Monday 14 July 2014

BlackberryJuniper's First Convention: London Film and Comicon 2014, or: How My Birthday Really Picked Up at The Last Possible Minute



Actually, that title is a bit misleading, unintentionally.  I thought I’d never been to another convention, but from how Saturday was, I think I have.  I’ve been twice to Witchfest International (Fairfield Halls, Croydon, every November), and Saturday’s expedition shared an awful lot in common with Witchfest (except carpets and aircon, notably). 

I didn’t intend to spend my Birthday Day Outing at a convention, it was all very happenstance.  My actual birthday got derailed quite considerable by Fluffhead having a vomity bug.  Thankfully this cleared up by the weekend, so I could still have Stanley’s mum over to babysit, while we wondered off out.  I was feeling a bit glum, as I hadn’t planned to go anywhere, and Stanley’s mum had been a bit (2 hours) late, which shaved some of the rare available time.  I was thinking we would just wander about the West End, desultorily shopping and having a nice lunch – but you know, nothing I hadn’t done a thousand times before, back when I had a life.  So, bit of a case of the birthday glooms hitting me. 

Till we were on the train to London Bridge and I commented to Stanley that the comic shop newsletter I subscribe to had a Summer Special I could add to my collection – but that it was probably already gone, as theirs get snapped up quickly (girls comics Summer Specials are a weird breed – they can go for £2-3, or £100, depending on the day and who's competing for it; hugely variable market – I sell my duplicates so I can vouch for this).  Stanley, who expressed a great joy that I didn’t want to go to Mysteries and spend his money on ‘woo woo’ crap, approved of my sudden comic mention, and told me to call the shop and see if the Special was still there.  It was (unusual), so we changed direction, and started heading to Putney instead of the West End.

We hit travel problems at Earls Court, when the District Line bit we needed was closed for maintenance, so we had to go and get a rail replacement bus.  Which was how I came to find a Gallifreyan at the top of the stairs at Earls Court, and a Poison Ivy, and then a Spiderman – all life size, real, increasingly sweaty people.  And a TARDIS.  Stanley started to get skittish, sensing, as I did, a convention close by, and almost didn’t want to take a pic of me with the TARDIS, but he relented, so I stood demurely infront of it and tried not to look too excited at the juncture of TV, book and BlackberryJuniper’s headspace.  I took a pic of the Gallifreyan (very handsome and regal and about 50 – and American, only too happy to have his picture taken).  I asked a passing victim of zombie apocalypse where this obvious convention was, and dribbling a little bit of quite authentic looking blood, she told me to go through the station and out the other side and follow the world’s largest queue.  “Or the weird people”, rightly interjected her companion dressed as Sherlock Holmes, momentarily removing his pipe from his 15 year old looking mouth.

Thus began one of my Most Legendary Nags and Beggings.  All the way to the comic shop (which took ages as the roads were dreadful, the bus crawled along for an hour in sweltering humidity, completely packed with cross people), I badgered and squealed and explained repeatedly how much fun a convention would be.  For me.  Stanley had done this entire scene, especially with the Doctor Who elements in the long distant past, and loftily expressed a wish to not anymore be near “the freaks and the dispossessed”.  Which actually excited me more, as if that isn’t a dead ringer description of me, what is?  Clearly my tribe of peoples were in that convention.  I stepped up the nagging.  He started laughing.  It was actually clinched when we got to the comic shop, and amidst stunning birthday generosity in terms of Summer Specials, Stanley was informed by one of the owners that George Romero (the man who single handedly kicked off the zombie revival with the iconic  Night of the Living Dead and sequels) would be there, doing signings.  And Stan Lee.  (Who I misheard as ‘Stanley’ to which I said ‘Stanley who?’ and made everyone laugh.)  The air on the subject visibly warmed.

