't particularly want to see just to get a free cinema ticket. American humour does nothing for me.

And I wish they's stop remaking films. Pearce Brosnan in The Thomas Crown Affair? Not bad, but did we need it? Don't even get me started on Tim Burton's botched remake of Planet of the Apes. As for Starskey & Hutch with Owen Wilson and Ben Stiller ...

Right, rant over. Normal service wil now be resumed as soon as possible.

2005-08-26T07:59:00.000-07:00

So far, I haven't had a good rant about something on this page. Well, as no blog would be complete without a grumble, here goes.
How do BR justify the cost of a trip on The Heathrow Express? On the face of it, this seems a good service; a cheap return to Paddington, then a train straight to your terminal. That journey from Paddington to Heathrow takes less than fifteen minutes; and yet they charge £16 ... ONE WAY!!!
So £32 there and back. The Cardiff/Paddington return was only £49, so the only expression that springs to mind for this little practice is 'Rip Off'!
Let's face it, BR can hardly say that it doesn't get used very often; it's always full; and what do you get for such an exorbitant cost? A free drink? Some food, maybe? No; it's a fifteen minute journey; you get a common or garden train and that's it.
So next time it'll be a case of 'stuff the train, I'm taking the coach'. The train is quicker and more convenient, but a return on a coach will be a lot cheaper that the £81 I ended up forking out to British Rail. This may be the age of the train, but at those prices they can stuff it!

2005-08-23T09:43:00.000-07:00

I have now given my first 'official' pint of blood. While shopping at Asda, I saw a sign saying that a mobile unit would be calling by on the following Thursday; so I duly presented myself on the day, and can now 'officially' call myself 'a blood donor'. A few days later, it was many happy returns to my brother, Bob, who hit 60. Wow, I hope I'm a lot fitter than him when I reach that age ;-)
And speaking of Bob's ... on Wednesday evenings I go down my local pub, The Ty-nant (that means house by the stream) and test my general knowledge in 'Bob's Big Quiz'. He's been asking why I haven't posted a link to his website. Good question, so here goes http://www.bobsbigquiz.co.uk . If you're ever in the vicinity, drop in and get a load of the most irritating catchphrases in any pub quiz, anywhere in the country:-)

Hmm. Giving blood and taking part in pub quizzes. I really live the life, don't I!

2005-07-26T08:09:00.000-07:00

When I finally decided to give blood, I didn't know what I was letting myself in for. I'd thought about it for a long time, but I'd never got around to it. Then, while out for a drive, I spotted a sign giving directions to a community centre where a session was taking place. I suppose I'd thought to nip in - much like Tony Hancock in The Blood Donor - offer up a drop of the red stuff and forget all about it. But of course, it isn't that simple in this day and age; when you give blood today, you sign up to a long term commitment. The first pint is for analysis; then, if it's a good vintage, you go into a database and more or less join a society.

Here's how it pans out. About a week after giving blood you are sent a letter, explaining that you will receive notification of local donor sessions. With this letter is a plastic card, which you present when you turn up. It is the size of a credit card, and - below the words 'I Give Blood. I Save Life - is your name, your blood group (A Rhesus Positive, in my case), and your donor number. Now you are ready to give blood in earnest.

I'm happy to sign up to this club, but I'm somewhat amused by the incentive they offer to keep you interested. The donor card is an attractive red number, but you can earn a sort of promotion. This card is for sessions 1 to 4. After this, you will receive a green card, which you will present at sessions 5 to 9. Progression is slower after this. A yellow card will cover sessions 10 to 24 ( I should point out that there is a period of 16 weeks between sessons), and so on until you get a magic purple card (the 7th and final one) which you will receive after a hundred donations; If I've done my math right, I'll be 55 when I get that one!

Among the interesting facts; Blood makes up about 7% of your body's weight: A newborn baby has about one cup of blood in its body; There are around one billion red blood cells in 2 to 3 drops of blood; Earthworm, leeches and insects have green blood; Lobsters and crabs have blue blood because it contains copper instead of iron; There is NO substitute for human blood.

