Wed 11th
9pm:
Wow! My very first Swancon! Am very excited. Driven to airport by spouse, who
virtually throws me from car. Discover Robert Hood and Cat Sparks
already in lengthy check-in line, and am given opportunity to ‘jump queue’.
Receive several death-threats in process. Board plane, but we are unable to
get seats together. We compromise by running back and forth between
each-other’s seats to chat, under the pretence of doing the anti deep-vein
thrombosis exercises suggested in the in-flight mag. Fools no-one. Robert
Hood is eventually asked by hostess to please go and play outside.
Midnight
(local time): Arrive Perth
absolutely knackered. In-flight showing of Miss Congeniality may have
something to do with that. Wow! Perth
looks just like Sydney at night -
dark! Catch cab to YHA hostel (not YMCA, as suggested by Cat in an effort to
make me break into song and dance routine). Am ejected from cab. Cannot open
YHA door. Panic. Cat points out that words are printed on door, detailing how
to attract night manager’s attention. My ego crawls off to die, but I
maintain that at this time in the morning I can’t really be expected to read
things. Enter YHA, am shown to shoebox-sized room (or possibly a room-sized
shoebox). Immediately fall on to bed, and am asleep before my head hits the
pillow.
Thurs 12th
9.30am:
Wake up. Leave YHA. Remember luggage. Go back. Collect luggage. Leave again.
Recall that my ‘official’ accommodation (Budget
City Holiday
Apartments - couldn’t get in for Wed night, hence the YHA) are in the same
street. Decide to save cab fare by walking. After ten minutes lugging heavy
suitcase in sunny Perth weather,
decide that I am a burke. Arrive at apartment
45 minutes later, having sweated off 100 kilos (pretty good
going, since I only weigh - er...well, none of your business). Settle in. Go
to pub. Drink beer. Ahh! Beer good.
Noon:
Recall Cat inviting me to lunch thingy at London
Court in city centre. Strictly speaking, is a
private ‘do’, by invitation only, but such things are meaningless to Cat, who
lives to gatecrash. Wander around city centre for a while, taking in the
sight. Bump into Rob, Cat and Deb Biancotti. Lots of hugs. Am politely asked
to stop. Am introduced to Zara ‘Bee’ Baxter - a very odd, yet hypnotically
fascinating lady, who tells me that – with a name like ‘Chuck’ - she was
expecting me to be a loud-mouthed, obnoxious American. Well, two out of three
ain’t bad, I s’pose. I explain that ‘Chuck’ is merely a nickname, and that my
real name is reassuringly normal. She asks what my real name is. I tell her
it’s ‘Scooter’. We meet up with the five official lunch-goers, plus 300-odd
gatecrashers invited by Cat. Picnic lunch in park.
3pm:
Arrive Rydges Hotel, go straight to bar. Drink beer. Ahh! Beer good.
5pm:
Registration. Worrying lack of what Cat refers to as ‘nerdage’. No Trek
uniforms whatsoever. Meet up with Bill Congreve, who has been assumed dead on
trans-Nullarbor drive in shitbox car. Meet up with many people I’ve never met
before. Robin Pen is the spitting image of John Paul Young, which endears me
to him immediately. Am savaged by Russell B. Farr, who has taken exception to
my well-known love of disco. Frustrate him further by agreeing that, yes,
disco is crap, but I still love it, so there’s no point him trying to argue
that point. He resorts to pulling my ears. I wonder if he’s on medication?
6pm: Opening ceremony. Beer must be having an
effect - can remember virtually nothing more about the entire night, aside
from a welcoming address by David Cake. Or maybe it was Cathy Cupitt. Or
both. Or neither. Am fairly sure I go to a couple of panels, but can’t
remember. End up in bar, drinking beer with lots of new friends. Ahh! Beer
good!
Fri 13th
9am:
Arrive at ‘con. All other details are now a blur. Am fairly sure I attend
‘Mitch?’ launch, possibly the auction, and part of the ‘ConSensual’ launch.
Only definite memory is spotting of first ‘oddity’ – a male(?) person dressed
in a slinky black cocktail dress, with metal bits projecting through
cheekbones. Is admired from behind by many men before realisation hits. Is
resented by many women, who were intending to wear the same dress. Am brave
enough to question individual, who claims to be dressed as ‘Borg Queen’. Hmm.
Late(?): Small gathering in Rob, Cat
and Deb’s (hereafter referred to as ‘The Guys’) room. Zara also in
attendance, and continues to be odd, hypnotic and fascinating. Drink beer.
Ahh! Beer good. Twenty beers even better. Drink half a bottle of gin. Room
begins to spin. Must be down to Zara being hypnotic - I’d never touch a drop
under my own volition! Watch tells me it’s time to leave. Am startled - a
talking watch? Stagger downstairs to find cab, but can’t even find street!
The Guys catch up to me and put me into a cab. Am not sure how they knew I
was drunk - apart from the staggering, the only difference is that I become
capable of circular breathing, which enables me to talk and drink
continuously without taking a breath. On the way back to my apartment in the
cab, I live up to my name. And again back at the apartment. And several times
through the night.