I badgered a bit more on the crawly bus on the way back, to the point where I got Stanley to concede that we could go to the outside of the convention, London Film and Comicon, and find a programme leaflet – to see if it was worthwhile going in, if he’d missed George Romero or not.  So we got to Earls Court and wandered about – following the trail of ever more amazingly dressed people, people who must be passionate about these characters or they would not be sweating this much in heavy boots, cloaks and headpieces.  We found the queue and goggled at the length of it.  And the camping out look of a lot of it.  People huddled under big sun umbrellas (it was crashing down heavy, the sun, that day); sitting down and looking tranced out at having been there so long.  The queue did not appear to be moving at all.  So we went to the front of it and in my usual chatty way, I accosted a blue dressed bouncer man, and asked for a leaflet with the programme on.  Apparently you only get that when you’ve paid to go inside.  Which I thought was pretty stupid; then again, either it was online and everyone knew who was where and exactly when already, or they didn’t care and were all here on the offchance of seeing someone they liked at the time they happened to be here (as I assumed no one would come if they didn’t know the actual star names they would be seeing?).

So we stood there, and watched some people who’d been in already come out, and other’s who been out and were going back in having the handstamps or wristbands checked.  And the hugely long queue, bottlenecking to one side.  Some one tripped over and the girl manning the door in front of it went to help one of her colleagues pick up a cloaky wiggy platform booted pile of people.  Stanley, not missing a beat, just strolled through the unmanned door and turned back to look at me with his eyebrows raised.  So I followed, feeling excited and naughty and rather bad.  And convinced I was about to be caught and arrested.  Wouldn’t it be cute if I got a criminal record for breaking into Comicon without paying??  (Costs £15 to get in, let alone all the temptations inside.)  Fry will find that last statement hilarious, since we have had the evading fares on the bus argument from when he was at school for about 12 years now.  And yes, neither of us got caught in either scenario.  But I’m usually far too stressful a passenger to NOT pay for things I’m sposed to.

Once in, the first thing that struck me was that despite there being thousands of people in this huge aircraft hanger of a room, they had not put the aircon on, at all.  It was close like a tropical rainforest.  The air felt thick and liquid.  I immediately felt claustrophobic and oppressed.  As far as I could see, were massive rows of stalls selling (TOOT yells Stanley in passing)…memorabilia of all sorts – scifi, horror, comics, comic books, young adult novels, DVDs, videos, trading cards, second hand books, games, T-shirts, plushy toys.  Bit of a lack of food, but I saw some later around the edges.  (This is the resemblance to Witchfest beginning and ending in layout – they usually have one large traders room, like a big market, off to one side, and then talks and signings take place in other rooms, with a large area in the middle for eating and socialising.  This place was such a large room, everything was more or less in the one place, just on an epic sort of a scale.  An epically large market of toot memorabilia.  I was starting to feel overcome with humidity and swilled half a bottle of water straightaway.  Stanley said, “See, not all that…”  And I agreed we’d just walk about the hall once to see what else there was and go, as it was SO uncomfortable, heatwise.

It just didn’t turn out that way.  We found a big wall diagram saying who was where and when – we appeared to have missed George Romero altogether; but a passing immensely tall Riddler said the times were all off this year and we might as well go check who was where.  He had moved off by the time Stanley was saying to thin air, “But where are the signings then?”, only to have a Chewbacca point to the far side of the huge hall and say “at the back, mate”.  Righty then, off we went, through the Market of Highly Expensive but Strangely Tempting Toot of Allsorts.  It took about 15 minutes to get through it as it was jammed up in some places with clumps of people socialising (I saw a Zena Warrior Princess getting a very slick chat up from a Han Solo who had some gorgeous boots on, and two Nightcrawlers were getting quite intimate in their lycra).  Everyone was polite and smiley.  We shuffled along till we got through the Market. 

Out the other end was a smidgeon more air, only because the vast space wasn’t sectioned off so much, I think.  And here another spectacle.  All around the edges of the hall were booths with A, B, C etc on them in huge letters and long windy queues snaking from them.  I went up to the nearest one and asked what the queue was for.  Personal pics with Stan Lee was one; personal pics with John Hurt (many famous roles; and the War Doctor, for cult purposes) was another.  They were sectioned off so people couldn’t cheat and get pics on their phones without paying for them.  There were loads of these sectioned off fabric blacked out areas and it fleetingly reminded me of the one time I went to Amsterdam, and there were similar queues snaking about out of Red Light District houses.  Then again, I suppose this is a lot of what a convention is about – money changing hands so people can touch their dream realities, feed on them before Monday sets in.

