Chris asked me to pass this along to the lyst. Enjoy. Carol Mc
Redemption 2001
Thursday evening
The usual mad packing scramble the night before, even though I had broken the habit of a life time and made a list of things to take during a particularly tedious afternoon meeting about the new European Social Fund - subsidiarity, additionality, synergistic linkages, it might as well be in Klingon for all the sense it makes, mightn't it? I had located most of the important stuff like my Liberator earrings, herbal tea bags, nail varnish remover and paracetomol, but where was my favourite denim shirt? In the laundry basket? Washing machine? Pile of ironing the size of an outcrop in the Hindu Kush? Who, if anyone, does the ironing on Liberator? Did that nice silver tunic Avon wore in the early days linger on in a heap of crumpled clothing until Liberator exploded? I think all those costume changes were just to avoid ironing.
I'd planned to take thirty copies of my new zine to flog but they were formidably heavy to carry and our two suitcases with wheels had been carried off to Scotland by university-bound offspring. Normally I'd have used our ancient wheel-less one, but ironically I had damaged my wrist with too much keyboarding in a despairing effort to get the damn zine finished before 23 February, and couldn't lift it at all. I had to settle instead for just 12 copies in the half-size wheeled suitcase. Things never turn out how you think they will. Ask Avon.
Friday
Rob was giving me a lift to the station before the plumber arrived to fix a new radiators in the front room, but I ended up nearly missing the connecting train as Radiator Man cometh earlier than expected. Never mind, the rest of the journey was uneventful. Getting out at Kings Cross, I pulled out the suitcase handle which immediately broke. Should I be surprised?
En route to Ashford, I sat across the aisle from a strangely familiar woman who turned out to be Paula, noted wit (see caption competition below), author and now Master of Disguise, for she had cunningly grown her hair two inches longer than when we last met a couple of years ago. Well, it sure fooled me. Together with another fan we took a few minutes to find the way out of the station and get a taxi to the International, Britain's premier convention hotel; why go anywhere else?
For the second con running, hotel reception had listed me as Mr Blenkarn. They had also separated me from my roommate, but nevertheless it is still my favourite hotel, and would be even if it didn't have Sainsbury's conveniently across the car park. I bumped into Ivan, Britain's joint number one chief steward, who helpfully pointed out that our room was handily placed just around the corner from the communal iron. Pity I hadn't brought the denim shirt. Inside the room I switched off the "welcome Mr Blenkarn" message on the telly, wondered what to do with the playpen in the corner, had a cup of tea, and set off for Sainsbury's. I brought back emergency rations for the weekend, including two reduced price chocolate cream doughnuts. A fan queueing in front of me had got six reduced price onion bagels, a bag of apples and two Cadbury's crème eggs. Enjoy.
Back in the room I phoned home, allegedly to announce my safe arrival but really to check the video was set for A Fine Romance, and ask if the plumbers had fitted the new radiators without flooding a distant part of the house, which has been known. Have you ever noticed that Liberator never has any normal everyday problems with heating systems, fraying carpets, temperamental thermostats or such like, but Avon is always having to lavish care on consoles? Is there a comic song title here, something about consoling consoles? Just a passing thought. Rob told me the new radiators were fully functional and cleared for blasting heat. However we probably wouldn't be removing the ancient fitted carpet and sanding the floorboards as planned, as lifting it to fit the radiator revealed that some deranged previous owner had painted the boards a virulent shade of Zeeona of Betafarl pink.
Janet wasn't due to arrive for some time so I filled the washbasin with cold water and put a bottle of wine to chill for later, then remembered I hadn't registered. So back downstairs to the registration desk, then into the bar where I said hello to some familiar faces, and finally bought Neil the pint I had owed him since Whos'7 96. Was it really time for the opening ceremony already?
The main hall was dimly lit but I eventually found the table of Ares, God of War. Ares bore a strong resemblance to the Sandman of Redemption 99, but without the nice coat with red flashes. The opening ceremony went off splendidly, with Cpt. Spock and the Clangers declaring their last minute candidature for the Presidency alongside the traditional candidates. Spike of the undead was late, G'Kar had acquired a Scottish accent as well as a consort, and Sheridan got murdered. An everyday story of convention folk.
Mixer games, then Quiz Time! I was shocked to discover that I am a sadder person than I had thought, as I knew the answers to eight out of ten of the B7 questions. On the other hand, despite having just written five parodies of Mission to Destiny I had no idea what numbers whatsisname had scrawled in blood. What a relief. The rest of the team dealt with the other questions with such success that we ended up with 26 points - Victory! And against Neil's team. Wow. Sadly, when stern quiz supremo Servalan - eat your heart out Anne Robinson, or maybe Spike could do it for you - looking ravishing in red, checked our answers she discovered the team marking them were numerical challenged but eventually we won anyway, so there!
