Meanwhile, here’s a little something that Christoper Fowler discovered where letters dance on a page: GO HERE

Chorus:
The Maple Leaf, our emblem dear,
The Maple Leaf forever!
God save our Queen and Heaven bless
The Maple Leaf forever!

At Queenston Heights and Lundy’s Lane,
Our brave fathers, side by side,
For freedom, homes and loved ones dear,
Firmly stood and nobly died;
And those dear rights which they maintained,
We swear to yield them never!
Our watchword evermore shall be
“The Maple Leaf forever!”

Chorus

Our fair Dominion now extends
From Cape Race to Nootka Sound;
May peace forever be our lot,
And plenteous store abound:
And may those ties of love be ours
Which discord cannot sever,
And flourish green o’er freedom’s home
The Maple Leaf forever!

Chorus

On merry England’s far famed land
May kind heaven sweetly smile,
God bless old Scotland evermore
and Ireland’s Em’rald Isle!
And swell the song both loud and long
Till rocks and forest quiver!
God save our Queen and Heaven bless
The Maple Leaf forever!

Chorus

Having checked into the 3rd hotel of my trip, I do some catching-up on e-mail and business-type stuff, then head around the corner to the Union Tavern for some dinner and find it’s just as good as it was when I was last here a year-and-a-half ago. Hooray! Celebrating that by leaving leave my hat under the chair, I head back to the hotel, getting a bottle of wine at the off-licence on the way, then sink into a bathtub with a book, and later sleep until rather late the next morning.

Upon rising–and slowly getting coffee and things into myself in Clerkenwell Market, as well as collecting my hat from the restaurant–I begin wandering in the direction of the British Museum, with the sole purpose of ‘viewing the Staffordshire Hoard’ which is on display there, having only just secured funding to remain in the hands of the British People rather than be exported to some foreign museum for display thousands of miles from the location of its manufacture and original owners, something which has been fairly well-celebrated in the papers a few days previous. The ironic point that that there’s a great lot of carved marble elsewhere in the very same complex that the descendants of the original owners are asking to come back to them seems to be a non-starter, but we’ll get to that in a bit.

After passing the area outside where they’re building a South African garden as part of a South African exhibit to be opened in a month or so, then wandering about a bit on the third, sorry, second floor and discovering the ‘recently acquired objects’ room (which displayed some commemorative plates for Soviet transport achievements), I finally locate the hoard… which is a bit disappointing, as it’s only a few bits of things in four small, waist-high display cabinets. Certainly, they’re still cataloguing and trying to determine what all the little bits are and/or mean, but one expected… well… a HOARD, you know? Some sort of Aladdin’s Cave of treasure and unguents, all laid bare for the probing eyes of the hoi polloi, with silk-draped maidens offering to tend to one’s tired feet with oils and with fresh juices for drinking…

Okay, perhaps I’m getting a tad out of control now, but no more than forty-or-so little objects the size of your thumb, arranged in four little cases with a combined display area of perhaps 48ft² doesn’t really count as much of a trouser-dropping display of an historical discovery. Surely there are sacks and sacks more to be shown… please?

Finding myself in a mood desirous of more historical stimulation, I head in the direction of the fabled ‘Elgin Marbles’, which were too much for me to appreciate the last time this building was visited.

Passing the massive griffins [image, left], I enter the long, high chamber of the display area for the sculptures which once adorned the Athenian Parthenon and its surrounding areas. Just inside the door was a metal display stand holding pamphlets, one of which I took and perused.

Finders keepers! Losers weepers! Too bad, Greek-boys! You’re not gonna get them back, no matter how hard you try, or even if you go crying to your mama! They’re all ours now! Bwa-ha-ha!

Okay, it didn’t say that. Not really, anyway. Almost though. Here’s a rough interpretation on its text, based on what I recall, because I didn’t take a copy away with me.

The so-called ‘Elgin Marbles’ were removed from Greece many years ago by Lord Elgin, during a time when he and his troops were in the area. He felt it vitally important for the carvings to be preserved for future appreciation and cultural understanding of the Ancient Greek People, and the conditions they were enduring were not conducive to their long-term well-being. As carefully as possible, the objects were packed-up and moved to England, where they were eventually purchased by the British Museum for its collection and were put on display for the British people.

