Give me a bit and the second part of World HorrorCon will get discussed, but first there’s something I’ve noticed on both this and the two previous trips which still perplexes me. Every morning on BBC Breakfast, the hosts hold up copies of the morning’s newspapers, showing the headlines.

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.

Landing at Heathrow with the requisite BUUMP-BUMMMMP followed by the screaming complaints of engines firing in a direction they have been determinedly avoiding for the past nine-and-a-half hours the thought enters one’s head what happens if they really are fed up with the suggestion that they do the opposite of what they want, and reject it? What happens then? What’s at the end of this runway? Is there another aircraft currently awaiting clearance that we’ll go smashing through? Will there be some sort of mid-air thing when we re-take-off in order to avoid running off the end of this runway?

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 æroplane 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!

And so, only a bit behind our scheduled take-off time, we’re off the ground and defying gravity precisely in the way man was never meant to do without the development of the æronautical sciences. Just me, the flight crew, and the combined Paralympic teams of South Africa, Norway, and Poland. While it’s unlikely that anyone will be able to demonstrate what makes these athletes stronger, better, and faster than us while on the plane, it’s still enough to make one feel just a tad inferior when looking at one’s girl-like wrists.

The last few hours were spent packing the things deemed “cannot do without” such as socks, underwear, shirts, and the fez. Also gifties for people I’ll be seeing who deserve said things. Chances are that they’ll not appreciate it… but I’ll feel better for having provided something a little extra for them. Total baggage weight came in just under the allowance, so all is well.

On the way to the airport, Jennifer and I had a spirited discussion about current events (proposal has been made for municipal elections to provide voting power to businesses, in addition to citizens. Our considered opinion: “that’s dumb! They’d be dumb to do that! That’d be, like, DUMB!” So we got that sorted easily, as well as the typical last-minute stuff, like what to do when the books arrive from the printers while I’m gone and so on.

Air Canada has power at the seats! I can re-charge my lap-top while they fly! Hooray!

Also fun is the touch-screen entertainment system… although mine froze-up playing Kate Bush’s album The Kick Inside. I’m not blaming her, though.

Some sort of dinner suddenly arrives, and smells like spicy… thing. In the end it’s Chicken Penne in a tomato sauce of decent taste, as well as a corn / haricots vert / julienne carrot vinaigrette salad, and a chocolate brownie with chocolate poured upon it. Granted the bread-like object that came with dinner could have used some sort of leavening agent; while not actually matzo, it could hardly have been called ‘a light, fluffy, Euro-inspired piece of dinner bread’. How one has the gall to be so picky at 35,000 feet whilst travelling at 569 MPH though air at a temperature of –70.6°F is beyond me, but this is something one does after spending what seems to be too much money for bad food.

How is it that the little plastic knife disappears as soon as it’s placed on the tray? It’s probably around my ankle somewhere, about to stab itself into my leg when I attempt to get comfy under the little blue blankey they give you (wrapped in plastic for you to stay awake wondering what to do with the crinkly stuff for hours until we land!). If you have the answer for these things, fortunes will be lain at your feet! Or, more probably, you’ll get a nice, firm, handshake of thanks.

Louis C.K. has it right, however: when you leave the ground, you should turn to someone and yell: HOLY SHIT! WE’RE IN THE SKY! THIS IS AWESOME! LOOK OUT THE WINDOW! WE’RE FLYING! WOW! LOOK HOW HIGH WE ARE NOW! MAN, THIS IS… WOW, LOOK AT THE CLOUDS! WE’RE IN THE CLOUDS, MAN!

I suspect that if I actually do this, however, the Nordic gentleman sitting next to me will either not understand a word I’m saying, punch me in the face until I am no longer conscious, or both. As he’s taking the ‘do not eat the offered meal, drink equal amounts of beer and mineral water, read a magazine while also watching a French movie with English sub-titles making fun of both Italians and Germans equally, and then ordering more beer and water’ approach to changing time zones, the best course of action is to simply sit here and type away industriously whilst listening to an Art Blakey album and sip my apple juice and water, and make not a sound. How odd: he’s wearing two wrist-watches of equal complexity.

In a short while perhaps I’ll ignore the enRoute entertainment system some more and watch some more of Blake’s 7. Then nap. Because it’s after 5:30AM in London now.

While one doesn’t actually like worrying, or even having some worry to cast aside from one’s awareness (as satisfactory as command of one’s concerns might be), there are a few things which have made themselves know over the past couple of days.

There is, for instance, the possibility of a strike by both the Network Rail and the Rail Maritime and Transport unions in England come Easter Weekend that could result in the UK’s collective inter-city rail system coming to a screaming halt, although they’re discussing ways to avoid this taking place. There’s been some pondering amongst some about whether this will have an effect on the number of people attending Odyssey 2010 (AKA: “EasterCon”), but I’m using the tube to get to Heathrow at that point on the calendar. ‘All good’, then.

