So… “Brighton, Part II”… finally, eh? What’s the delay about, anyway? Simple: being busy, really. Granted, that’s not the most interesting reason one can hear, but it’s certainly accurate. Books, books, more books, and sometimes beer. More of all the intervening events anon, meanwhile let’s cover some of the more interesting events within World HorrorCon 2010 AKA: “BRIGHTON SHOCK!”

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 1^st 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 continuüm – 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!

By now, I really am starting to get the hang off the city now. No, seriously! Watch; we’ll pop down here and take a short-cut I’ve learned that will… oh… this is the dead-end I’ve learned… right… Okay, let’s go back to the main road behind and then we’ll… oh… hang on, it ought to be… I’ll just look at the A-Z for a minute…

The head-death continues un-abated, and the lack of deep sleep last evening doesn’t help the feeling of confusion and dis-orientation. Yes, eventually, those Morphean arms of rest were reached, but the ability to remain in their warm embrace was neither un-interrupted nor even sufficiently long to provide any depth of sleep so badly needed by the body to utilise its recuperative powers. The fact that I’ve neither alarm clock nor any other hotel-provided system of knowing the time to arise probably doesn’t help, as the mind needs to keep checking on how the time’s getting on every ninety minutes or so. At one point I take to getting out of bed, turning on the laptop, waiting for Windows to start, looking at the time in the bottom right corner of the screen, then powering down, then getting back into bed; all just to do the same as glancing at one’s bed-side clock would normally accomplish. This must end, and I resolve to get both a clock with ability to right its alarum bells, as well as some sort of medical capsules with have both a decongestant and narcotic in as high amounts as can be had without putting a G.P. in a headlock so as to obtain a prescription.

As is the norm now, one breakfasts at the Exmouth Market Caffé Nero in Clerkenwell, with more juice and yoghurt than you can shake a stick at. Sadly, today they’re out of the selections of sliced, fresh fruit that I’ve grown fond of. Damn. The citric acidity is wonderfully able to cut through phlegm, and the Vitamin C must be doing something to at least stave off this cold getting worse.

A good number of hours are spent dealing with e-mail aplenty about so very many things. One of today’s chief topics is arranging to spend Tuesday with fellow Humdrumming person Trudi Topham. She claims to have abilities profound with the leading of men from foreign parts about inside the confines of large national facilities. The destination of a few days from now is The National Gallery, one of Jennifer’s favourite places to visit when she was a Gardener Trainee at Windsor Great Park. Many wonderful things are in the building and at least some of them ought to be seen before one leaves.

Such time is spent doing all of this e-mail that Luncheon is taken at this coffee house of joy near the Mount Pleasant sorting station, consisting of some sort of Fruit Booster Smoothie Thing. So healthy is it, that one can almost taste it through the nasal pooh filling the canals of one’s skull. After leaving the coffee house, I re-locate the chemist’s and pay for a packet of “Lemsip MAX” AM/PM… If this doesn’t work, there shall be some blood spilt in Olde London Towne methinks…

I locate, with some difficulty, a business willing to make much of my clothing cleaner than it currently is. The hope was for a laundrette to be near-by, possibly with free in-house wi-fi. However, blast it, such is not to hand without travelling some distance, and its probably asking far too much for provision of world communication technology as well. None the less, after a short walk up King’s Cross Road almost to Pentonville Road, one locates a cleaner who agrees to cleanse my several kilos of clothing so that it might be fresher and less bacteria-ridden. Soon, at least my clothes will smell English.

Heading through town on the way to a meeting with Bristol-based author of skill John Llewellyn Probert, the British Museum is used as a geographic guidepost around which to navigate. On one side of it, the Bloomsbury Hotel [image; above, left], near which Russell Square forms the heart of Bloomsbury, with the Russell Square Gardens being historically surrounded by offices of publishers who released Great Works of Literature (so declared due to… the publishers saying they were, and no one was able to successfully argue against them, so the label stuck). Now, of course, the publishing offices are mostly located in Chelsea or Kensington (where the heating’s more modern), but here is the place where England’s Literary Power was located between the World Wars.