Around the rest of the walls and middle section were massive lines of trestle tables.  Quite squashed up along these, were a ‘celebrity’ or ‘star’ (some of them were, some of them weren’t, hence my apostrophes) of film, TV or book, and beside each one was a blue topped manager type person, who basically took the money.  You would queue – for however long (these are fans don’t forget, insane scifi fans; my heart warmed to see them and their fanaticism, and very English orderly queueing) to see the person you wanted, and when you got to the head of the queue, you would give money to the blue topped person who would tick you off on the list, and then you’d step to the side and engage in a seconds long conversation with whoever you were Loving Enough to Queue That Long To See.  You get a quick few words, a choice of photos, of which you pick one and get a short personalised message from your star of choice, then you move along thankyou thankyou and that’s that.  Ejected sideways, queue moves on, you look lovingly at your pic with YOUR NAME on it, and then put it away and avariciously start sizing up the other queues, for who you want to repeat the process with.  The cost of these autographs and/or photo shoots varied.  Carrie Fisher was £65 (icon woman)…Stan Lee came out second (I see why despite not being a comic book person) at £45; George Romero at £30 (which I actually thought was hugely reasonable seeing as I love his films and his effect on the genre of horror cannot be underestimated – really if he and Dario Argento stood there together, they could have charged mortgages).  Most people, actors, were charging £15 per mini chat and autograph; some £10. 

We wandered about, me goggling completely at all the people I recognised (oooo, look, Michael Biehn of Terminator – and he still looks so good, and look, his body language is so natural and he has a nice smile, seems like a nice person, that’s nice – flowing through my head), and all the people I didn’t (look that’s…no its not, who is that?).  Until, just as the Riddler had accurately and clearly (for once) prophesied, there sat George Romero alone at a table at the end of one side of the hall, signing pictures quietly – without even any queue at all.  Because he wasn’t sposed to be there, it was the wrong time.  Stanley beelined saying “I’d know those glasses anywhere”, and I followed happily, gawping at the costumes and the actors (I couldn’t decide what was more thrilling – TV and film people in the same room as me, therefore effectively living my kind of life which elevates my life of course; don’t go crapping on my logic with pity, please), or the wondrousness of all the cool people who got into these brilliantly done costumes, some clearly homemade at great time and detail expense, and who must’ve come here wearing them, braving the sneers of the sad and therefore angry people who think grown ups should always be grown up.  I came down on the side of the costume wearers in the end simply because there were more of them and they were just so stunning and inventive (a Transformer made from cardboard; a Cat Woman with a beautifully painted face and arms; someone who moved and looked the image of Arrow; some incredibly realistic zombies; an awful lot of Game of Thrones characters – whose costumes must have been the hottest, all the cloaks and faux fur in that heat…). 

I counted eleven Matt Smith Doctor incarnations on the way to George Romero, and four Sylvesters.  A girl in a TARDIS dress skipped past, and then we were at the table.  Stanley stood in front of it, momentarily silent.  I watched.  They spoke a bit, just a little bit.  The room had odd acoustics, in that you could hear perfectly, people talking from half the room away, but you had to lean quite close to hear the person standing next to you.  Stanley shook hands with Mr Romero and their conversation was over; I hadn’t heard it.  He asked the blue top next to him how much the autographs were – it was more than we currently had between us.  This is a warning to newbies: take lots of cash, they don’t accept cards and don’t have the machines.  Woe betide you if you need to use the cash machine in the Hall…it will charge you money to get at your money, and the queue will decimate your will to live.  We hadn’t expected to be here, so had hardly any cash on us.  Stanley was directed to the cash machine, a world away.  I said I’d stand guard and make sure Mr Romero didn’t try to escape.  (The Blue Top looked at me crossly, as if I was being disrespectful.)  Mr Romero laughed and looked up at me.  He had a very twinkly smile.  I asked him if he did many conferences like this (the English equivalent of a boring weather question; internally I did a big DOH, but that was what came out, so I had to let it stand there).  He replied, very drily, “not many”, and carried on signing his photos.  I asked if he enjoyed working the same genre for such a long time, if he still felt inspired by it, and loved all the emulations he had caused.  He lost me half way through and rose a bit out of his chair and gave me his ear, at which point I realised he was having acoustics plus a bit of deafness.  I repeated as best I could remember and he nodded and said he loved his work still, at which point I actually got starstruck and ran out of things to say. 