Sat 14th
7am:
My head feels like a bear took a dump in it. I want to die. Why the hell have
I set my alarm for 7am? Oh yeah -
I’ve got to do a phone-in report for the Spectrum SF radio show in Melbourne.
Get up. Vomit copiously. Get a cab into Rydges. Vomit copiously. Have
arranged suite to phone-in from - fortunately with ensuite. Wait for connecting
call - concentrate on trying to sound upbeat and not vomiting. On-air
vomiting probably not a good thing. I can see it now...
John Weeks: So, Chuck - how’s the ‘con
going?
Me: Well, John, it’s
hhhhRRRRRRROOOOUUUGHAAAAAAAAAAAH!
JW: Um...Chuck? What was that?
Me: Oh. Um...Robin Pen doing his
Godzilla impression? Jack Dann doing shtick?
Report goes well. Stagger downstairs to
‘con level. Vomit copiously. Stagger to The Guys’ room. Much smirking all
round. Bastards. Borg Queen guy is now dressed up as 5th Element chick -
toilet paper strips and tight white panties that clearly reveal his religious
denomination (not that I was looking). Go to panel on...something. Have to
leave after ten minutes and - yes, you guessed it - vomit copiously. I’m
bringing up things I ate a week ago. After barfing up a kidney, I decide to
call the day a loss and go back to the apartment. Crash and sleep for 20
hours.
Sun 15th
9am:
Wake feeling oddly better. Am immediately made to feel worse upon hearing the
news that Sir Harry Secombe has passed on (‘He has fallen in the water!’).
And the guy who invented the smiley face! Arrive at the ‘con to much
smirking. Cat has been working overtime, and approximately 700 people are now
aware of my reputation as a lager-lout. Am determined to make up for it by
going to many panels. End up going to about two, as the ‘con degenerates into
a socialising free-for-all. Spend much time chatting to a guy who makes
fetish gear, who points out the many representatives of various sexual peccadilloes
attending the ‘con. Very eye-opening, as is the admission by one of The Guys
that they once filled the role of bondage mistress. Am strangely aroused -
but then, Rob’s an extremely attractive man. Am offered a beer. Stomach
churns. Ahh! Beer bad. Settle for lemonade. Eat for the first time since
Friday night.
7pm:
Attend Ditmar Awards. Many deserving winners - Grant Watson wins around 96,
Cat sparks wins approximately 70. Deb Biancotti wins Best New Talent against
No Award (obviously a close contest). She’s very modest about it. So is
Grant. Cat isn’t, but we love her for it.
9pm:
Attend room party in The Guys’ room. Am introduced to Sally Beasley, Russell
Blackford and Claire McKenna, all lovely folks. Cat is sloshed, very bloody
funny, but apparently I still retain the crown of most entertaining drunk.
Zara has retired to bed, so, as designated drunk, I am charged with going to
her room and dragging her back to the party. Hypnotically fascinating, even
in her jim-jams. People will talk! After explaining to Russell’s wife that my
real name is not Chuck, I think I manage to offend her by (unthinkingly)
saying that I’d make a good Russell, ‘cos I look like a bearded Aussie yob.
Oops! Perhaps I should just call myself Myron and have done with it. Head off
about 11.30pm, with party still in
full swing.
Mon 16th
9am:
Last day. Am feeling rather sad, but looking forward to getting home. AM, no
panels are attended by The Guys or myself. There’s beer to be consumed! Ahh!
Beer good. PM, attend panels - and actually remember what they are! Cathy’s
Worldcon report - am charged with handing over cheque (with Zara and John
August) of Freecon contribution to DUFF fund. Grand sum of $217.70. Maybe she
can invest it in a racehorse - the one in the can of Chum. Attend Reviewers’
panel. Very good. ‘Nuff said. Then it’s time for Rob and Bill and I to do a
reading. Am looking forward to this, and have brought along copies of my book
to sell. Unfortunately, we’re up against a panel featuring the entertaining
Scot Snow. 12 people and a hamster turn up to see the reading. 10 of these
people are good friends of mine, yet - to my amazement - I manage to sell
four copies of my book at the conclusion (hamster buys 2). I read for 20
minutes. Rob reads for 20 minutes. Bill gets up to read, only to be told that
he can’t because the closing ceremony is about to start.
Half an hour later, the ceremony actually starts. We are treated to a
brilliant skit with Mitch and Danny Heap, playing themselves having travelled
back from 50 years in the future to tell us all about what the future holds;
apparently there’s talk of a new Doctor Who series, and Sean Williams’ mind -
downloaded on to computer - is now responsible for 50% of all fiction
published worldwide. Very funny stuff. Then they start handing out awards for
roleplaying - best quote uttered while fighting a monster, etc. I begin to
fall asleep. A bunch of us decide to sneak out surreptitiously by cunningly
rising en masse and making a dash for the exit. We receive several reproving
looks - or maybe they’re jealous looks. We decamp to the bar. Good food. Good
friends. Good conversation. And beer. Aah! Beer good. People begin to wander
off. Am feeling quite sad about leaving all these nice people behind and
getting back to my own sad little life. Feeling sadder still about the fact
that I booked to fly back with Ansett.
Ah well. Life’s a bitch. But at least there’s Swancon!
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