When it was suggested that the group revive the grand old tradition of attending a convention - and, hopefully, putting itself about a bit thereat - one example of the genre stood out from the pack: Whos 7. This well-established event (so called, dim reader, because it covers both Doctor Who and Blakes 7) was coming to Ashford, and bearing in mind the trouble that ensues when the group travels any distance - outside Kent, in fact - this seemed like an ideal compromise. Sadly, the desire to revive the grand old tradition of convention-going turned out not to be all that widespread. Only three attended, but what a stalwart trio they were: the Morris brothers, who despite not being related, share an inexhaustible enthusiasm to degrade themselves, and Bruce, who saw the convention as a good excuse to indulge his love of driving.
So it was that we found ourselves at the Ashford International Hotel on the Saturday morning and waved goodbye to reality, or what we knew of as reality anyway, for the next 24 hours. Having improvised a car-parking space, we stepped into the fabulous interior, and the tone for the weekend was set immediately. The tone being: mad women. Being stewards, these had an excuse for their insanity, but it soon became clear that most of the attendees were cut from the same cloth. (And no, this isnt a reference to the leather bondage gear which a disturbing number of them wore.)
Although the conventions name suggested some sort of parity between the two shows it was not to be, despite the organisers best efforts. As the only Blakes 7 event of the year it was perhaps natural that this was most attendees main reason for being there, but it was still surprising to see how badly attended the Doctor Who panels were by comparison. Particularly extraordinary was mass exodus that greeted Sophie Aldred when she took over from the Blakes 7 gang on the Saturday afternoon, fresh from that mornings Wow!. We could easily empathise with her; after all, we were similarly in a minority among the members of the audience. As such I spent much of the weekend observing the Blakes 7 fans and their habits in a strange Desmond Morris-esque fashion. Perhaps later I will write up my findings, as Im sure Boxtree are desperate enough to publish them.
From the bustling and expectant opening ceremony to the tired and emotional closing ceremony the weekend was a non-stop cavalcade of science-fiction related nonsense - just as we like it. Occasionally, though, the nonsense on offer was too nonsensical even for us (model building workshops, screenings of Blakes 7 studio recordings - you get the picture), and so we repaired to the bar. And a very nice bar it was too, but even there it was impossible to escape from sci-fi whimsy, constantly assailed as we were by daleks, transvestite Servalans and Gareth Thomas (of which more later).
If the convention hadnt taken over the entire hotel, it certainly felt like it. A broad spread of entertainments was offered, all of them well mounted and organised with a precision which only rarely spilled over into fascism. Even the autograph queues, always a potential avenue of disaster, were relatively painless - particularly compared with the earlier Longleat experience. It was with Longleat fresh in my mind while queueing that I let fly an impromptu John Nathan Turner impression, which the bloke in front recognised immediately.
More excitement followed when we reached the head of the queue and my rather tasteful Leonardo Da Vinci style TARDIS t-shirt (also to be seen on Mark W.) caught Sophies eye. Look, Sylv! she bubbled. Look at that t-shirt! Its brilliant!
Ohhh yeeeesss, screeched McCoy, squinting at my chest through his befuddled eyes. Its like - kind of - in the style of the drawings of... that man...
Oh no! I thought. My hero is proving to be his usual hare-brained self! Da Vinci? I suggested, in a voice kindly but hopefully not too condescending.
Yeeeesss, he drawled. Da Vinci. Very good. I like that. Its a bit - you know - clever.
Robert also had dealings with Aldred. In his case it concerned the rather sick photograph he asked her to sign - an action shot of the rubber-clad Ace (from the book of the same name, if any of you are interested). To be fair, he did have the grace to be suitably embarrassed by his perverted lusts. Yet such was the crazed look in his eyes that Soph remembered him when he queued up a second time on the Sunday. This created a welcome diversion from the fact that I was bearing a photograph of her in a low-cut dress. [Dont get me wrong - I dont fancy her, honest. The previous encounter is included only to up the laddishness quotient of this report, which otherwise would compare rather badly with some of the more extraordinary antics at the groups past outings]. Sophie won everyone over with her sheer loveliness - well, apart from the Blakes 7 fans, but theres no helping them - yet at the same time she gave the impression of being as soft as a bucket of cotton wool, without the bucket. Everything was, to her, amazing, brilliant, and so on. Watching her giddy antics, it was hard to believe she is of such advanced years. I hope my disposition is as cheery when Im her age! Although as it isnt at the moment, and has never been, this seems unlikely.
Slyvester (sic - thats how he was announced on various posters around the hotel) is of course an even more object lesson in how to defy accepted notions of dignified behaviour to a ripe old age. As daffy as ever, he ran us through many stories both familiar and unfamiliar, all the while running up and down the aisles like a loon. It was here that he first announced his then forthcoming appearance as Michael Samms in Channel Fives Beyond Fear (which readers of this magazine recently missed due to their abstruse decision to live in Kent).
One didnt have to be a fan of the programme to recognise that the purest entertainment of the weekend was provided by the Blakes 7 guests - in particular Paul Darrow and Gareth Thomas, as outrageously theatrical a pair of old tarts as you could wish for. Thomas spent most of his spare time getting pissed up in the bar, and the rest of the time getting pissed up elsewhere. As such his mood, while never less than congenial, veered from the blustering pomp of a true thesp to the hushed sentimental tones of a maudlin old lush. Darrow proved to have more control over his facilities, and bearing in mind that his stock in trade is an edgy dry wit, this was just as well. His banter with Thomas was hugely entertaining, if a little one sided, as Gareth often found the only response he could muster was to giggle in a mad, red-faced way. (The closest he got to retaliating was ridiculing Darrows signature which, as any autograph-hunters will know, reads as Pal Dun.) Darrows attacks on poor FX man Martin Bower, a dull but worthy fellow, sometimes seemed a little cruel, but all in all an air of lively good humour was maintained.
And that goes for Whos 7 as a whole. Its tempting to say that the weekend offered all the variety, professionalism and cabaret atmosphere of an American convention without the concomitant commercialism and over-zealous formality, despite the irritating steward with the traffic-warden mentality. This was the third Whos 7, and also apparently the last, at least with the current organisational team. Shame, I wouldnt have minded going again.
Photos courtesy of Bruce Ferguson, taken at Who's 7.
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