I noticed as well, that I had called him ‘Sir’, something I used to do with difficult clients at work, as it always helps for difficult people to feel they are dealing with a respectful underling.  I hadn’t done it for that reason here, I was being respectful to an elder who knew a lot of stuff; also, I realised it seemed more pertinent to address an American grandee this way than the informality I habitually use with anyone English – my nosy quirkiness usually breaks the ice for most English people, but I might not translate culturally, I had thought.  I shook his hand (nice handshake, firm but gentle) and told him it was an honour to meet him (which it was in a funny unexpected way), and then I retired to the side to wait for Stanley, not having asked ANY of the brilliant incisive questions that then occurred to me about his films. 

I did ask his blue topped guardian if I could take a picture on my phone, and she said when my boyfriend came back and paid I could.  So I stood about, getting very thirsty and watched the costumes and the lines of other star signers, contemplating this very bottom line capitalism and thinking, fair enough.  Especially for the actors and performers, their image itself, their likeness is their product; things they sign or touch are almost like little literal bargaining chunks OF them.  So I see the fuss, I get it.  Didn’t stop lots of people craning round behind me and using me as a tree to hide behind so they could sneak pics.

While I stood there, it seemed hundreds of people continued to appear infront of me.  The hall was getting so packed I started to think about Health and Safety.  No chance of me getting nabbed for breaking in; how would they find me amidst the thousands?  (And a troupe of The 300 that roamed past, clanking and oiled.)  A thin bearded man pushing a very large woman dressed in red in a wheelchair came and stood next to me looking awestruck.  “Is that George Romero?”  He asked in a squeaky voice with big eyes, all innocent.  I nodded.  “Oh my god, I love him!”  He smiled the hugest smile, and looked 12 though he must have been about 25.  I smiled back at him and agreed where would the world be without Dawn of the Dead?  “There’d be no Walking Dead, that’s for sure”, the man enthusiastically nodded, and started trying to count his money.  I told him it was £30, and he looked downcast.  I told him my boyfriend had disappeared to the cashpoint queue about, er…fifteen minutes ago…The large woman in the wheelchair adjusted her position and growled something at me, “Sorry?” I said, getting the impression from her body movements that this was someone to whom one deferred.  The thin bearded man looked alarmed and smiled at me and said, “What, mum?”

“They give the dead a bad name, they do, shows like that,” She nodded and glared at me very definitively, like she was up for a fight.

“They certainly do,” I said automatically, squelching any of my questions about the logic of dead people caring about TV.  The bearded man smiled softly, looking even younger.  “This is my sister Laura,” he said, and nodded me to a moonfaced woman who looked just like him, with a clear quiet smile and pleasant sleepy eyes.  I said hi.  They all stared at George Romero for a minute in total silence then the mother stamped her foot on the floor and glared up at the young man, whose face was now red, showing up a lot of eczema.  He looked put upon but malleable, still gazing at his idol.  “A Bad Name!” she repeated.  “I want to go home, it’s too hot in here,” she finished, and he nodded and started to turn the wheelchair.  “Oh, bye,” I started to wave at him, and he shook hands with me and started to move away, trailing Laura behind him.  Then he abruptly changed his mind, ran back and gave me the sweetest bear hug from a person I don’t know, that I’ve ever had.  “It’s so nice to meet you,” he said, his eyes tearing a little, before disappearing into the massed crowd, and I listened to his mother’s bass voice cut through as they went: “Get out of the way!  Get out!”…into the distance.  There was something very Rob Zombie family dynamic about the whole encounter, but, what a nice man…

