Words by Tim Lebbon – Photos by Kaiser Bill
Writers, I've always believed, are misunderstood. At the International Hotel in London Docklands last year, a woman asked a gang of us what we were doing at the World Factory Convention (comparing lathes, of course). Her reaction when we told her it was a Fantasy convention was to walk away very quickly. And at the recent Afternoon with Simon Clark in Sheffield, the charming bar lady asked me if I was with the train spotting group. Those who were there will, hopefully, back me up when I say that I was most certainly not wearing a tank-top. Besides, there was not a cagoule in sight.
What was in sight was a huge gathering of writers, editors and combinations of the two, doing their utmost to drink the pub dry and dish out as many flyers and discounted copies of their magazines as possible.
I arrived in Sheffield with Matt Williams, Gary Greenwood and Max O'Hagan, and after meeting up with David Price we headed off to seek sustenance. This manifested itself in the form of a fry-up, lining our stomach with lashings of lovely grease from which, we hoped, alcohol would slip smoothly and harmlessly away. John B. Ford, organiser of the day and probably the world's most smartly dressed independent press writer and editor, emerged from the bustle of Sheffield to stare in at us eating. He then took us to the pub targeted for the day, The Howard, and went to fetch the stragglers.
Soon, everything was a blur. The account that follows is certainly not in chronological order, but perhaps that's for the best. Time, as they say, is an illusion. Lunchtime, doubly so. Simon Clark loomed as large and imposing as ever, his green shirt assaulting the eyes. As he shook hands with all and sundry (when not holding a pint), I commented that he seems to smoke ever larger cigars with each successful book he writes. Next time I see him, he quipped, he'd have a wagon to rest his cigar on. I believe him. As Chris Reed said with quiet confidence, Simon has the talent and staying power to be the next Stephen King. I think he's already there – the world just doesn't know it yet.
Graeme Hurry dished out copies of Kimota; Simon Bestwick and his girlfriend flogged Simon's novella The Power of the Dog; John Ford and Simon Clark launched their collaborative story The Derelict of Death; flyers flew, decorated with wanking bishops and dark laughter. Chaz Brenchley stood guard over the large nest of coats we had created around a pillar. Football appeared on the giant screen, but I'm sure our crowd drowned out the cries and cheers, boos and jeers of the sporty types in the pub. If our talk didn't, Simon Bestwick's laughter would have (surely a noise propagated to aid identification and location in a large, tall crowd). One benefit was that, during the match, four pints could be purchased for the price of three. A happy hour, when everyone was more than happy anyway.
The Howard paid host to a veritable who's who of the independent press: Stuart Hughes, P.C. Attaway (congratulations on the birth of Benjamin, Pete – my first is on the way!), John Travis, Emma Hooper, Simon Bestwick, Richard Bennett, Paul Finch, and about a thousand more I've inevitably forgotten to mention (for which I humbly apologise). Derek Fox, a splendidly tall gentleman whom I had been looking forward to meeting, chatted about his 'Fright Nights' up north and handed out copies of the Tanjen newsletter. Chris Reed appeared over my shoulder and asked me to do a write-up of the day's events. Already performing a passable impression of drunk, I thereupon begged people to say something funny for me to report. Mostly, the instant reaction was: "Bollocks." So, there you are. Bob Monkhouse eat your heart out.
Discussions veered from writing (funnily enough), to absent friends (rumours of Andy Cox's appearance were greatly exaggerated), to Catholicism and Armageddon. Voices were raised, but in friendly debate rather than anything else. Alcohol fuels the mind and gives opinions free reign, and much hand-waving and earnest discussion ensued. Guinness lured me back to the bar again and again, planting, with surreptitious smoothness, the headache seed which would inevitably sprout on the way home.
Our chat and fun was watched over by an array of chirping, flashing arcade games, and it was destined that after a while they would coax money out of change-laden pockets. On the Police Trainer machine I shot more hostages than bad guys, and Max – a crime writer – was even worse. The cigarette machine coughed out packet after packet, and I was very pleased with myself (having just given up) when I did not partake of one puff. Dirty, horrible habit. Eugh!
Sooner than we had hoped, as so often happens with these events, people began to disappear. Rarely did I see them leave; they simply vanished. I think alcohol shrinks space, consuming those unlucky enough to be at the periphery of one's perception, until the only other person visible is the one dribbling onto your shoulder whilst discussing the origins of religion, the end of the world and how unbelievably pissed they are. Eventually there were only a few of us left, Simon still going strong on beer and cigars, promising me that we'd get Allen Ashley and "sort 'im out!" for his devilish reference to our shiny pates. Mitchell brothers, indeed! At least we like our beer chilled.
And so, as if in deference to the barmaid's erroneous observation, we made our way to the train station. Max announced our departure with a burp loud enough to shatter windows and send pigeons and children running for cover. On the train, while Max slept, we used his mobile 'phone to ring a friend in Bermuda. Serves him right for burping.
Bristol train station was a cold, deserted place, haunted only by the ghosts of late trains and headaches stalking a victim. If we had been trainspotters, we would have had a wasted day. As it was, it was far from wasted. Many thanks to John Ford and Simon Clark for putting the whole event together. Thanks also to Chris Reed for asking me to report upon such an enjoyable afternoon. Last, but not least, thanks to Guinness. The sudden appearance of my hangover, somewhere between Sheffield and Bristol, was pure genius.
Tim Lebbon's novel Mesmer is published by Tanjen, and he has a new book coming soon from RazorBlade Press.