Easter in Jersey ...
Thursday, April 4th, 2002 12:15 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
tamaranthPost-Easter, I have a slight tan; very few more books; some undeveloped films which might, if suitably suppressed, be worth something; and an abiding memory of beating Tobes off with a stick. Or was it Boromir? History does not record. History should not record.
Thursday night was spent in the usual drunken debauchery: I revealed myself as a neo-media (nay, slash) fan, and was embraced (literally, in some cases) by slashers and dragged into long and complicated discussions which I do not now recall. It was probably somewhere around here that Lillian Edwards announced that Tobes looked just like Boromir. She had been drinking, and so had I, so I agreed. From here it was but a short step to "let's re-enact the Death of Boromir! With arrows! ... Whaddaya mean you haven't got any arrows? Let's make some arrows. And who's going to be Aragorn? ... No, after you. No, I insist."
Tobes, bless him, took his imminent demise in good part and had another drink. Possibly more than one.
Friday was mainly spent sitting in the sun, swigging ginger beer by the can. Roger Burton-West read Milton to Chris Bell, who is studying it and finds it far more restful when delivered verbally. Dead intellectual, we fans. Yes. In other news, my fake leather trousers were found dead: you know how PVC goes when it starts flaking off the backing cloth ..? Am in mourning.
Saturday brought many new pleasures. There was a panel on 'Sex in SF' which was packed to the doors, since sex is obviously all that fans ever think about. Farah Mendlesohn upset some of the audience by claiming that slash is not SF, since it's not driven by science-fictional ideas. (I paraphrase, but think I have the main argument right). By this definition, of course, most SF isn't SF either. Which is roughly what I had always suspected, so I'll buy this one. A good panel, but perhaps too wide-ranging.
German Lord of the Rings Kinder eggs, imported at great expense (and flogged at even greater expense) by Forbidden Planet. "One in every five has a Lord of the Rings figure," explained Iain Emsley, cheerily selling me 12. After several exciting construction projects ("Boromir on a skateboard?") I ended up with one Ranger and one useless female elf in a pink frock. Iain tried to sell me the £99 Legolas figure as an act of sympathy, but I resisted.
Lunch in St Helier with visiting foreigners Damien (![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
dmw) & Juliette. Juliette, Tony Keen and myself wandered the mean streets in search of archery supplies, and Juliette found a wonderful crossbow, which was regretfully discarded on grounds of (a) not being a longbow and (b) the convention being unlikely to let me back in if I were armed. Also very tempted by DIY Death of Boromir 'battle action' figure with free Lurtz. And plenty of arrows. Resisted temptation on grounds of (a) no Aragorn available for post-mortem smooch (b) figures probably not very posable (c) no way of affixing arrows to Boromir and (d) have never bought action figures in my life and am scared that I even want to. Pernicious stuff, this media fandom.
Bought a feather boa and some sticks instead.
Saturday night saw much more partying, at the end of which (chaperoned by the estimable Dr Keen) I beat Tobes off with a stick. (Tobes, apparently, was sure that Dr K would be a gentleman. Dr K insists that he was being a gentleman, which was he was still there. Suspect Tobes had something else in mind, such as Dr K holding his drink.
Wonder belatedly if I should post this sort of thing on LJ. Wonder why the hell not. No one is still reading.
On Sunday morning I realised I had lost my badge, somewhere on convention territory. I went off to registration to get a new one, aware that there would be some form of fee for this. (Fair enough: this is a Stupidity & Carelessness tax). Registration explained that the cost of a badge for the next two days was the cost of two day memberships. I expressed surprise. They continued to attempt to sell me an extra two days' membership, despite the fact that I was simply a paid-up member without a badge. I declined to avail myself of their convention, and went off to practice my amateur dramatics; eventually, the committee took pity - not on me, on the people within earshot - and gave me a new badge so that I would be quiet. Nice, kind committee.