Hmm. I think I'll make an effort to get that purple card;-) www.welshblood.org.uk

2005-07-05T09:59:00.000-07:00

NEW YORK (DAY 1) I arrived in New York, on a Thursday, in one of Richard Branson's planes ... and was immediately put through my paces at Customs. I got to the back of a queue, had my fingerprints taken and my retina's scanned ... then found myself at the back of another queue! Why they can't combine fingerprinting and passport checking, I don't know; still, with a cheery 'Welcome to New York' I was admitted to The Big Apple.
Leaving the terminal, I hopped on an airport bus, which took nearly an hour to clear JFK; there were several terminals to stop and pick up passengers from, which was only to be expected; but then, just as we reached the exit, a man jumped on to check everyone's ticket. As the bus was full, this took a frustrating ten minutes, which may not sound like much, but I was getting really fed up with all that stopping and starting by then. Anyway, he finally left the bus, and we finally left the airport. By this time, we'd hit the rush hour (and if that expression is not a contradiction in terms, I don't know what is).
Lulled by the tedium of the journey (travelling through New York on a bus might sound 'almost' romantic, but after a long flight, you just want to crash out in your hotel) I started to drift off. But then I looked up, and there, through the front window of the bus, was the famous Manhatten skyline; looming ahead of us through a faint mist. Then we were racing by the Brooklyn Bridge, and I realized that I had finally arrived; that first glimpse of New York will stay with me for quite a while.
It took nearly an hour to reach Grand Central Station, where I disembarked and took a yellow cab to my Hotel. Having booked in, I went to the bar for a drink ... and bumped straight into Darren Floyd, who I'd known for a long time but hadn't seen for years, and Robert Shuster, who I'd met at my last convention in Chicago (back in 2002; more about that later).
Dumping the luggage in my room, I had a strip wash (couldn't get the bloody shower to work!) and a change of clothes. Then I left the hotel and went for a drink in a small Irish bar just across the street. Somehow, with several customers loudly cussing a baseball game on the television, I didn't get much sense of home; however, homesickness wasn't a problem.
Having paid for my drink in the American way (leaving the money, plus a one dollar tip, on the bar) I went back to the hotel and took a seat in the reception area. I felt like going to bed, but it had only just turned 8:30 (Nearly 2 in the morning back in Blighty, which was where I'd left my body clock) so sleep would have to wait.
Earlier, I'd met up with fellow scribbler Stuart Young, who was going for a meal with his girlfriend, Katy, and two American girls (one of whom - Diane - I'd briefly met in Chicago) and he asked me if I wanted to come along. So we took the ten minute walk to Times Square (which, with its theatres, flashing neon signs and billboards, looked exactly like the West End Of London) and ended up in a Sbarro Deli. Just like in Britain, we ended up tucking into a pizza. However, I did make a useful discovery. Just across the road from the convention hotel (The Park Central) was another hotel Called The Wellington, which boasted a huge neon sign that I could see halfway down Times Square. Such markers are very welcome in an unfamiliar city, and meant I wouldn't spent too much time getting lost.
On the way back we bumped into another writer, Tony Richards, and we all went back to the hotel in search of a party. By this time, I was all set to retire for the night, but was cajoled into tagging along for a few beers. (And as I have the breaking strain of a Kit-Kat in that respect, I didn't take much cajoling!)
That night, The Heavens opened up in spectacular fashion, and it was still raining the next morning. But as you will see, the weather did improve!

DAY 2: And a lesson in taking breakfast in The Big apple; don't eat in the hotel! They charge you a packet for the room (a convention discount came in handy this time) and then bill you for the breakfast; twenty five bucks, and don't expect them to bring you the change. Go out to a deli and get just as good a breakfast for a third of the cost.
However, I digress. I'd arranged to meet up with Sarah Crabtree and her family, who'd arrived the day before I did. They were more familiar with the city than I was, so I just followed them around. First up, a visit to The Empire State building, and an ear-popping ride to the observation floor. The day was clear and sunny, a big difference to the night before (and it was going to get hotter) so there was a great view from up there. A solemn moment came when I looked at the Manhatten skyline, and came across a plaque that represented it. A series of dots showed the location of The World Trade Centre, and all of a sudden the vacuum was quite noticeable. When we left, I looked back at the building. I would later remember that the twin towers were bigger than The Empire State Building. I'd seen them collapse several times on television, but it's hard to imagine such a huge structure collapsing in real life.
We made our way to Macy's and spent quite a while in there, although to be honest, it was a bit like wandering around Debenhams.
After taking dinner in a food emporium, we made our way back. One of the things that strikes you about New York is the absolute shamelessness of the place. Most shops sold t-shirts, and the slogans were pretty forthright; 'New York Fuckin' City' being one of the cleaner ones. All of these were openly displayed on the pavement (beg your pardon, sidewalk). If they did this in Britain, the police would soon be onto them - "Move this merchandise inside, sir; women and children, you know!" New Yorkers, however, don't even look.
Later that evening there was a mass book-signing, and Sarah - who was staying in another hotel a block away - came over. We bought books, and I got to meet a chap called Stephen Shrewsbury, a Chicago-based writer I'd communicated with on the old (and much missed) Terror Tales website.
Having made our purchases, and had a drink in the hotel bar, I walked Sarah back to her hotel. It was almost surreal walking through the streets; yellow cabs driving by, steam gushing up out of the drains. It was a bit like merging into a movie set.
Having seen Sarah safely back, I returned to the hotel in search of a party; but the management of Park Central didn't exactly encourage this sort of thing, so thanks to those miserable party poopers, we went off in search of a bar. I bumped into Stephen Shrewsbury again, and a group of us finally found a quiet bar, and (in between distractions from a really scatty barmaid) chatted into the early hours of the morning. Then it was back to the hotel for a few hours shut-eye before embarking on ...

