Starting with this post, an irregular feature of this blog will be an examination of books with awful titles, awful cover art, or – more frequently – both. This, while hardly a topic which is previously un-heard of, might cause a few people to smirk, chuckle, and chortle. It might also offend some more delicate sensibilities upon occasion, most frequently on an artistic level; there’s certainly no possibility of being offended due to any sexual nature, as it’s impossible to take its content seriously enough for that!

Today’s group of ridiculous covers all have something to do with ‘outer space’. For some odd reason, the early space exploration of the middle-to late 20^th century cause a great number of things to pop into the minds of writers which had nothing to with ‘finding brave new worlds to explore’ or even ‘establishing outposts in distant galaxies in order to better understand the universe in which we live’. Nope, it had all to do with ‘getting it on with alien chicks’. Granted, Captain James T. Kirk’s ability to do so seemingly in every episode of Star Trek around the 25-minute mark is well known, but some of the following examples pre-date that instance by a fair amount.

Rick Random and the S.O.S. from Space

Super Detective Library, Nº 115 (January 1958)

Here we see a fairly benign example of what one can do to take advantage of a situation gone wrong when encountering aliens: demonstrate just what a manly man one is, in order to sufficiently impress the chicks so you can ‘get a little something’. Note that the young lady on the left is dressed in much the same style of clothing as the titular hero, so she must be of his team. Unlike the individual to whom he is applying the effective ‘left cross’ to the jaw of, who is attired in a rather unique combination of red flannel skirt (which is a warm fabric but is somewhat draughty), as well as fur-trimmed boots and warm-looking hoody. The rather Latin-esque influence of the bandolier on the presumed aliens is odd, as the gentlemen seem to also tote quite tiny side-arms which don’t seem to have enough room for anything in the way of ammunition, never mind a clip containing the bullets which must be contained in each of the sections of the bandolier.

Note the young lady is being held against her will by one of the be-horned aliens against her will (there’s a possible use of symbolism denoting cuckoldry here, but that may be giving the image too much credit). No doubt she will emotionally melt at the sight of the courage of Mr. Random as he defeats the alien hordes, and then treat her rescuer to some sort of display of affection on the journey home. My, aren’t rewards wonderful?

Thrilling Wonder Stories

Vol. 34, Issue Nº1 (April, 1949)

Apparently you can buy your very own copy of this for only $6ºº right here. Plus, if the title by Ray Bradbury in the lower right corner fascinates you enough, there was a TV adaptation based on “The Concrete Mixer “which aired in 1992 as part of The Ray Bradbury Theatre’s fifth season.

But enough of that, we’re here for the cover of this periodical, and it’s unlikely to have anything to do with any of the stories inside this issue. Or maybe it does. Frankly, who cares?

When faced with an æroplane seemingly filled with guys in green-dyed Michelin Man costumes, armed with big rifle-shaped guns and the occasional revolver, and employing some sort of night-vision goggles, the correct attire is based visually on the “french twist” top, high-waisted swim-suit bottom adorned with some sort of gold detailing suggestive of ‘woman is the nurturer of the universe’s creation’ (I think), a train (which is going to get in the way of her ability to effectively defend herself, let’s face it), and carrying some sort of sceptre with a bird on the end of it.

I don’t see this scene ending in anything but tears, frankly. While raping and pillaging is likely, the lady’s future as a leader of any group is certainly about to come to an abrupt end. Let this be a lesson to anyone designing clothing for female leaders of planet-nations: skip the attractive nature of shoulders and mid-riffs, and concentrate on ensuring an ability to easily move about as well as carry a weapon.

Space Swappers, by Dolan James

Scorpio Books (9SC-3505), 1970

Now, frankly, we’re entering the area of “silly and blatant use of space as setting for anything we came up with last time, only we need to make it seem new somehow so as to sell things in an ‘old wine in a new skin’ sense of the thing”. A long explanation for what is basically a simple idea: ‘same shit, different package’.

Here, finally, we get to share in the experience with “getting it on with an alien babe”, just as God intended us to do when he created the rest of our galaxy. The two male characters of the tale arrive on the surface of Mars and find it to be some sort of Club Med located on the red planet, peopled quite logically by humanoids who happen to have green skin. Presumably all the other ‘girl bits’ are fully functional, as the bosoms on the cover attest to a fair amount of female normality.

What interests me is the tag-line’s suggestion that these two fellows had actually run out of opportunities on the third planet from the Sun for nookie, and decided that pointy-eared alien babes were the only option. How, pray-tell, does one come to this conclusion, given the entire world’s population is probably 65% female? While even allowing for 2/3 of all females being either far too old or young for the acceptable tastes of the two men, that’s still a great number of people with whom to “have connections with”. Either they had access to some sort of temporal time-shit device in order to ‘make the most of the male prime sexual years’ or they were ignoring a good number of entire continents containing ‘foreign females’. Why can’t these boys stick to their own kind; the sort of women who stands on the same God-given planet as themselves, eh? Shameful, I say; SHAMEFUL!