I looked up to see Stan Lee going past behind George Romero, head down, hands in casual jacket pockets, looking very tired and rather fed up.  Seized by star madness I called out, “Hi!  Mr Lee, hello!” quite loudly and he turned to my manic shiny face (and I am not even into graphic novels) and looked at me like – ‘who are you?’, before carrying on without breaking a beat, to his seat further on, past Anthony Head.  He was followed by what looked like five actual Men in Black (to Mr Romero's one – all of whom had those little earpiece things with curly seethrough plastic wiring, all of whom were looking about, for, er, threats I suppose).  I stood for a minute longer, worrying about the fact that Paul McGann (the 8th Doctor, as well as The Monocled Mutineer and Withnail and I) was supposed to come back for a signing at quarter to 5 and it was half 4 and I wasn’t in a line and judging by the way things seemed to work at these events, queueing was THE business of the day.  I looked over at Carrie Fisher’s massive windy queue to her photo booth – I hadn’t seen her at all, but she and Stan Lee were the major draws here, and from what I’ve later read, the singular reason why this years event went crazy – apparently 3 times as many people came as last year – prebook sales AND on the door comers, purely down to the attendance of these two stars.  So I had seen one, and been glared at by them (cool!).  Didn’t look like I was going to get to Carrie Fisher before the day closed even if I did have £65 for a photo or autograph (which I didn’t).  Her queue had gone completely mad and was spiralling quite prettily, bumping up against all the other queues that were also long, but in straight lines, rows.

I turned round, bumped full face on with a very realistic Predator who hissed at me and caught me by the wrists so I wouldn’t tumble over.  I thanked him, and a tinny tiny high pitched voice from inside said: “This one’s free, next time I kill you!”  I nodded warily and he thrust me to one side and strode off looking very impressive, into a crowd of small children dressed as Hobbits who clearly had no idea who he was supposed to be and looked on wonderingly.  I texted Stanley and asked where he was in the queue, as Mr Romero was looking rightfully tired and was running low on photos.  He texted back he was 7th in line now, stuck behind a dumpy Alice in Wonderland. I texted that I had to go and get in the Paul McGann line or I wouldn’t get to see the sexiest Doctor (bar Jon Pertwee of course).  I said bye to Mr Romero, who adjusted his glasses and gave me a sweet smile and carried on signing, chatting with two fans who had come from different directions but both bought copies of the exact same old film book for him to sign – a lovely coincidence; there was laughing and smiling.

I started trying to get to the other side of the room.  This was very difficult.  The lines bisected the entire room in rows that almost blended, and most people were standing in groups, clumps.  Carrie Fisher’s line continued to insanely bisect a lot of the other lines.  Lots of Blue Tops buzzed about trying to discipline the lines.  I passed Anthony Head’s line, wishing I could queue for him.  I noticed his queue moved very slowly because he was properly chatting, in an animated and child like happy way, with all his fans, answering sometimes quite detailed Buffy and Merlin and Little Britain questions.  He seemed perfectly happy to chat and very relaxed.  He was one of those rare people with a very young and curious vibe coming off him – he wasn’t bored yet.  I didn’t blame many of the other actors for looking bored – it was getting hotter and hotter, very humid, some had no one standing in their lines, while next to them was someone like Michael Madsen  (Reservoir Dogs etc) with a big fat line (he was very smiley and solid looking, nodding brow furrowed to those talking to him; he had a deep rumbly laugh and very white teeth).

I saw Summer Glau from Firefly had a poster, but wasn’t in her seat; neither were 3 members of The Walking Dead cast, but a forth, Lawrence Gilliard Jnr, sat happily chatting to the Blue Top next to him, as if he had all the time in the world, between punters – he had a drifting queue, it came and went.  Jay of Jay and Bob had his head down, busily signing and nodding to the queue of overwhelmingly teenage boys and men in their 30s.  He looked so serious, unexpectedly.  Juliet Landau (Buffy, Angel) sat looking very slim and extremely regal and I was gutted I didn’t have enough money to get her autograph.  I tried to wave, but she was holding the hand of a small girl and looking sweetly at her while chatting to her mum.  I finally squeezed over to the Paul McGann queue, 5 minutes early.  This was clearly far too late as the queue had become mammoth.  I bumped into a Super Mario and said sorry; it wasn’t quite clear where the end of the queue was.  A very distressed and clearly stressed Blue Top came to inform Super Mario and me that we were on the wrong bit of ground.

“Anything past this line on the ground,” he said, indicating some tape, “and you have to come back later.  My supervisor says this line is too long, it breaches Health and Safety” (which I quite agreed with, though this line was nothing compared to Stan Lee’s and Carrie Fishers!). 