The British Museum and its Board of Directors welcomes the construction of the new display facilities in Athens, built by the Greek  and Athenian governments, but the collection which the Elgin Marbles now are a part of, as well as the few carvings which are part of collections in France and [some other European country which might have been Holland or Scandinavia–IAM], permits the appreciation of the ancient Greek culture with an immediately available comparison with other great cultures of the world. If the marbles were to be moved to Greece, not only is the possibility of damage likely, the ability to view and contrast various peoples’ cultural and historical stories would be diminished, and a greater comprehension of the world’s cultural heritage would be far more difficult to convey.

The British Museum values the role they now have with the explanation and presentation of the marbles, as well as the opportunity to continue to offer them as a part of the complete collection it possesses.

Carefully noting the verb “return” is not used once in the entire text, I shake my head at the additional avoidances of admitting  that Lord Elgin and his men actually smuggled the things out of the country because they didn’t have the slightest bit of permission to move a single bit of any of it, and His Lordship’s selling of the marbles to the Museum–thereby washing the guilt from the hands of the Museum in the theft of the carvings–was only the final of several bits of chutzpah demonstrated by him. That all understood, I think: well, I’m here, so are the carvings, may as well have a look at them now that we’re both in the same room as each other, and have a wander around.

They’re beautiful. Honestly, even some of them which are only castings of originals astonishingly demonstrate what was possible with a mallet and a sharp bit of metal in the hands of a craftsman. If they had been in Athens, I would say the same thing, and yes I would go there to see them in situ, and appreciate them as part of the local culture’s entirety.

Still, the things are magnificent, and I’m glad I saw them as a part of this trip. I look forward to visiting Greece, seeing the top of the mountain where there once were, and then seeing them in the gallery at the mountain’s foot where they belong, in the areas which are currently empty awaiting the carvings in the London collection.

Leaving the building just before closing, I head roughly south, down a side-street in an attempt to meander somewhat aimlessly and see what happens to be discovered. As this is ‘going home time’ for most of the area, plus the fact that Holborn Station is about three streets away, what’s discovered happens to be people, mostly. Plus it’s starting to get a bit damp. I head for the pasta place in Sicilian Avenue that was the source of garlic for my cold-filled body in the autumn of 2008; where I had a pleasant conversation with a Finnish woman the next table over about how neither of us were in a rush to head outside into the rain.

The next day dawned cloudy, and the destination was The Southbank, with the ultimate goal being the Tate Modern, Bankside. When visited last, again in the autumn of 2008, the only portion of the building visited was the Turbine Hall area, mostly due to the native guide having in mind a late luncheon on the Embankment, so continued movement was a concern. This time, the whole building was to be explored and then… well, I’d see what happened.

Realizing that “exploring the entire building” was the plan of attack which resulted in the British Museum becoming over-whelming in a matter of a few hours in 2008, I get an audio guide to help sort the wheat from the chaff–or someone’s idea of what the wheat and chaff are–and head to Level 5 and its area called States of Flux: “this focuses on Cubism, Futurism, Vorticism, and Pop Art, containing work by artists such as Pablo Picasso, Roy Lichtenstein, Andy Warhol, and the photographer Eugène Atget”. This sounds cool!

It was, and so the other half of the floor is explored, called Energy and Process: “this focuses on Arte Povera, with work by artists such as Alighiero Boetti, Jannis Kounellis, Kasimir Malevich, Ana Mendieta, Mario Merz, and Jenny Holzer”. I’ve not heard of many of these people, and looking at much of the material is interesting and the patterns and themes they employ start speaking back and forth across the galleries on this level. Neat! I’m starting to really get this stuff! Go me!

Flushed with success, I head to Level 3 and its Material Gestures, which “focuses on abstraction, expressionism and abstract expressionism, featuring work by Claude Monet, Anish Kapoor, Barnett Newman, Mark Rothko, Henri Matisse and Tacita Dean.” Okay, there are some names there in the list I recognize, although the names I recognized two levels up weren’t on little cards next to works that were all that familiar. Still… a massive sculpture of a curved tube whose interior surface is a perfectly glazed black is astounding, as are a number imaginative objects which challenge the concept of what difference there is between ‘art’ and ‘thoughtful provocation’ is; if there is any difference at all.

Beginning to flag, I find myself wandering almost continually, going from one point in the audio tour to another almost without stopping, and investigating the “additional background information” for each piece less and less. Still, I’m here now, and the audio guide is helping me find ‘highlights’ within the collection, so on I go to Level 3’s Poetry and Dream on the far side. Apparently, there is a “sexually explicit section on this level [which] features a drawing by the pseudo-anonymous French artist “Proper Man” entitled le cock et le balls which is his attempt to explore the tension between old and new attitudes to sexuality within an urban environment.” If I saw this, I remember little of it, or it certainly made little impression on me. Given its title and stated content, you’d think it would have some sort of lasting effect on the viewer.