British Airways is having labour trouble right now, wherein striking cabin crews have forced BA to cancel 1,100 flights, but I’m flying both to and from England on Air Canada. Fine there as well.

So… when this week’s episode of the Rick Mercer Report shows the following satirical commercial, fear enters my soul at the prospect of the following taking place in the middle of the afternoon tomorrow.

It’s probable that this ‘bit’ was created by Mr. Mercer as a reaction to being bumped from one domestic flight to another while travelling around Canada for the show. There’s been a few times I’ve heard of them cancelling FLIGHT-A and then putting those people onto FLIGHT-B so as to make a full compliment of passengers, which is fine in theory, but then why bother offering the additional flight in the first place? If there’s not sufficient trade for the offering of both flights, then it’s simply false advertising to say “we fly from Winnipeg to Vancouver 17 times a day!” and then cancel over half of them, isn’t it?

This doesn’t necessarily mean a damned thing about my flight from Vancouver to London, however. There’s a considerable difference between, for instance, flying from Toronto to Boston and flying across the entire Polar Region and North Atlantic. Perhaps there’s some sort of requirement for Air Canada to offer a particular number of domestic flights from one particular area to another in order to get their approval to fly to however many international centres they desire to serve. Anyone out there have any ideas about this? Is there an additional aspect to this based entirely on the fact that the people responsible for schedules are as thick as concrete on a hot day?

I’m planning of arriving as soon-ish as possible at the airport; that way they’ve less chance to do me out of a seat, even though the tickets have been paid for and reserved for weeks. The earlier you’re there, the better the possibility that the flight is not already fully assigned, making you SOL. Perhaps I really ought to have arrived there last Friday…?

One thing I will get to experience is the embarrassment of having someone call upstairs to make sure it’s alright to let me on the plane. This has happened both times I’ve flown, and at each end of the voyage: arrive at check-in, provide ticket details and passport, state no real preference about seating (other than ‘as far away from the drunken louts as possible’), wait patiently as we whip through a list of things no-one should ever say ‘yes’ to, even if true (have you left your luggage unattended for any length of time? were you approached by anyone asking you to transport something for them? did you agree? is there anything explosive in your bags? are you secreting heroin in your anal cavity? are you planning on doing any performance art whilst at your destination featuring inflatable donkeys, nudity, or both?), have the baggage weighed, then wait… and wait… while the poor soul behind the desk tries to figure out whether or not to explain that there’s a bloody huge red box flashing on their screen saying THIS PERSON IS ON A LIST OF PEOPLE WHO, WHEN FLYING, SOMEONE IMPORTANT HAS TO BE TOLD ABOUT IT. Typically the ticketing person has explained that they’ve got to call Security because they randomly are asked to do so (although the point of that process has never been stated), ask if I reserved my flight using my full name (I always do that for anything, not just flights), or simply look at me to check there’s not some odd bulge under my jacket that’s vaguely shaped like a side-arm and then run screaming for the door into their office.

Granted, the English author Michael Marshall Smith gets hauled into one of the interview rooms every time he goes to the USA, so I suppose the telephone call is the least of my concerns. Why I’m flagged is beyond me. I have no criminal record, I’ve never served in the Armed Forces, and have only occasionally called for the overthrow of a government (typically advocating for the use of a UN-approved democratic process).

The main worry right now is counting numbers of socks and boxer shorts, then determining how much everything weighs. My main piece of luggage allows for fifty pounds (50 LBS), which ought to be enough for anyone as tiny as myself. Even allowing for the promotional material being taken, I should be fine.

Something new to this trip is that one small piece of luggage goes with you into the cabin, one piece of luggage is checked and stored in the belly of the æroplane, and the third piece of luggage doesn’t go into the belly as usual but instead goes with you into the cabin. This seems… well, odd. If this is safety-based, one would think that it would be ‘safer’ to have as much of one’s stuff go into the belly where people can’t get at it, and just make sure someone scans the crap out of it before loading anything. If scanning is more stringent for carry-on baggage, then why are you letting me put anything in the cargo hold? On the other hand, perhaps the whole thing is based on balance, and putting more weight in the vertical centre of the tube… makes it… easier to fly… the aircraft…?

Please don’t try that bit of logic at home. I am not an æronautical engineer, nor have I even played one on TV.

Jennifer is driving me out to the airport to see me off properly. Nice. Frankly, I’d rather use the Canada Line, if only to be able to say that I went from the house to my hotel in London – door-to-door – without using an automobile, but that can be accomplished on the return.

Now… to check the dryer for more socks so I can stop worrying about finding somewhere to buy some there…