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