Sunday night saw the BSFA Awards ceremony, a packed affair organised with the usual efficiency and smoothness. The Awards administrator was in dark glasses, not having had time to fix her makeup, and spent the ceremony regretting the glass of wine she hadn't been able to finish before dashing from restaurant to Lido. Good fun was had by all, as dissing the BSFA is even more fun than splattering SMS with red ink, and much cleaner.
Sunday night in the bar was Stealth Post-Modern Tattooing time. I expect to have the photos back by the end of the week, after which I can ask embarrassing questions like "Whose breasts are these?"
Temporary 'Body Language' Tattoos, just what it says on the tin: 12-point Courier New epigrams ("Forbidden Fruit", "Carpe Diem" [fish of the day], and so on). At first we were distressingly literal with these: Farah's cleavage bore the legend keep your eyes on the prize.
Later on the spirit of post-modernism came upon us, and out came the scissors and the cut'n'paste mentality. Juliette was forbidden knowledge goddess, Liam's arm asserted he who is lost hesitates, and by the time I got to SMS and Eira (the latter in the only velvet leopard-print maternity minidress I have ever seen) it was all positively Joycean. Now I remember why I take photos. It's because I forget what I have done otherwise.
[Edit: Tony C random acts of kindness: Damien lights home, nobody on]
Monday saw the Not the Clarke Award panel, in which the panel were wrong about the books about which which the Arthur C Clarke Award judges will later be wrong. We voted for Paul McAuley's The Secret of Life as Best of Shortlist, after an entertaining discussion in which my fellow panellists werewrongdifferently opinioned. Had cream tea with slash fans, and discovered that I am not really a media fan at all. Joy.
Death of Boromir finally re-enacted, but interrupted by arrival of taxi to airport. It was doomed, anyway. Could not get arrows to stick: Aragorn and lovely pregnant wife departed: poteen taking toll on remaining brain cells ... life so unfair.
Exhausting stuff, SF. And cannot get Beautiful tomorrow off my arm.
Thursday night was spent in the usual drunken debauchery: I revealed myself as a neo-media (nay, slash) fan, and was embraced (literally, in some cases) by slashers and dragged into long and complicated discussions which I do not now recall. It was probably somewhere around here that Lillian Edwards announced that Tobes looked just like Boromir. She had been drinking, and so had I, so I agreed. From here it was but a short step to "let's re-enact the Death of Boromir! With arrows! ... Whaddaya mean you haven't got any arrows? Let's make some arrows. And who's going to be Aragorn? ... No, after you. No, I insist."
Tobes, bless him, took his imminent demise in good part and had another drink. Possibly more than one.
Friday was mainly spent sitting in the sun, swigging ginger beer by the can. Roger Burton-West read Milton to Chris Bell, who is studying it and finds it far more restful when delivered verbally. Dead intellectual, we fans. Yes. In other news, my fake leather trousers were found dead: you know how PVC goes when it starts flaking off the backing cloth ..? Am in mourning.
Saturday brought many new pleasures. There was a panel on 'Sex in SF' which was packed to the doors, since sex is obviously all that fans ever think about. Farah Mendlesohn upset some of the audience by claiming that slash is not SF, since it's not driven by science-fictional ideas. (I paraphrase, but think I have the main argument right). By this definition, of course, most SF isn't SF either. Which is roughly what I had always suspected, so I'll buy this one. A good panel, but perhaps too wide-ranging.
German Lord of the Rings Kinder eggs, imported at great expense (and flogged at even greater expense) by Forbidden Planet. "One in every five has a Lord of the Rings figure," explained Iain Emsley, cheerily selling me 12. After several exciting construction projects ("Boromir on a skateboard?") I ended up with one Ranger and one useless female elf in a pink frock. Iain tried to sell me the £99 Legolas figure as an act of sympathy, but I resisted.