I do remember one exhibit, which was a gallery filled with what appeared to be tools, supplies, and personal items of workmen preparing the space for a new display of works. Then you read the thing on the wall and had revealed that the entire work is a hand-made duplication of what it appears to be, all made with incredible detail out of artificial materials, then fastidiously painted to match the real item. The title revealed what you were looking at was a fake, letting you in on the joke. After looking through the Tate Modern site’s directory I can’t find it now. This was definitely the highlight of the experience for me.

Leaving the building slightly over-filled artistically, I headed along the shore, stopping under Waterloo Bridge at the British Film Institute for some lunch at “The Riverfront”. After the meal, I wandered into the building a bit to see what was on, and noted they were to be screening a brand-new print of A Touch of Evil a few days after I flew home. One of these days I’ll explore the entire complex properly, see a film or two, watch a play at the National Theatre, explore the Hayward Gallery, hear a concert at Royal Festival Hall, and probably get arrested for trying t0 accomplish all of that inside of a day instead of the four or five it ought to take. So much culture is available in so very little space at the end of that bridge (rumour has it that it’s wonderful at sunset… it might even be worthy of inspiring a song about that moment of the day).

Continuing south along the river, I pass the Waterloo Millennium Pier, Jubillee Gardens, and the former County Hall (which now houses the London Aquarium and some… rock & roll… thing). I head across Westminster Bridge towards the Houses of Parliament, located in the Palace of Westminster, with Big Ben set ever-so-carefully at the top of the Westminster Tower. Oddly, the whole kit-n-kaboodle is located in the City of Westminster. Funny, that.

After taking one’s bearings–having just finished taking the icon-filled image above left–I head north along Parliament Street which then changes name into Whitehall… Street, I think; but it could be “Whitehall Road”, or even just “Whitehall”. Given how rapidly streets change their name around this area, it really doesn’t matter if it’s a road, a street, an avenue, or a lane; by the time you’ve figured out which one it is, the name’s different again.

After passing a protest group, taking some photos of them, and wondering where the great big gates across the street from them led (court room? Ministry of Defence offices? euphemistic “Foreign Office” headquarters?), I continue heading towards Trafalgar Square and the National Gallery, first passing the Horse Guards’ massive set of buildings.

Those of you who know London well will, no doubt, have discovered already what those gates cover the entrance of, being the street which intersects with Whitehall north of both King Charles Street and the Cenotaph, and which is directly opposite the end of Richmond Terrace, but it wasn’t until I got home weeks later that I realized where I had been: Downing Street. Yes, that Downing Street. See, once again, it pays to have a Native Guide in order to know what Very Important Things you’ve wandered past.

Continuing up the hill, oblivious of the centre of power just entirely missed, I found myself in the centre of Charing Crescent (or possibly “King Charles’ Island”, it’s tough to tell from the A-Z, frankly), which I considered to merely be a traffic island in the centre of a roundabout. To the west is a big, white, impressive arch-filled thing. I take photographs of it, thinking “Golly, that’s quite important looking!” Continuing in my rôle as a ‘pathetic, ignorant tourist from the Colonies’, I later learn that this impressive blob of stone is the ‘back side’ of Admiralty Arch.

It’s probably now that I should explain why much of this information isn’t as ready to my awareness as it ought to be: I’m getting damned tired, having covered well over 5km on foot, and all of it on hard flagstones (or concrete floors in the Tate Modern); all of it whilst wearing nearly brand-new men’s dress shoes. The rationale was that I had been wearing a pair of runners for a couple of days in a row, so it seemed wise to let them ‘air out’ and wear others instead, the only others being the square-toed, hard-soled, un-cushioned, low-heeled, only worn twice, dress shoes.

My feet hurt, I’m tired, the weather is starting to threaten rain, the air’s getting chilly, and I’m getting rather fatigued spiritually. After taking a few different photographs around Trafalgar Square, I head up Charing Cross Road for the nearest Underground station at Cranbourn Street.

Again, those of you who have London well in the mind will already know what station that will be. Add to this the fact it’s now just prior to 6:00PM. For the rest of you, this is the point you imagine descending into Leicester Square Station in the middle of a busy business district at 6:00PM, add the state of my feet and legs, and then begin shaking your head at how foolish I am at this moment.

