Fantasycon Fallout
Last weekend was the British Fantasy Convention in Nottingham. For some reason I decided to drive up instead of getting a train. It’ll save me time, I thought, and hey, I like driving my little soft-top.
I am very stupid.
For a start, Friday afternoon isn’t a good time to take to the roads. The heavens opened and Hurricane FuckTimUp descended. By the time I found Nottingham itself, over three hours had passed. I then discovered that Nottingham is The City Without Street Names Or Road Numbers. See, that’s it’s real name, but it’s so long and cumbersome that if you look on a map all they print is Nottingham. Fuckers.
So, Nottingham at rush hour. Me, lost. My car, roof starting to leak under the relentless onslaught of Hurricane FuckTimUp. I stopped to ask directions – and bought a pack of cigarettes, even though I’d sworn not to smoke that weekend – and I eventually arrived at the hotel five hours after setting out from home.
But … well, it’s Fantasycon. All my stress evaporated seconds after entering the hotel lobby and bumping into Ariel, and Pete and Nicky Crowther. Fifteen minutes later I was freshened up and in the bar, and stress was back down to zero. Half an hour after that I found myself in a curry restaurant sitting next to Mark Morris and Sarah Pinorough, and opposite Neil Gaiman and Graham Joyce.
Rest of that evening … got drunk. Very, very drunk.
It’s unfair – nay, impossible – to pick out highlights of such a great weekend. But among the highlights are Tim Love not winning any raffle prizes (ha!), playing pool with Morris & Pinborough, meeting up with Joe Hill, the Sunday morning (2am) tearful chat with Pete Crowther, the Sunday morning (3am) game of ‘This is a tick…’
And the list goes on.
So, my Fantasycon. The first five hours were shit, but the next two days more than made up for it.
And over the weekend, chatting to some of my best friends in the world and getting advice from people in the know, I reached a decision. In a week or two, I’ll tell you about it.
Tim
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