Heading south from the B.M. along the mysteriously named “Museum Street” (how do they come up with these names?), one comes upon Drury Lane almost by accident after crossing the vast width of High Holborn. Pity most of it is dug up, though [photo; right]. When now looking at north end of it in the borough of Camden, it’s tough to see it as having once being the fabled street of dreams during the late-Victorian Era, with actors heading to the Theatre Royal negotiating their way through the area’s prostitution and past its gin palaces; never mind as this being the reputed location of the home of The Muffin Man. Still, it’s charming, what? One of the places one ought to see, if only to say ‘one was there once, you know…’

After wandering past the Freemason’s Hall and taking pictures of the imposing façade famous for its standing in for Thames House, the headquarters of MI5, in the series Spooks (or MI5 in the US broadcasts), I arrive at Holborn Station where I am to meet with Mr. Probert in the time-honoured fashion of ‘you shall know me by my red tuxedo jacket and matching fez’. Standing outside the Kingsway exit and attempting to get a wi-fi signal on my laptop as traffic and plebeians sweep past me in equal amounts of ‘a fuck of a lot’, one does feel a tad outré with one’s sartorial choices. Still, this is the method of recognition which was agreed upon. He locates me, and we re-locate to the Prince of Wales Pub to discuss things literary.

On the way there, we pass a crowd of young people who we supposed were queuing to be considered for inclusion in Britain’s Got Talent. We agreed it was a shame that, if Britain did indeed have any, none of it was in evidence that day. Perhaps it was taking a week-end in Belgium, but we hoped it was able to have a nice break.

While working our way to the bar and then the ensuing safari to locate a table for ourselves, we both noted the Pearly King and Queen in residence having a spot of late luncheon. While considering the taking of a photo or two, it seemed… well, odd, as I was still wearing a fez … so I didn’t. You don’t want to look too much of a touristy git, do you? There’s even limits to how much I wish to draw attention to myself.

Mr. Probert and I part each other’s company a short time later, neither of us having threatened the other’s life indicating something positive at the very least. As we returned to the Tube Station we considered barging our way into the audition room of Britain’s Got Talent to ‘show ‘em how it’s done’, but decided that the poor young people would be so crushed by the obvious superiority of John’s piano bashing and my singing/interesting movement that they would go home weeping. As a result, we protected the sanctity of the dreams held so tightly by the throng standing upon the Great Queen Street pavement.

I head to The Union Tavern, intending to have dinner. Upon arriving there, however, the nice publican informs me that ‘chef is just getting in,’ so dinner will be a bit delayed. ‘Perhaps Sir would wish to return in a couple of hours, say at 6:30…?’ And perhaps after one is no longer wearing such a silly hat, one suggests? He pauses ever-so-slightly before responding ‘As you wish, Sir…’ So, I head to the hotel and decide to dine at Smithy’s instead, it being a short distance away in the very-out-of-the-way bit along Leeke Street. Dinner began with a salad of warm mozzarella with braised fennel and red onion on rocket, with a pesto-based dressing; then this was followed by the most incredible duck a l’orange of my life! Accompanying the moist, flawlessly prepared fowl, was spinach and roasted butter-nut squash, as well as fresh sour-dough bread with balsamic vinegar and olive oil. ‘Afters’ consisted of pistachio and black current ice cream, as well as elderberry sorbet, the three presented in equal amounts in a small bowl. There was wine had, but there is no note from the evening regarding the varietal, never mind even the vintner country.

The result was a bill of something larger than one would have liked, as it wasn’t the intention to ‘splash out’ this evening, but… well, I’ll remember this meal for a long while. The greatest shame was that Jennifer wasn’t here for it, as she’d really have loved it. Very much a wonderful place with perfect service, excellent food, and a fair selection of real ales, this is a place to head to without worrying about the price, as the value is the thing. More about them on their web-site here.

After the meal one perambulated back to the hotel, where one endured two more episodes of Blakes 7… thinking “it’s got to get better now that we’re getting more stuff set-up, right…? …please?”

And so, to sleep; perchance to rest properly for a change.