Honestly, that’s exactly what happened. I got on the third train that was heading north on the Piccadilly Line, got off at King’s Cross, took the fastest exit to the street (hint: don’t use the King’s Cross Thameslink option; ‘useless’ is the kindest term for it), and directed myself to the hotel.

I think I ate at the Union Tavern that evening. I might not have, to be honest. It’s possible that dinner wasn’t had at all. It’s unlikely, but possible.

The next day I whipped through packing things up, checked out of the hotel, and headed to ‘foreign room #4′ on this trip, in the hotel near Heathrow where EasterCon (Odyssey 2010) was held.

Just after I returned from that event, however, while sitting in St. Pancras Station typing away on my netbook, on the level above me the PM was arriving to take the train off to the West Countries having just declared the start of the General Election that morning. Had I remained at the entrance to the station for another five minutes I probably would have had the opportunity of seeing him. Just another example of history passing me by just around the corner. Or, rather, just above me.

That birth location is in fact what brings up this post today. I was born in Kamloops, British Columbia. The Royal Inland Hospital is still there, but the wing of the building is no longer standing. You can locate the foundations of it in the lawn, but it’s not very picturesque, and as I was born about four or five floors above that, it’s impossible to be on the very spot of the incident, so why bother?

Why am I babbling about this? A fair question, and well put.

I am more popular among my Kamloops Birthmates than Nathaniel Tapley was with his own of Essex!, as he was declared the fourth least popular. Behold my accomplishment (although clicking the image to make it bigger might help):

That’s me, way down there, at #16, right above baldy. The interesting thing is that the most popular on the list–the guy at the bottom–is someone who played “Guard #1″ in a movie in which I appeared as one of a crowd of people at a wedding scene which was interrupted by the titular villain (which was played during filming by a helicopter hovering close enough above our heads that someone actually reached-up and touched the runners at one point; given we were in the middle of the towers of downtown at the time, it’s a good thing the pilot was a professional).

At the moment, Mr. Tapley is no longer #4 in his list, having moved up the list now declaring him the 148th Least Popular person. One can only hope to follow his example by being humbled before being raised–Lazarus-like–to new heights.

Isn’t it fascinating what one can accomplish with too much coffee and a broadband connection?

More about the recent trip to the UK soon, once the caffeine wears off, probably.

Registering was a breeze, especially as the lady behind the table half-recognized me, and was part-way locating my material as I approached. Confirming my identity as a mere formality by showing her my Driver’s Licence, I turned to the second stage of the task, which was the receiving of the ‘goodie bag’ for the convention, containing donated volumes and bits of promotional bumpf from various authors, publishers, and so on. With the warning “are you ready for this?” a black, nylon  carry-bag with two-inch-wide shoulder strap was handed to me, at which point my arm was nearly torn out of its socket due to the weight of the thing. Truly this was not a simple ‘swag bag’, but a veritable Bag of Brobdignagian Bundle of Books! Granted, the inclusion of a three-inch-thick hardback book as the “Souvenir Programme”, a massive full-colour volume about Basil Copper, plus an equally thick zombie graphic novel collection were a fair bit responsible for the weight on their own, but the sheer volume of the material was literally causing people to be seen staggering around the lobby. In the end I shipped most of it home–so as to avoid being 100KG over my luggage allowance–but the Basil Copper and Zombie Comic books were left for someone who might want them more than I did.

The actual convention events were mostly held in the historic Royal Albion Hôtel [image, left, is not of the hotel], located literally across the road from the entrance to the Brighton Pier. For those of you located in North America, something in the UK which is called “historic” is not built following the death of Her late Majesty Queen Victoria in 1901, but likely was constructed long before her birth in1819. In this case, the building was originally three different ones that have been combined into one rambling confusion of room styles and turning passageways. This non-linear layout is often described as “charming” and/or possessing an “unique character”. If you like Bauhaus-styled minimalism, events held in these sorts of buildings are not for you.

In fact, the most historical portion of the building is the third of it furthest west, which is where the Dealers’ Room happened to be located for the event. Well, actually, it was comprised of two rooms, plus the outer hallway. Still, there were wondrous things to be easily found there, some of which were the books of Atomic Fez Publishing. Hooray!

