FantasyCon …
Well I arrived back from FantasyCon … eventually. Whilst standing next to Gary Greenwood’s broken down car somewhere between Ross on Wye and home, nuts slowly freezing off, AA man struggling in a vain attempt to get said dead car re-started, I spied a sticker on the vehicle’s rear window and mused for some time upon fate. Buy a car from ‘Bob’s Bangers’, and you’re inviting fate to fuck you over.
But even that little adventure did not detract from a great convention … in fact it was a little exciting!
FantasyCon was back in a hotel for the first time in three years, and the convention goers revelled in it. The hotel staff, however, did not. Obviously not warned about the legendary drinking capabilities of a gang of writers, service was slower than dead, although the staff did tend to present a brave face and do their best.
It’s always great to meet old friends and make new ones, and from the weekend’s alcoholic haze it is perhaps best to simply pick out a few random moments rather than try to offer a coherent whole. Coherent? Pah!
Like Mark Morris’s shirt, toward which we were all mysteriously drawn like moths to a naked flame. Or Graham Joyce’s constant and insistent lapdance denial. Prize for most effective and amusing swearing goes, once again, to Paul Meloy, who can make the word ‘cunt’ sound like pure poetry. Blackmail opportunity of the Convention was presented by a famous celebrity’s ‘my first wank’ story, while Tim Love’s unbelievable luck in the raffle meant he was lucky to get out of there alive. Sometime during the weekend England won the rugby world cup, apparantly, to a resounding bout of apathy from most of those present. And also sometime during the weekend, someone stole hours from my life and a ton from my wallet and replaced them with a headache, a weakened physique and many, many happy memories of one of the best cons I’ve been to for ages.
And now, to bed. Sober.
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