Lunch in St Helier with visiting foreigners Damien (
dmw) & Juliette. Juliette, Tony Keen and myself wandered the mean streets in search of archery supplies, and Juliette found a wonderful crossbow, which was regretfully discarded on grounds of (a) not being a longbow and (b) the convention being unlikely to let me back in if I were armed. Also very tempted by DIY Death of Boromir 'battle action' figure with free Lurtz. And plenty of arrows. Resisted temptation on grounds of (a) no Aragorn available for post-mortem smooch (b) figures probably not very posable (c) no way of affixing arrows to Boromir and (d) have never bought action figures in my life and am scared that I even want to. Pernicious stuff, this media fandom. Bought a feather boa and some sticks instead.
Saturday night saw much more partying, at the end of which (chaperoned by the estimable Dr Keen) I beat Tobes off with a stick. (Tobes, apparently, was sure that Dr K would be a gentleman. Dr K insists that he was being a gentleman, which was he was still there. Suspect Tobes had something else in mind, such as Dr K holding his drink.
Wonder belatedly if I should post this sort of thing on LJ. Wonder why the hell not. No one is still reading.
On Sunday morning I realised I had lost my badge, somewhere on convention territory. I went off to registration to get a new one, aware that there would be some form of fee for this. (Fair enough: this is a Stupidity & Carelessness tax). Registration explained that the cost of a badge for the next two days was the cost of two day memberships. I expressed surprise. They continued to attempt to sell me an extra two days' membership, despite the fact that I was simply a paid-up member without a badge. I declined to avail myself of their convention, and went off to practice my amateur dramatics; eventually, the committee took pity - not on me, on the people within earshot - and gave me a new badge so that I would be quiet. Nice, kind committee.
Sunday night saw the BSFA Awards ceremony, a packed affair organised with the usual efficiency and smoothness. The Awards administrator was in dark glasses, not having had time to fix her makeup, and spent the ceremony regretting the glass of wine she hadn't been able to finish before dashing from restaurant to Lido. Good fun was had by all, as dissing the BSFA is even more fun than splattering SMS with red ink, and much cleaner.
Sunday night in the bar was Stealth Post-Modern Tattooing time. I expect to have the photos back by the end of the week, after which I can ask embarrassing questions like "Whose breasts are these?"
Temporary 'Body Language' Tattoos, just what it says on the tin: 12-point Courier New epigrams ("Forbidden Fruit", "Carpe Diem" [fish of the day], and so on). At first we were distressingly literal with these: Farah's cleavage bore the legend keep your eyes on the prize.
Later on the spirit of post-modernism came upon us, and out came the scissors and the cut'n'paste mentality. Juliette was forbidden knowledge goddess, Liam's arm asserted he who is lost hesitates, and by the time I got to SMS and Eira (the latter in the only velvet leopard-print maternity minidress I have ever seen) it was all positively Joycean. Now I remember why I take photos. It's because I forget what I have done otherwise.
[Edit: Tony C random acts of kindness: Damien lights home, nobody on]
Monday saw the Not the Clarke Award panel, in which the panel were wrong about the books about which which the Arthur C Clarke Award judges will later be wrong. We voted for Paul McAuley's The Secret of Life as Best of Shortlist, after an entertaining discussion in which my fellow panellists were
Death of Boromir finally re-enacted, but interrupted by arrival of taxi to airport. It was doomed, anyway. Could not get arrows to stick: Aragorn and lovely pregnant wife departed: poteen taking toll on remaining brain cells ... life so unfair.
Exhausting stuff, SF. And cannot get Beautiful tomorrow off my arm.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
History seems to have recorded ...
Date: Monday, April 8th, 2002 08:10 am (UTC)In the cold light of day, the picture conjured doesn't bear thinking about.
And nice guys finish is resisting fading ...
Ooooh look ....
Date: Monday, April 8th, 2002 08:55 am (UTC)Feeling better?
The picture conjured is but a pale shadow of the memory. Let's send him to America. They'll like him there. Yeah. (Do we have to have him back?!)