I missed the party in Rita's room as my Janet had at last arrived, with a heavy suitcase and notes for an essay on national identity and the British Empire in case she got bored. We retired to our room and retrieved the bottle from the wash basin. Unfortunately I had turned on the hot tap by mistake. Verdicchio isn't ususally drunk warm but we had some anyway then repaired to the bar for a cool beer. Why is wine so incredibly expensive in
hotel bars when the price of beer is relatively normal?
We talked to a fan whose name I can't remember, who came up with a brilliant explanation of one of B7's conundrums: why does Avon wear gauntlets on board ship? Because at night, in the privacy of his cabin, he is a cordon bleu chef, and the gauntlets are really oven gloves. It makes sense, y'know. Vila lives off pork scratchings, Tarrant and Dayna are young and therefore live exclusively on pizza, and Soolin wouldn't be seen dead in the galley. Pondering this insight, I took my zines to the new zine launch, where everyone's offerings sounded exciting. I was struck by the coincidence of two of us independently basing a poem on Noel Coward's Let's Do It - is this some Auron mind control technique? Why not buy both zines and decide for yourself?
Saturday
I woke up with a start around 6am. It may have been through worry that nobody would buy my zine and I would have to give away all the copies as Christmas presents for years to come. I took a couple of paracetemol, made myself a refreshing cup of grapefruit tea, which is better than it sounds, and wondered whether people would think I was an Avon fan if I wore the black leather skirt. I eventually decided on the pink one instead, as no-one would associate pink with the Dark and Tortured one. We still arrived at breakfast later than we'd intended, and Janet completed her personal wake-up routine by squirting grapefruit juice in her eye.
By the time we finished we had missed the start of David Walsh's "Servalan and I" but were in time for the early overs of the Blake's 7 v. Babylon 5 cricket match, organised by the indispensable Harriet. This years' match was being played with new technology, we could spin instead of throwing dice. There was less time lost retrieving the dice from under the table, but spinning too vigorously made for seismic activity on the pitch. Blake won the toss but things started problematically for the valiant but somewhat headstrong B7 openers Jenna and Tarrant. Or was that the second innings?
I couldn't stay long as I was joining Predatrix in kicking off a session on clichés in sci-fi. As is traditional in workshops, we began by moving the furniture into a non-hierarchical non-threatening circle,then Predatrix started off the discussion and I made copious notes from force of habit. It's quite extraordinary how many clichés people came up with. I couldn't write fast enough to note them all, but if anyone would like to write the ultimate clichéd story, here are a few you cannot do without. Some are peculiar- and we use the word advisedly - to particular series, some are generic, but all should be recognisable.
Space Craft
Space ships with a crew of hundreds can be operated by five people or less Wherever and whenever a space ship is hit, a console always explodes All really big ships have one vulnerable spot (leaving aside Data's cat) Engineering is always placed where it gets hit The bridge is always at the front, where it can get hit Shields always buckle Airlocks are compatible with alien craft's airlocks Transportation systems always break down at crucial moments (see also computers) Everything needs crystals Doors make whooshy noises and often have triangular openings for you to trip over There are always access shafts/walkways into which a nervous junior officer will crawl because (s)he hears a mysterious noise, but never, ever, turns back or calls for back-up Any available button will open hangar doors There is no dust, no dirt
Equipment
Screens only show what is in front There are no security cameras in corridors Medical centres always lack a vital drug Robots are slow and clanky There no cupboards or wardrobes Nobody wears Homer Simpson socks Say "override" and the security system fails Countdowns slow down as they approach zero There will be a big slow fan called something technical e.g. plasma cooling port Blasters have to be cleared for firing, except by the enemy Computers have the same intonation Faces in mirrors are threatening (except maybe for vampires; how do vampires shave?) Coffee cups - usually polystyrene - will wobble to indicate an approaching hazard, especial if your name is Kirk Cabins have a coffee table with a single artefact or flower arrangement (not Klingons) or ancient weapon, but no clutter You can only be teleported when facing forwards There are no mobile telephones There no fax machines Medical examinations are carried out without touching the patient Heart surgery is a doddle but blood transfusions are difficult