DAY 3. Down to Times Square for breakfast, then a morning stroll through Central Park (the park being a five minute walk from the hotel in one direction - Times Square a ten minute walk in the other). I sat on a bench and watched a few kids playing baseball (while their parents egged them on as though they were taking part in The World Series!) for a time, then made my way to Sarah's hotel, where I'd arranged to meet up with them. On the agenda that day; a visit to The Yankee stadium to watch a baseball game between The New York Yankees and the Baltimore Orioles. This meant finding our way to The Bronx on the New York subway. No problem; we just looked out for a group of whooping idiots in baseball caps and followed them:-)
Back in Chicago three years earlier, a group of us had idly discussed going to a game, but of course, we never got around to it. Sarah's husband, Andrew, just went on-line and booked the tickets, and it was to make for a great afternoons entertainment. But first, we had to find our seats.
This was a lot more hair-raising than it sounds, as the Yankee stadium is a vast colliseum of a place, and the seating arrangements, in the stands, are a little unnerving. There is a two foot walkway, with no safety railings, and the back of the seat of the person in front of you is, literally, at your feet. God help anyone losing their balance there! I doubt that health and safety regulations would allow such a construction in Britain.
We found our seats and I clamped myself down and held on. No way was I moving before I had to.
Once settled ,I was able to enjoy the carnival atmosphere, for American League Baseball is pure entertainment; all over the ground, billboards pump out messages, encouraging the crowds to cheer, boo, sing, do the Mexican wave. Like cricket, there are gaps in the action; unlike cricket, the Americans know how to fill in the gaps. Yes, it was fun; I was enjoying American 'culture' in all its loud, and colourful glory. At the end of the game we made our way back to the subway, myself clutching a Yankees magazine and an autographed baseball I'd bought off a vendor outside the stadium.
Back to Manhatten and it was time for a last traipse through the shops before parting company with the Crabtree's, who were flying home the next day. New York, I have to admit, would have been a lesser experience without them.
But I had been careless in my dress-sense. After the deluge that had greeted my arrival, I had hardly been expecting a heatwave; but I had sat in The Yankee Stadium for the best part of four hours with the sun beating down on me; so not surprisingly, my face had turned a shade of crimson by the time I got back to the hotel. So explanations were in order, and I spent the rest of the convention hearing, 'What? You went to a ball game and didn't wear a baseball cap!!!' I couldn't tell whether they considered this a breach of etiquette or a very stupid thing to do - probably both. At least it showed that we Brits can still give the Americans a good laugh!
But, of course, I was asked who won.
"Er, I said I was there: I didn't say I knew what was going on!"
But I can tell you now that it was a victory for the Yankees that day.