“But, but...”  I said, casting about for a reason to stay exactly where I was since it took me 10 minutes to move across the room in the first place, “But Super Mario is injured,” I said, pointing to his cast I had just noticed, on his foot, and his crutch.  “You can’t throw him out of the queue…and…It’s my birthday!” I finished rather lamely. 

The people in the queue in front saved us, by turning round and saying, “we’re a group, they’re with us.” 

“Yes," I chirruped back to the ever more stressed Blue Top, “apparently we’re a group and can’t be separated”. 

Muttering that he really wasn’t getting paid enough for this shit (turns out his age group got only £300 for 3 days work of which 2 were 12 hour days – that IS a bit slave labour) he clumped off.  And I chatted relentlessly in my thoroughly buzzed out way, to the gentle Super Mario, who seemed a bit surprised but not too worried that a strange woman was just rabbitting at him.  We talked of new and old Who, and Steven Moffat, and RTD and whether Capaldi would make a difference to the feel of things.  The line didn’t move.  It became apparent Paul McGann was late, and annoyed Blue Top came to theatrically tell us this, his fists screwed up in the corner of his tired eyes. 

“Bad news, guys,” he said as we carefully stepped over that taped line again (we had shuffled back to not crowd the group in front when he went away). 

“Ok, so tell us before we get heat stroke,” I said, wiping my forehead for the third time that minute. 

“He’s late!”  He declaimed, waving his arms for emphasis. 

“He’s still coming though?”  We all made worried face, and I became aware I had a killing back ache. 

“Yes, he’s just doing photo shoots with other fans,” said Blue Top, in a not entirely pleasant way, and wandered off muttering, “Oh yes, Mr McGann, we REALLY loved your film in 1990, get a life you sad….” And I lost the rest.  He was quite funny. 

I resumed chatting to Super Mario, and eventually, after 20 minutes (still no sign of Stanley, who had now been in the cashpoint queue for 55 minutes and counting), our line started to move, and at quite a pace.  I craned round and sure enough, someone with messy curly brown hair and a black sweater (in this heat?!) had sat down and was nodding enthusiastically at people while wielding a black marker.  I started clapping, and then remembered the applicable birthday was 43, and stopped, confining myself to grinning stupidly. 

“What are you going to say to him?” asked Super Mario (whose foot was the result of a loft falling incident; a good story to tell grandchildren if ever I heard one).  I realised I was so tired, so hot and so clearly past my comfort level of Dignified Behaviour in the presence of all these interesting Hitherto Imaginary Screen People, that I had no clue.  I started thinking, which was also difficult.  I finished my 3rd bottle of water and we got to the head of the queue.  Super Mario gentlemanly tried to let me go first, but he was definitely before me, and this line had been a bitch, so I insisted he go first, crutch and all. 

Suddenly I was before Paul McGann, who was insanely beautiful in a very real and dignified kind of way – a face with much life lived on it.  He had laughing eyes, like he wasn’t taking all this incredibly seriously, was getting a bit tired, but was happy enough.  I did the grinning thing, then found my voice and asked him if he thought I should take the Withnail and I pic of him, or the him and Grace in the TARDIS pic, from the TV movie. 

“Oh I can’t decide that,” he laughed.  “You could always pick this grumpy looking man here,” he quipped, pointing to the pic of him from the webisode Anniversary bit: a very scowly pic. 

I chose Grace and him and the TARDIS, figuring Fluffhead would recognise this best when I showed him.  He asked my name, and his accent was fascinating.  Not Scouse at all as I expected it; really well spoken, but with a lilt of deep Irish (?) underneath.  He had a beautiful voice, it had layers.  I chuntered on, telling him I thought he had been a really good Doctor, a very interesting gentle vibe, and I was sorry they hadn’t done more work with him, and did he think he’d be doing anymore, other than Big Finish? 

“Well,” he smiled lazily at me with his kindly face, “that’s the thing with Doctor Who, with the time travel and no one need really be dead – you can always come back, I’m open to it…” 

“Are you being cryptic?” I pointed at him and he laughed. 

“Not at all,” he shook his head. 

“Do you still enjoy it; all this mad Doctor Who work fuelled at the beginning by the fact the show has crazed fans?” I asked. 

“I don’t do anything I don’t like,” he smiled, and blew gently on the ink for my pic, handing it to me. 