Crew Meals, where they take place at all, are always interrupted by an emergency (Doctor's call this Riker's Omelette syndrome) Parties likewise There are no short men Everyone looks good in lycra Fur bikinis are always in vogue Leather is always in vogue, so cows must be survivors Drinks are blue The only Earth spirits are whisky and brandy, never gin or rum There is no cellulite Hairdressing establishments are invisible, or hairdressers only come out at night, who knows? Poker is the only card game played Fathers are either villainous, long dead heroes, or competitive Mothers are embarrassing Children are cute Loners have a private tragedy to conceal Captains/leaders are indomitable No-one gets promoted A child genius on board will find the answer to a problem that eludes the experienced crew Nobody watches television
The evil race eventually becomes sympathetic / laughable, and then joins the crew Rogues are loveable People who constantly bicker really like each other
Other sentient beings
Physical appearance denotes character Scientists in wheel chairs are evil masterminds Ambassadors are always with us but never bring out the Ferrero Rocher Drippy females are evil No planet is ever populated entirely by men waiting for a woman to appear There is always an alien or half-alien who really wants to be human Telepaths are selective Villains explain the plot The bad guys are terrible shots
"to be continued"
Back to the cricket match, where Blake's 7 had concluded their first innings in my absence but I was in time for the Babylon Five team's response. I am gradually learning to recognise who these people are, thanks to Harriet's cut-out figures. If ever I get around to watching B5 I shall however expect Ivanova to have no arms below the elbows, and Delenn to be constantly fiddling with he hair. Janet, not being a cricket fan, went off to Sainsbury's in search of lottery tickets. Steve R. strode past in one of his many costume changes, with a tribble impaled on a stick - for shame! People were scurrying around in search of competition clues, little furry creatures etc, and removing rival Ruler of the Universe posters.
We went to listen to Joe Nazzaro's talk on forthcoming American series, after which I returned to the cricket while Janet went to check out the used zine stall. Some time later we went back to our room to drink some coffee and devour cheese and biscuits, thus missing "When I'm an evil overlord." I'd meant to go, but I needed the caffeine. There was nothing much on the tv, a B-movie with Richard Todd, or Stewart Grange or some other unmemorable fifties leading man, and sport. Shrewsbury Town won their match 7 goals to 1 and we wondered if we should seek out Steve R. and give him the good news?
I can't remember what happened next, so it was probably back to the boulevard / bar. We'd been wondering where Val Westall and Linda Norman has got to, and were sorry to hear both had flu and couldn't make it. The Baskervilles were also absent as Baby Baskerville 11 was due at any moment. The con had already had a Marriage (Mollari/G.Kar or Lesley/David, depending on which universe you are in) and a Death (Sheridan) and Harriet pondered whether Baskerville II would do the decent thing and give us the full set. If so, Redemption Baskerville would be a memorable name, wouldn't it?
I saw Julia briefly, and told her about the attempted theft the previous week of two apple trees in tubs that she had given me when she left for foreign parts. The thieves got away with our bikes over the garden fence, but were apparently interrupted as they abandoned the two trees in our neighbour's drive. Steve came by in another costume change - give this man a prize - and reported that all the copies of my zine had been sold, startling and welcome news as I needed the money. The same week the bikes went, my glasses had cracked and I'd had to spend £180 on a new pair. This is not what you want just before a convention, which was why I stayed away from the dealer's room.
After roast lamb in the dining room it was time for the Fancy Dress and Cabaret, which as ever was a triumph of fans' skills and imagination. Nice to see some cross-cultural fertilisation with an appearance from Herr Flick, but no von Smallhausen, amongst other aliens. Servalan was without her feather boa and took the opportunity to shower us with election flyers. You just have to admire her panache, don't you? Suddenly there was another Servalan in our midst, this one costumed by Chaos. Nicola had mastered the sway and triumphal wave, and was armed with some witty retorts - well, she has worked as a chemist, I believe - lest Servalan 1 engaged her in repartee.
We just about had time to get changed for the disco before going to Gareth's Shakespeare talk. Being in a hurry I put on odd earrings but didn't notice until much later. Gareth interspersed readings with anecdotes about his career, and intermittently attempted to find the Falstaff speech he had given at the outset of his career. It was all absorbing stuff and unsurprisingly overran, but not before Michael Sheard put in an appearance in bra and suspender belt, innovatively worn over his suit. The rest of the night was spent in the bar. We made three attempts at entering the disco but withdrew immediately because every time the music (sic) was dire and way too loud. Perhaps we were timing it badly, but the bar was more fun, and more full. Neil turned up with a camera and his hair unleashed. Exciting stuff. For once we were back in our room before 2.00am, but sat up for ages talking and starting