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.

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!

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

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.

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!

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.

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 ...

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.

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.

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!

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!

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.

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/

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.

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!

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 .

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

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.

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)

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:-)

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.