Someone behind me trod on me.  I got the message.  I put my hand out, and he shook it, still smiling in a very peaceful and humourous way, as I told him it was a real pleasure to meet him. 

“You too,” he said, and I was off to the side and it was over, and Super Mario was asking me what I had said, and I was struggling to remember. 

My hand was all tingly, and I looked at Paul McGann’s handwriting, trying to decipher the secrets of his personality from the loops and circles.  I suddenly felt like Super Mario and I were definite kindred spirits – I had been right, these nutters were all My People.  And I too, was a frantic crazed nutter fan.  Quite a peaceful realisation.  Super Mario and I realised we were about to go in separate directions, and exchanged names for facebook finding.  I was sorry to see him limp away, but I had taken a pic of him, so he was immortalised in my day.  I realised I hadn’t taken a pic of Paul McGann, and saw there was a sign saying ‘No Posed Photos’, which I took to mean, if you want to stand next to him you have to go to the photo shoot bit and pay the £15 for that, separate to the autographing.  I leant over and asked if I could snap him signing the autographs. 

“Sure, take an action shot,” he smiled, and asked the name of the next in the line, who was dressed as Blade and very short.  I did.

I realised there was STILL no Stanley, so I wandered, meandered and apologised my way across the lines (all still massive, no change) to get back across to George Romero’s spot.  Once I emerged from several Avatars I saw Mr Romero was gone – and Stanley had been in that damn queue all this time – an hour and 5 minutes now!  I asked the Blue Top guardian if he was coming back today.  “Not today, it got too hot and he was tired, enough for now,” she explained, which was quite fair enough.  I had just realised I hadn’t eaten since breakfast which was a definite thousand years ago.  I texted Stanley, feeling quite bad, as George Romero was the only reason he had come in, really – though at least they had spoken and shaken hands.  Magically, he appeared by my side and I hugged him and said sorry for the pointless wait.  He was sanguine, as Stanley surprisingly is, sometimes, taking it in his stride.  We agreed we were starving and should leave and get something to eat. 

We started winding round the rest of the room to have one last look before going.  He spied Anneke Wills (‘Polly’, companion of the 2nd Doctor, Patrick Troughton), sitting languidly talking on her phone, along a side wall, with a quietly respectful mini queue of all men in the 40s and 50s in long coats and scruffy jackets.  We went and stood quietly there, waiting.  The men drifted away and she finished her phone conversation and looked up at us with a genuinely friendly welcoming smile.  Stanley had met her years ago, and she remembered him and they chatted a while (“Its not usually like this,” she gestured at the massed thronging people and the far off ceiling, lack of air, “its ..well, I’m not sure what’s up this year,” she shrugs with an oh well expression).  Stanley and she talk about Philip Morris and the Missing Episodes Saga, and Power of the Daleks.  She’s of the opinion that the more of us who think its there, the more likely it is to actually be there, regardless of if it isn’t there for us to see at the moment…I am so heatstruck by this time that this makes absolute perfect sense to me (and still does in retrospect – its positive thinking, really, and in absence of any info, might as well be positive).  She was very sweet when she heard it was my birthday and as we left, she sang Happy Birthday to me, while waving us goodbye (she also wrote Happy Birthday on my autograph).  What an exceptionally nice person.  She told Stanley about another event in October she thought we’d enjoy, that’s much smaller, and we could meet more specifically Who people, and even Tom Baker (who is increasingly becoming a rarity due to age and health).  We waved and she turned to another man. 

I found a man in my path sweating huge beads of sweat all over his bald head and looking very green.  I gave him what remained of my 4th bottle of water, and hoped they had St John’s Ambulance here (they must do with this lack of ventilation and heat?).  We moved off.  I fannned myself with a flyer for author Kit Cox’s new book about Jabberwocks – he was dapper and suited and very friendly, over on the author section, pointing out to me that his flyer was both great promotion and also great as a heat controller being made of strong board, not lacklustre thin paper.  When I got home, I promptly bought his book, as he was so kind and resourceful.