Day 4, being a quiet day - and the day when most attendees were heading for home - I pretty much had the day to myself. So I spent the morning buying postcards and t-shirts (and a hooded sweatshirt, which you can see me wearing on my website) and then I made my way to Times Square. This was my last day and there was one trek I just had to make.
I got on a New York Tour Bus, and in this way I got to see most of the city. But it was Liberty Island I wanted to visit, and it was there I disembarked. I bought a ticket for the ferry and (as it was another scorcher) I belatedly bought a baseball cap. Then it was a short trip to the island. The ferry sailed right in front of The Statue on its way to the docking point, and everyone moved forward to look at her.
How many times have I seen this statue in films, television programmes and photographs? I couldn't say, but it was a magical moment when I looked up into her face for the first time.
It was a glorious day, and I spent over an hour on the island, alternatively looking up at the statue, and across the bay at the classic view of the New York skyline. This was the real New York experience, the one my trip wouldn't have been complete without. I was only sorry that I couldn't enter the statue Herself; they closed down at 4:30, so they'd already put a limit on the queue. But I'd made the visit and seen her, so I was content. Making my way back to the ferry, I was happy that I'd done all that I wanted to.
But I was to have one final, and totally unplanned experience.
As the bus made its way to Times Square, I looked over the side and saw Stuart Young and Katy loading their bags into a taxi. It was tempting to shout down and give them a farewell wave with my baseball cap, but decorum kicked in; I was on a bus full of Americans, and it would not have been the done thing.
In Times Square I got something to eat, and then set off back to the hotel; but I got sidetracked on the way. Just down the road from the convention hotel was 'The Cadillac Winter Garden Theatre', showing the hit musical Mamma Mia!. As I approached, the matinee audience were filing out; I hadn't realized that, in New York, there were two performances a day, even on a Sunday. I took a look at the board and saw that there was another performance at 7:00.
Stepping into the foyer, I hung around until the audience had thinned, then approached the box office. Asking about tickets, I was told that three were available; 100, 75 & 50 dollars. Why not? I thought, and handed over two crisp, fifty dollar bills that had been burning a hole in my wallet. Prices in New York are generally quite reasonable, so I could afford to be extravagant on my final night.
With an hour and three quarters to go before the performance, I went back to the hotel for a change of clothes; a hooded sweatshirt and a baseball cap were not, I felt, appropriate attire for a Broadway show.
I can say that it was fun, and as an Abba fan, I was always going to enjoy the music. A tame crowd pleaser, yes, but a stirring end to my visit. I was, however, glad that I got there a good half hour before the performance; my ticket was for seat V-15 (yes, I do still have the ticket stub; it's keeping the stub from the Yankee Stadium company!) in 'The Orchestra'. This is the place we Brits call 'The Stalls'. Then I found Row-V, and as I moved along the seats (V-2, V-4, V-6 ....) it became obvious that my seat was elsewhere.
A helpful Usherette pointed me in the right direction, and, ten minutes before curtain up, I was comfortably ensconced. 'Hey, I'm in a Broadway theatre ... and I'm going to see a Broadway show!'.
It was unplanned, spur of the moment, and a real treat for my last night.

So to my last day, and I had quite a bit of time to kill; my flight was at 19:30, and I had to be out of my room by 12:30; so I decided to take a final walk down Times Square. There, I fired off the last two shots in my camera, and later regretted it.
There was time for a final stroll through Central Park, so I headed on over, buying a copy of The New York Times on the way.
If only I'd kept those last two shots! The roads were cordoned off, the New York Police and Fire Departments were out in force - several police cars and two fire engines - and smoke was billowing up from somewhere beyond the trees. (I found out the next day - by typing 'Central Park, New York' into Google - that a ski lodge had gone up in flames; by fair means or foul, I couldn't say).
I gawked for a while, then went to check out. Five hours later, after spending the last of my dollar bills in the J.F.K. duty free shops, I was heading back to London on a Virgin Atlantic aeroplane.

So now it's a memory, but my thoughts are now of London, a place I have visited often. In years past I went to see many West End shows, and as a sightseer, I thought nothing of travelling on The Underground. At my last convention, I spent over two hours (and took four trains) looking for the street where my hotel was (one train and a short walk on the way back; a little local knowledge is a wonderful thing!) . When there was a TTA-Con, back in December of 2002, I caught the Underground train to Liverpool St Station for a connection to Norwich.
Now, the terrorists who attacked New York have struck in London. As in 2001, we have seen that there is a bond between Britain and America. I saw it in the hotel bar, where the Americans were taking more interest in the marriage of Prince Charles and Camilla Parker Bowles than the British were (and knew a lot more about what was going on!). The big news of that week was the funeral of Pope John Paul II in Rome; but the Americans could still take a keen interest in a little country just over the pond. If they say so themselves, America is a great place. Now London, like New York, has to come to terms with the aftermath of a terrorist attack.
It will.
Until then, my sympathy goes out to the victims of the attacks on the London Transport System.

2005-07-05T09:44:00.000-07:00

In this addition to my website, I plan to discuss my involvement in the Independent press; more to the point, the conventions I have attended. Between the 7th and the 11th of April, I was in New York for the World Horror Convention. I will tell you all about this, but first I must mention a very important person in my life.
Earlier this year, after a long illness, my mother, Nancy Price, sadly passed away in a care home just outside Caerphilly. It was not unexpected, but it was still a very sad time for the family. She will be missed, and my website is now dedicated to her memory.