Words by Gary Greenwood – Photos by John B. Ford
Dylan Thomas. Richard Burton. Anthony Hopkins.
For one reason or another, the Welsh have a history of being hard drinkers. Maybe that's why, on the 3rd July, myself, Matt Williams and Max O'Hagan were in the pub almost an hour and a half before anyone else. Or maybe it was just because we'd caught an earlier train...
Either way, we were in the Howard in Sheffield for the second year running for An Afternoon With Simon Clark (or SimonCon as one wag called it) and were soon joined not only by the man himself, but the usual suspects from the independent press: Simon Bestwick was heard before he was seen, his distinctive and some would say unique laughter resonating around the pub almost before he entered the place; John B. Ford spent most of the day wandering from table to table, mingling with consummate skill and ease; Joe Rattigan almost nonchalantly flogged copies of his excellently produced short story collection Love Stories of The Undead; Steve Saville chatted amiably about the forthcoming collection he was to be editing; and Andy Fairclough from Masters of Terror was selling the disc version of his Houses At The Borderland anthology.
But before the day became too hectic, Simon was called upon to present this year's Terror Scribes prize which went to the lovely and well deserving Sue Phillips, editor of Strix, for her story "The Dark Mirror". The tale is part of a novel, The Waldorf Street Paradox, and as well as her editing duties, Sue has had three published on the subject of divining and dowsing. I'm sure she told me more, but by then the ale had taken a hold of me, and my mild-mannered reporting skills were not the best!
Simon and Joe Rattigan almost seemed to be having a competition between themselves at one point as to who could smoke the largest cigar. Despite age, experience and height being on Simon's side, I have to say that the underdog Rattigan won out, producing something from his jacket pocket only slightly smaller than an ICBM and which caused almost as much fallout. With my own measly Marlboro Light fixed between my lips, I slunk away, consumed by cigarette envy, and left them to it.
Conversations, fuelled by both passion and the local brew (Mansfield – a damn good pint) were loud and blurred into one another: I'd be obliged if anyone who was there could tell me how we got from Jack the Ripper and the Freemasons via Robert Anton Wilson and the significance of the number 23, to Clint Eastwood and the "Dollars" movies in under five minutes as I can't remember!
Too soon, it seemed, the time came to leave – we may have arrived early, but sadly we had to leave the same way. Matt, Max and me staggered from the pub and headed toward the train station. Ahead of us was a three-hour journey back to the dark reaches of South Wales made bearable only by two young ladies sat opposite us at our table. They were travelling from Newcastle to Birmingham and then to Ibiza and were not even slightly impressed by our drunken cries of "We're writers, we are!" In retrospect I can hardly blame them: I'm sure you've been on trains before and have frowned at the loud, drunken idiots a few seats away, pathetically trying to chat someone up, safe in the knowledge that you're so much better behaved than they are. Unfortunately, you're not. All it takes is several pints of Mansfield and An Afternoon With Simon Clark and your best intentions are rendered useless.
Having said that, of course, I'll be doing it all over again next year. If Simon lets me back.
Gary Greenwood's novel The Dreaming Pool is published by RazorBlade Press.