We got round to the other side of the wall of celebrities and actors, and I see Lita – ex WWE diva and extremely good and underrated female wrestler (this year into their Hall of Fame).  I can’t believe she’s there, all by herself.  There are sposed to be some other wrestlers present, I see from the posters above the seats, but she’s all alone, chatting to her Blue Top.  I take my last money and determine to get Fry such a great present of her – as when we both used to watch wrestling regularly, we LOVED her.  Not only was she astonishingly fit (in both recognised senses of the word), but nimble and feisty – she never came across as a doll or sex object without any personality – she owned her presentation, her attitude and her stories, and she was a kickarse character in that universe.  I bound up to her announcing how amazed I am she is there.  She is the calmest person, in fact, I might even say she could well be bored to death and I may even be heightening her boredom.  Nevertheless, I press on, with some semi intelligent stuff about how she helped to revolutionize the presentation of female wrestling in a very male oriented and sexist arena, and we loved her unique persona etc.  It’s odd, but unlike anyone else I met at the convention, I felt like there was a complete wall between me and her.  I felt she maybe wanted to go home (she was far from home of course), and maybe she’d just had enough for the day (entirely understandable).  She was completely polite, but I felt I’d hit a wrong note when I asked after what I’d heard to be a film career after she left wrestling, and she remarked shortly, “No, I just retired”.  She didn’t mention her band, or anything.  Yet – she was the only famous person I met all day, who happily let me take a pic of her with me, and didn’t charge extra or say it wasn’t allowed.  Before me, she’d been having a pic with a family and a baby, and I don’t think she charged at all.  She was kind and generous, if fed up.  I picked the sexiest pic for Fry I could, and she did break a grin at it (her Blue Top sniggered at my choice), and handed it to me with an “I hope he likes it,” to which I could not overemphasize how he REALLY REALLY will adore it. 

We passed Susannah Harker next, and I told her that despite being utterly out of money now, I just wanted to tell her I thought she was great in Ultraviolet and the legendary Colin Firth version of Pride and Prejudice, and that I wished I saw more of her on TV, because when she’s in something I always know it will be good, and will watch it.  Then I apologised for being gushy, and she gracefully said “we actors need a lot of praise” with a wink, which made me feel like less of a twit.  I think I did however continue to gush slightly, till Stanley pulled me away, with her saying how happy she was that people still remembered Ultraviolet as its subtlety had always been one of her favourites.

I caught a glimpse of Charlie Higson (The Fast Show, comedian actor and author, multi genre) peacefully signing copies of his books and chatting to some teenagers, before we were back into the Hall of Extremely Expensive Toot/Memorabilia, and at last seemed to be leaving.  We were only there for less than 3 hours, and yet it seemed like an eternity – a day at least.  As we broke out into the sun, and Some Actual Fresh Air, I realised I’ve found a new (and horrifically expensive) hobby.  I want to go to ALL the conferences!  I want to Starchase and compliment regular people on their costumes, and Actors/ Writers/ Directors on their acting/ writing/ directing and the pleasure they give me.  I want to be photographed with people who have had an effect on my life and the way I think – and I don’t want them to be always unreal and on a screen and never present. I want to shake their hand sometimes and thank them for helping my head, for making me laugh. 

It wasn’t till we got home later and I looked up the LFCC on the net that I realised I had missed one of my favourite actors – I simply hadn’t seen Robert Knepper’s poster!  One of the most versatile and underrated actors I know of, and I was in the same room with him and I didn’t know!!  Can’t believe it!  And he seems just the sort of person to NOT be overwhelmed by the amount of gushing admiration I can give out!  And if I had been able to go on Sunday I could have taken my Paul Cornell and Ben Aaronovitch books too, and got them signed – I could have met the pixie like and incredibly talented Holly Black, whose books I eat up whole in one sitting.  I could’ve met Colin Baker (6th Doctor)!!!  If I had even known the event was occurring, on Friday night, I could’ve met William Russell (Ian Chesterton, 1st Doctor Companion).  I goggled and ohhh noooooooed at the wonders I’d missed and promptly started a piggy bank for next year. 

It was a weird and wonderful intersection between everyday reality and total fantasy.  Its very scale meant it hadn’t become cliquey or strata-ed – though I was aware some people had priority gold passes for things, none of that had affected me. 

I think I’m hooked.  I loved this, I felt at home, I felt unfreakish surrounded by the other obsessives; everyone was kind and friendly and helpful.  What a good birthday I got, in the end.




No comments:

Post a Comment