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70s
By Peter Roberts
The first three parts of this series, published in
the Seacon 79 Progress Reports, looked at
British conventions from 1937-1970 and traced
their development from small, lecture-hall
meetings to large hotel conventions mixing sf
discussion with fannish socializing. This final
part brings us up to date with a brief look at
British cons in the seventies and the rapid
growth that's characterized them.
Eastercon 22, the 1971 Worcester
convention, was in many ways a model for
conventions to come: though attendance was
still fairly small at around 250, there were
enough fans on hand to fill an entire hotel - and
a modern and comparatively luxurious hotel at
that. The Giffard indeed probably gave many
attendees a taste for creature comforts that
made previous accommodation seem suddenly
shabby and second-rate. Additionally the
Worcestercon, with Anne McCaffrey as Guest
of Honour, presented a balanced and entertaining programme that mixed sf and fan items and
managed to please just about everyone - a rare
enough feat as any committee will tell you. Peter
Weston, incidentally, was the con chairman,
and that's one of the reasons we're still trusting
him (though at that time, during a discussion on
the possibilities of a British worldcon, Pete
roundly claimed he'd never be chairman of
anything again. So it goes.). At any rate,
Eastercon 22 was a substantial success, even if
certain popular innovations like the Monday
morning boat trip (with bar) have never been
repeated.
If the Worcestercon set a pattern for Easter
conventions, then the first Novacon, held in
Birmingham later that year, topped it by
establishing an entirely new series of conventions in Britain. Originally conceived by Vernon
Brown and the Aston Group, and only later
becoming attached to the newly reformed
Birmingham Group, the Novacon was a success
from the start. About 150fans, many more than
were anticipated, turned up at the old Imperial
Centre Hotel, for the first con and the light
programming and general informality seemed to
be just about the right mixture for the more
fannish, less sf-oriented fandom of the
seventies. There's not going to be room here to
go through all the individual Novacons since
1971 and, indeed, there's no real need, since in a
sense there'sonly one Novacon and it's virtually
impossible for anyone who's been to all eight to
distinguish one from another - the one true
Novacon simply adds a few more days and a few
more anecdotes to itself each year. However,
there have been some changes - the con has
doubled in size in recent years and in 1975 left
the Imperial Centre for the newer and larger
Royal Angus (with a one-off stab at the Holiday
Inn in 1978). Committees have changed too,
though the Brum Group's resident expertise has
always been on hand to ensure a generally
smooth running of affairs. The essence of the
Novacon remains, however, unchanged - it's a
relaxed and slightly smaller counterpart to the
Eastercon, always held in Birmingham, and at
the time of year when you feel the need for a bit
of fannish company - the first weekend in
November.
The larger Eastercons, meanwhile, continued
with the Chessmancon in 1972. Originally
termed the Slancon, it was moved from
Blackpool to Chester after the original hotel fell
through. The new hotel, the Blossoms, proved
quite inadequate for the numbers attending and
many fans found themselves booked, and even
double-booked, in remote parts of the town (the
Peacock Hotel deserves a special mention - it
turned out to be no more than a big pub which
didn't allow guests inside till 6.00 pm and asked
them to be back by 10.30 pm sharp, when the
doors closed). Larry Niven was GoH and the programme was lessthan inspiring - there were no
fan items, for example, except perhaps the
amazing sale of the BSFA's fanzine library which
caused some furore after the event. However, at
least some of the chaos and gloom was
dispersed by the hotel's bars and bar-staff: the
Buttery was the meeting place for Chester's
campier gay community - it was here that Ian
Williams gained the name Tiger' - whilst the
bar next door was run by a charming lady who
sold fanzines, bought artwork, and treated
people to free sandwiches. As if this wasn't
enough, the third place was run by a barman
with remarkable good humour - even at six in
the morning when Pete Weston was giving forth
his own, inimitable version of "Danny Boy"
(consisting chiefly of the song's title shouted
intermittently between bouts of tuneless
howling). The con incidentally, ended with a
giant paper aeroplane battle, started by kids and
finished by professional authors. Strange things
happen at conventions.
The following year members of the Off-Trial
Magazine Publishers' Association collaborated
to stage the Bristol OMPAcon in the Grand Hotel
- almost certainly the only time an apa anywhere has gone in for full-scale conventioneer-
ing. Samuel Delany was GoH and odd events
included a robot invasion of the fancy dress, a
banquet notorious for its first course of lettuce &
rice pudding, and an all-night open party where
the GoH, Brian Aldiss, James Blish, and some
forty other fans were still going strong at
breakfast time.
Though OMPAcon was considered a reasonable if not exactly a notable convention, its
memory has probably suffered through comparison with the convention that followed.
Tynecon 74, held in the Royal Station Hotel,
Newcastle on Tyne, was certainly one of the
best British conventions of recent years and
even today it's still used as a yardstick by which
all other cons are measured. The hotel helped,
being pleasantly laid out and with ample room
for a record attendance of some 350; but all
credit really goes to the Gannetfan committee,
an active and enthusiastic group who planned
well and worked hard at the convention. Surprisingly perhaps, there weren't that many odd
incidents at Tynecon, though GoH Bob Shaw
witnessed one at his room party that's worth
quoting:
"On the Sunday night our room was so
crowded that if you spilt a drink capillary
attraction made it go up. I managed to find a
comfortable spot by nestling in between the
embossings on the wallpaper, and spent the
entire night there, trapped. From this
vantage point I didn't see a great deal of
what was going on, and consequently was
intrigued when - round about 3.00 am - I
observed Brian Aldiss shooting up into the
air, almost reaching the ceiling, and then
sinking back down out of sight. He repeated
this feat about a dozen times, gracefully,
each time seeming to hang motionless just
below the ceiling in defiance of gravity, with
a look of beatific contemplation on his face. I
grew quite entranced by this spectacle, and
therefore felt disappointed when the initially
perfect symmetry of his movements
decayed into ordinary parabolas and he
began colliding with other people and had to
abandon his ethereal ballet.
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