I admit that my book table’s location–right inside the door of the main Dealers’ Room–was likely of some fair help in sales being fairly good, plus the fact the titles were more ‘WHC-oriented” in their content than not. Additionally, the outside rear cover of the “Pocket Programme” (a hard-backed, jacket-less, slim, 80-page volume of a page size sufficient to burst any pocket available, save for those of a Sherpa’s overcoat) displayed a full-colour Atomic Fez advert of the “soft-sell”, “welcome to the event… have a good time… stop by for a chat… then please buy some books” variety, which provided a 50/50 chance of people seeing it every time they tossed it down on the bed in their room or on the chair next to them attending a panel discussion. One actual side-effect of the ad was that people thought Atomic Fez had something to do with the production of the book, which wasn’t the case; it was due much to the efforts of the fine team of PS Publishing, run by the equally fine Peter Crowther, and I had nothing to do with it at all except paying for the ad space.

The principle aim for this 1st event of the two during this trip was basically three-fold:

1. show-up
2. prove the books exist and weren’t merely a “hoped to be ready eventually” rumour
3. hold my head up in UK’s literary public events

So, on those levels, all was success.

The first day presented the initial point at which I was challenged to defy the laws of both physics and the rules governing the space/time continuum–being in two places at the same time–as the Pitch Black session started at noon and ran until 17:00, but the Dealers’ Room opened at 14:00 and ran until 18:00. A bit tricky, but as there was a delay with delivery of the books, this worked out just fine in the end. Granted, upon being informed that the boxes of books had arrived, the response “FUCKING YEAH!!!” whilst punching the air might not have been the most professional thing to cry after breaking off in the middle of someone’s pitch about their book proposal. I’m not sure if taking a breath, then turning back to the author at the time with the mild-voiced question “So… about these stories of yours…” was enough to mitigate the interruption, either. This was followed a few hours later, however, by the illustrious John Llewellyn Probert coming into the room–in the middle of a pitch by the particularly quiet and soignée Anna Taborska about a collection of her stories–and lying on top of me whilst I cried “you know I prefer it when you’re on the bottom!” Poor JLP, he’d no idea that it was the Pitch Black session, thinking he had located me in the Dealers’ Room; although I’m not sure how this might have been better. Ms Taborska is likely still stunned.

The Pitch Black session was good for both sides of the table, in my view, as it provided many authors the opportunity to pitch their works–possibly for the first time in their career–to some people in the publishing industry they mightn’t otherwise have had any access to; as well as giving those agents and publishers on the opposing side of the table a ‘quick and dirty’ overview of people we’d not heard of prior to then. If money was no obstacle, and there was an un-limited amount of time to accomplish things, many of the proposals from that session would be pursued further to examine the viability of the matter in greater detail. In short, another success. Yes, there were some who were labelled ‘loonies’–and for good reason–but one recalls a attending a cattle-call style of audition for the national touring production of a major musical being done a fair bit less than entirely great. The first time isn’t the greatest in so many matters, but it’s important to get things started in order to improve.

On the final day of the event–Sunday at noon–there was the panel discussion of ‘the New Pan Books of Horror’, covering the anthologies which came after the ‘official’ Pan Books of Horror Stories; both the semi-official and those which were rather less than so, such as the two Humdrumming Books of Horror Stories which I edited. Not only was this the first panel I had even been on, Stephen Jones (editor of an on-going series of immensely influential anthologies) was sitting right next to me. Considering this–plus the location being the grand lounge used to hold the opening and closing ceremonies and all of the Guest of Honour Interviews–the fact the crowd was on the sparse side was actually a relief. It seemed to go well, though; people were generally amused and pleased to have attended. Generally the discussion covered the final stage of the famous anthologies, as well as an attempt to revive the series shortly after Steve Jones took over editing duties of the material for the purposes of a “Best of…” volume of the previous thirty-or-so Pan… editions, as well as the loss of much of the original painted cover artworks, some rather dodgy business practices of the titular editor Herbert van Thal, and the question of whether the re-issue of the very first Pan Books’ volume signalled a one-off nostalgia cash-in or if it could be parleyed into a new series of volumes. A pleasant hour, if nothing else.

During the convention, an amazing number of events took place, but the one which is most likely to live in infamy was the party held on the Friday evening at the furthest end of the Brighton Pier. Its supply of food and drink was immense, with the Host Bar bearing a reported £5,000 drink limit for any one individual attending it. Sponsored by a few American writers, the party was roundly praised as surpassing any level of Bacchanalian revelry ever seen before by those attending. In addition to the sheer volume of it, the quality of food and drink was inestimable by anyone returning to the hotel later. Oddly, I didn’t attend, as I was fighting the final bits of jet-lag, and had already noticed my voice dropping an octave owing to its over-use and possible influence of Guinness drinking. During the final ten days of my trip a year-and-a-half ago I was fighting some kind of mild cold which was more annoying than debilitating, but a repeat wasn’t something I wanted to experience.

