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.
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