Given that this book came out in 1970, it’s certainly likely that Captain Kirk’s behaviour pattern was of great influence to the gentlemen. Perhaps they were jealous of his success rate? Only readers of the book might be able to answer this question. If you are one of these individuals who have assigned some time and effort to the perusal of this volume, please keep the information to yourself. My life is far too short to hear the details.

Of additional concern is that tag-line ending in either an “hyphen” or an “em-dash”. What’s that there for? Those are used to separate clauses from the rest of the sentence, and using one at the end of one suggests something is missing! Is the picture below supposed to provide the “thousand words” of the though which was interrupted with “…they had to go”? While “and make out with green women” might be an apt conclusion, it’s hardly 1,000-words-long, is it? Perhaps “OUT OF THIS WORLD!” was supposed to be in italics, and that typesetting convention somehow didn’t get interpreted correctly?

If the merits of the book’s insides interest you, head here for a review. Lord knows why, but you might actually want to. Sadly, the reviewer cannot spell the surname of the author correctly, however, so their view of the book’s literary quality might be affected in your eyes as a result.

Those Sexy Saucer People, by Jan Hudson

Greenleaf Classics, Inc. (GC2220), 1967

The Day the Universe Came, by Ray Kalnen

Corinth Publications / A Nightstand Book (NB1889), 1968

Zero Gravity Swap, by Cal I. Pygaster

Candid (CA1030), 1970

Starship Intercourse, by William Maltese

Greenleaf Classics / A Companion Book (CB702), 1971

The fact that these titles all came out around the busiest period of the NASA Moon programme, Kubrick’s 2001: A Space Odyssey, and David Bowie’s single “Space Oddity” with it’s message for “Major Tom” in some sort of space-destined mission is hardly co-incidental. Space was – ironically, for the vacuum nature of the place – hot at the time and anything a publisher could do to cash in on the fascination people had with things above was seen as worth the doing. Oddly, the same approach wasn’t taken during the UFO-filled period of the late-1950s and early ’60s, but we do detect an echo of that in the title of Those Sexy Saucer People, as well as a fairly un-subtle play on the title of the 1951 film The Day the Earth Stood Still (itself rather un-subtle in its polemic-filled message of universal acceptance of others; although a message seemingly un-heeded even today).

Much of what we see is all of a piece on these covers. Reality and accuracy to what any sort of practicality of space-travel held or what life in zero– or near-zero-gravity would hold is not simply ignored, but grasped firmly by the scruff of the neck, bludgeoned until incomprehensible, shoved into an air-lock, then defenestrated into the atmospheric void of space, hopefully exploding in the process. The closest any of these images approaches an acceptable level of disbelief which one might successfully suspend in one’s mind is either Zero Gravity Swap (although the arm-band and point of origin of the ‘space babe’ is questionable) or The Day the Universe Came (which has its own problems with the use of day-glo pink zinc-oxide on the noses of people long before it became popular with the California surfers in the mid-80s, and the space-suits being apparently supplied from the surplus items left from the closing of Hugh Heffner’s clubs around the world).

Frankly, sex being attempted in zero gravity might be an intriguing concept to ponder, but the reality has to be far too much work to bother with, surely? Let’s face it, we’re used to gravity aiding in the activity, and its absence has to be a massive obstacle to overcome (and there was a good 90-seconds spent trying to think of a word to replace that last one, let me tell you).

The amazing things that we are told by Starship Intercourse include the fact that one can wear the skimpiest of bathing suits over one’s skin in outer space, but as long as one’s head is in a fish bowl, you’ll never freeze to death; although it appears that zero-gravity has a disturbing effect on ladies nipples, causing them to resemble either a cow’s udder or the extreme in bathroom plungers.

Meanwhile, over on the front of Those Sexy Saucer People, it seems that aliens are here to take our women’s precious innocence and convert it into some green substance; whose meniscus is as hard as concrete, so as to remain level in relation to the container and not according to any gravitational force of the bearer. They have probably seduced their victims by use of their superior height, lack of trousers, and the fact that pointy ears on a humanoid who still requires the use of a breathing helmet turns on an astonish number of earth’s women. Who knew? If only we had that information before they arrived, the Earth wouldn’t be threatened by aliens every week-end as it is now.

Hopefully by now we’ve all learned a little more about our future bed-mates: aliens. If you have had an experience with an other-worldly individual in the beautiful art of love-making, please do not hesitate to pass on every single detail of the encounter to anyone by me. Thank you.

While the entries about the recent trip to the UK have been left for awhile, efforts to explain what the e-book is and is not (IE: useful and environmentally responsible; a threat to printed books or the people who read them) has been engaged in for some time over on the Atomic Fez site.

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

Having now left the wondrous city of Brighton to its wet devices – as well as its wet lawns, pavements, and many other dampened objects and people – we arrive back in London! Where, oddly, it’s not raining! But it does the next day, so there we are.

Having checked into the 3^rd 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 Eugèné 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.

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!