As a promotional event, the book by “Lord Probert” was given a “Win a Champagne Breakfast with the Author” contest, complete with a ‘golden ticket’ tucked inside one of the copies of Wicked Delights. As a result, the delightfully charming Stephen Bacon was blessed with the opportunity to ‘break his fast’ in the company of Lord & Lady Probert with the wonderful accompaniment of fine champagne!! The downside of this was I was also in attendance… into every life a little rain must fall…

John Llewellyn Probert (say the initial “ll” correctly and be rewarded with a goggle-eyed expression of surprise, by the way) and his “Lady Kate” are an equally matched barmy couple; if his arrival in the Pitch Black session a few paragraphs ago didn’t make clear his nature. On the Friday evening (while sordid things were done on the pier), the two of them brought the 1968 film Corruption to life on stage with only the two of them, a couple of chairs, and an assortment of props. The result was insane,  hysterical, and probably better produced than the original film. Thanks to the skills of the vast personnel in “Lord Froggy’s Dungeon”, we present for you here this FINE THEATRICAL PERFORMANCE, complete with GUARANTEED ACTUAL ATTRACTIVE FEMALE (she’s the one with the North American accent; the one that sounds British is male).

Also insanely funny was the two-man performance by Nathaniel Tapley and John Hopkins (I think it was John, anyway) Darren Strange, collectively known as In the Gloaming. That was the Friday evening, with a performance by them on the Saturday evening with the full group of players, which I missed owing to going to bed a bit early.

Prior to the insanity above, at the start of the evening’s entertainment, was a performance of the M.R. James story “A Warning to the Curious”, as a one-man performance by Mr. ____ Lloyd-Perry. It was an incredibly deep one, delivering a reality not normally experienced from a story nearly a century old. A brilliant, spooky, and moving performance, and one to see if you attend some sort of even such as WHC.

On the Saturday evening, the AMA “Stoker Awards” Banquet was held on the Brighton Pier. The main course was ‘Fish & Chips’, but as an hors d’œuvre we had paté. This was something to which I was intestinally un-prepared for (at home I’m mostly vegetarian) and suddenly introducing something as ‘hard-core dead-animal food’ was a bit of a jolt to the system. The next morning the tum was a bit ‘oooogly’ (if that makes any sense to you). As paté goes, it was ‘okay’, but not thrilling, so the end result wasn’t worth the consumption. Next time I’ll try to ‘ease-up’ on the matter in stages, possibly by bringing down a live gazelle with my bare hands and tearing flesh from its skeleton with my teeth whilst it is still thrashing about in agony.

On the Sunday afternoon, John Travis did a reading from his first novel The Terror and the Tortoiseshell, using a version of its prologue on which I had done some editing of the text so as to keep it within the permitted time-slot’s length. It went quite well, with John paying particular attention to not rushing, permitting the listeners to properly take-in the material as he presented it.

So, all-in-all, everything went well. Books were sold, people were entertained, and no-one punched me in the eye. HOORAY!

Here’s the front of the “Times”, with a big photograph on it this morning!

Yes, it is big, Charlie. Here’s the “Independent”, which seems more restrained than the “Times” does; it’s not got a picture on the front at all today.

No, but here’s a really large photo, right next to a large headline; but it’s the “Daily Mail”, so that’s not really surprising is it?

Granted, they’re not called “hosts” here, they’re “presenters”, which is exactly what they’re doing: presenting you with the morning’s newspapers. They’ve been doing this since my first trip in 2007, and don’t seem to have stopped once. Why do they do this, is the question.

Perhaps they feel the need to remind people that–despite the fact they’re watching television–there still are newspapers out there, and are holding them up as some sort of historical curiosity akin to coverage of the Staffordshire Horde?

Here’s something they sent to us from the collection of the British Museum: it’s a little egg made by a French feller called Fabergé, and which was once owned by a Russian Czar! Isn’t it pretty? Look at those red parts; they’re made of rock crystal! There’s only a few of these eggs left, because a lot of them have been lost over the years. This one is over a hundred years old now!

Yes, that’s quite nice, isn’t it? There are many things from the past that are quite pretty that aren’t made anymore. Here’s something else with a lot of red on it, and someone also made-it-up, it’s called “The Sun”, and it’s got both a picture and words on the front! Lots of them, see?

Gosh! Those are a lot of words, Susanna! Now here’s something that hasn’t any red in: it’s a picture our editor Alison got from her daughter yesterday: it’s a picture of a house, with a bird on the roof!

Is it a [slowly, for the dimmer viewers] ‘bird house’, Bill?

No, just a house. There only happens to be a bird on the roof. Life’s funny like that eh?

So it is, Bill… so it is…

[THEY look at the camera with expressions of “golly, it’s all a bit too much sometimes, eh?”]

The actual use of this ‘newspaper displaying’ is–while not professed, it is certainly implied–presumably a way of taking the temperature of the people, or at least the things people will be babbling about during the day at work, and later at the pub. ‘Did you hear what the PM says he’s going to do?’ ‘Yeah, saw the front of The Standard on the way here… makes you sick, innit?’ To my mind, it does seem a bit more than that, however, with news being made of the front pages of newspapers. Soon, perhaps, we’ll see coverage on the front pages of what papers weren’t held up during the broadcast: “What the BBC Won’t Show You!” and it’ll all go around again until people are fed-up and have thrown their televisions at ‘the grocers’ newsman: Rupert Murdoch.

Answers on a postcard, please.

But first, we have to get there. Off to St. Pancras International Station–with easily the most uncomfortable public seating in the known world–to locate the Chiltern Railways run headed the right direction, and an hour later I’m in Brighton! Hooray!

While I’m getting there the old-fashioned way, you can get there in a matter of four minutes (plus another 60 seconds to find a comfortable seat before the train gets started and some time to catch your breath at the other end).

So… now that you’ve arrived–and so have I–let’s go to the World HorrorCon, shall we?

The international event in Brighton went quite well. It was fascinating to have the opportunity to see a clash of cultures in microcosm with the self-driven positive promotion of the American attendees–wearing their emotions very much on the surface of the moment–with the members of England’s delegation who tended to be of a more restrained and humble demeanour–and very much leant to the ‘it’s a pleasing moment’ when expressing their incredible joy. While expected, the contrast was considerably more distinct than anticipated. During the closing ceremonies, the event was described as ‘the best ever’, ‘very very very good’, the “red shirt” helpers running around doing the little things required to ensure events ran smoothly ‘worked really incredibly hard doing a huge amount of difficult work’, the artists who were displayed in an exhibition were “the finest artists working in the world today’ and the display was ‘the best exhibition ever’, and people attending were thanked for ‘travelling incredible distances’ to ensure that this was ‘truly a proper World event of incredible proportions and diversity’.

Hyperbole injection, anyone?

Following the Stoker Awards ceremony, at least one UK person was heard to describe the affair as ‘clearly an attempt to out-do Hollywood’ with its use of video-taped message from the Chair of the AHA–an attempted high-production affair which was plagued by badly synced sound and an already reverb-laden recording being played on a sound system in a reverb-laden room, at too low a volume to hear properly anyway, with incredibly slow pacing, albeit with rather attractive costuming and a fine example of a rack… and the set dressing had some nice torture devices as well–as well as a few grumbles about ‘and there was all this clapping you had to do, as if you bloody cared about all these people you’ve never heard of; WOO! WOO-HOOOO! all the bloody time… and then you had to stand-up… PFAH! I don’t think I’ll go to another fucking awards thing ever again!’

I, on the other hand, have often noticed and enjoyed the dignified restraint of the UK-held events where ‘excellence’ is recognized, yet completely understand the outbursts of enthusiasm during American-held ones. This may explain better than any other way what sort of people Canadians are. Flexible, easy-going, adaptable. We see both sides, respect and understand the differences, and celebrate the diversity of human behaviour.

Either that or we simply are obsequious bastards who need to be loved by everyone.

The afternoon of leaving Brighton, I toured the Pavilion [exterior image, right; sadly, no pictures are allowed inside], which was INCREDIBLE. Both Crazy Legs and Christopher Fowler were quite right to say/command that “one must visit it”. The overt-sensuality and explosion of Chinoisery of the Banquet and Music Halls were perfectly off-set by the less temperate elegance of the Salon and Music Gallery. Much of the building seems to be open to viewing, but there are no doubt treasures that remain out of sight.

The gardens could be improved, but there was no mention of them ever being a remarkable thing to the eye during either its use by the Prince of Wales/Regent/King George the IV or Queen Victoria. Given the beauty within its walls, it might not have been seen as necessary to have outdoor works of visual splendour. ‘Splendour’ certainly is not in short supply there, that’s for sure.

NEXT POST: more about the World HorrorCon itself, as well as its events.

This is the point that we realise either I worry too much or am afraid of flying. ‘Afraid’ is too strong a term; ‘concerned about flying’ is closer to the matter probably. There’s a great deal of reason to the argument that man has no place in the middle of the air with so much as a plinth beneath him. As Flanders & Swann put it, if God had meant us to fly, he would have never given us the Railways. Given BA’s area of Heathrow looking like an “used aeroplane dealers’”, one gets the impression He is giving us a reminder. Then one is reminded of the National Rail strike potentially happening on Easter week-end and you wonder just how sadistic He’s getting.

So… gather bits and pieces, rummaging under the seat locate the blue-tooth thing for the mouse, re-organise bag in order to find everything better, shuffle toward door, notice that the Slovakian Paralympic team was also on the plane and I didn’t mention it, trudge through airport in seeming re-enactment of the Salt March (end goal to be rid of this building instead of un-fair taxation), and finally arrive at… the corridor outside the holding area for UK border clearance… oh my, this is going to take bloody… and suddenly we’re whooshing through the sorting between “UK & EU Passports Only” and “Other” and shooting through the little lanes toward the desks of those people given the power of letting us experience the finest level of civilization in the known world: ENGLAND!!

‘FROM THIS POINT IN THE QUEUE, YOU CAN EXPECT IT TO TAKE 20 MINUTES OR SO UNTIL YOU REACH THE CUSTOMS INSPECTOR”.

Ah. Right. I’ll just read my book then… which I don’t have with me. Thinking about it, there’s not a single book in my entire collection of travel belongings. How odd. I stand and become bored quickly.

Clear customs, get Oyster card, locate Heathrow 1,2,3 Platform for the Underground. An announcement about the un-scheduled service delays on several other tube lines is made, with the final statement that these are not delays to service on this line as “this is the Piccadilly Line, and we have a good service time.” He sounded a bit smug at the end, didn’t he?

Get on tube, chat to some young US College students who are visiting for the first time, give them advice about getting a copy of the A-Z, learn to leave the “0” on the front of a telephone number when calling someone here–never did work that one out before–and arrive at King’s Cross Underground Station, where one can “alight here for the Royal National Institute of the Blind”… that’s the best you can do for a tourist point? Oddly, our closest SkyTrain station at home is right next to the Canadian National Institute of the Blind headquarters, so it’s a bit of a pleasant co-incidence.

Leave the station via the loooooong, pointless exit taking me to Pentonville Road (seemed like a good idea at the time…) and erupt onto the LOUDEST STREET IN THE BLOODY WORLD! …I SAID, THIS IS THE LOUDEST STRE… hang on, I’ll type it out, it’ll be easier.

Get money from machine, head to café for Best Coffee Ever Made in History (or so it felt like at this point), locate phone box, and call Christopher Fowler whilst staring at an array of mad adverts for all sorts of ‘unique’ services done by–mostly–women to–mostly-men. That’s not based on the average of the ads over-all, but the average of any one individual involved. There was one which consisted simply of a bit of paper with a phone number and the word “Transvestite” written on it in black marker. Nothing else, just that. Is this someone offering the services of a transvestite, should you require one for after-dinner entertainment? Is this an advert akin to “if you’re a transvestite, then call this number…” and, if so, what sort of products are they hawking through this niche-market sales technique? Seems a bit hit-and-miss, to be honest.

Head to hotel, check-in, remind oneself that if you’re in a room on the first floor then yes you do need to use the lift as the floor at ground level ‘doesn’t count’ in England, hose self off, shave dress in non-filthy clothing, and head out to have dinner with Luke at local place which is the only vegan sushi house in Europe. It’s quite near the Travelodge King’s Cross Royal Scott and needs the trade. It’s quiet, the presentation is fantastic, and the service is incredible… unless you want the bill, in which case you have to file a request form in triplicate prior to it being prepared. They may have wanted to keep us there as long as possible just so that people walking by would see that people were actually eating there. We were their only customers.

Dash off to meet with Christopher at a pub… to find I was sufficiently late that he’d already left (his other party didn’t show either). He left a note at the bar, but the bartender didn’t pass it on and I didn’t ask “is there a message left here by a very nice man trying to meet-up with a loony Canadian person?”

Another phone call from the same box (all the adverts were gone now) and head to pub.

Much argy-bargy discussion of amusing things, he gives me copies of two of his books–signed and cartoon’ed–his mate joins us, more pints, much loud talking over the noise of the pub, they leave, I go to the loo, return to find my 75% full pint has been cleared away, decide that this is a sign, and return to hotel full of local warmth (and mild ale).

Back in London again! Hooray! I do so love this town and its people!