August 31st is not a date many will forget, as it was the day the world paid its last respects to Princess Diana. I would have been doing the same, but I had a prior, not to mention more asinine, engagement. Thus it was that an ironic role-reversal took place that Saturday, with the good people of Britain spending most of it in front of the television while I was out and about.
Hawkhurst may be just up the road for us, but we still arrived only minutes before the event was due to start. The event began ominously, as the car we followed into the field and parked next to opened to reveal John Nathan Turner and Gary Downie. Panicked somewhat, I greeted Downie with a vigorous wave and shout of Hi!, which he returned with the sort of look John Lennon probably gave Mark Chapman.
About a hundred people attended, most of whom were already seated in the special marquee. Making our way over to be registered, I felt immediately reassured that this was a quintessential Doctor Who event by the assortment of tatty looking soldiers dotted around the complex. When Dave told me they were the Dads Army Appreciation Society I laughed heartily at a magnificent piece of satire. When I read the programme and found out that they really were the Dads Army Appreciation Society, I laughed even louder. Also available for weddings and barmitzvas, no doubt.
We received our programmes, affixed our Vortex Events stickers to our lapels, and entered the tent, sitting at the back like the naughty fourth-formers we will forever spiritually be. The nervous young compere bade us a bittersweet welcome and was replaced by a nervous young interviewer who, with the best will in the world, didnt seem born to the role.
The first speaker was Graham Brown - "visual effects, Fenric", as he very helpfully appended his autographs. The problem with effects-guy stories is that the base drama of a tale about mad people buggering around with explosives will always be compromised by the fact that you know (although you can hope) that it wont end with some hapless actor being distributed messily across the set. About the best denouement you can expect is a ticking off from health and safety and, as comic triggers go, that one palls after the fourth or fifth time. In fact the most curious thing about effects guys is that they seem to have no qualms about making themselves and their entire profession look dangerously incompetent.
The timid interrogator really blossomed into his ineptitude when faced with the increasingly likeable Nathan Turner. He started by running through NTs career chronologically and uncovered nothing which anyone interested wouldnt have heard a thousand times before. When he finally and belatedly threw the floor open to questions things improved. JNTs forthright slating of the special edition Five Doctors seemed to shock most of the attendees into silence, but I for one felt like cheering. He even managed to inject some life into his responses to the dullest of sad fan enquiries: when asked a tortuous question regarding who he would drain of blood if he were a vampire, he unexpectedly offered "Russell Grant and Nigel from EastEnders". Chap!
McCoy turned up at lunchtime, trotting along from the train station with Joann Kenny, the ex-Grange Hill star who played one of the two teenage vampires (the one who could act), just in time for the dreaded charade of the autograph panel. Joann herself was first in line. I longed to ask her about Grange Hill, but I think all that came out was "Could you sign it To Paul, please." If that. Perhaps if it had been Gonch or Mrs McCluskey I might have been less shy.
I slid down the queue, towards McCoy, and smiled warmly, wondering what to say. In the event, Sly broke the ice. "Ah!" he ejaculated. "Youve got your sticker on your coke bottle!" The cheek of the man! Why would I do something like that? He was being gratuitously eccentric again. I decided to repeat the technique which had worked so well at Whos 7 and humour him. "No, I havent," I said. He continued to look at the coke bottle I was carrying awkwardly under one arm. I looked too. Stuck to the cap was, indeed, my Vortex events sticker - how or why I will never know. "Ah," I said wittily. "So I have." McCoy warily signed my programme and I slunk off, vowing never to talk to a famous person again.
The first panel of the afternoon saw the whole troupe again assembled, for an ensemble session. As usual with such things, it became increasingly obvious that the audiences inquiries were studiously ignoring one of the guests - in this case, lovely Joann - with the result that some bright spark drew attention to the fact by concocting a question with a distinct air of desperation about it. Joanns fate was a query about Grange Hill, which momentarily threw her - not the question itself, just the fact that one of these assembled bell-ends had actually seen a television programme other than Doctor Who.
Slyvesters panel was the best for several reasons, not least of which was that he wrenched control away from the interviewer and proceeded to run up and down the tent in his usual way. At last, someone asked him about playing Rab C Nesbitts brother. He admitted to being rather worried when asked to play the part straight, against his normal instinct to clown. In the end he did, and gave a splendid performance. Shame no-one had a similar conversation with him in 1987, really.
Other excellent entertainment was provided in the afternoon. The raffle was amusing, if only because Nicholas Parsons, sadly unable to attend, contributed a couple of huge signed photographs and a copy of his long out-of-print quiz book as compensation. More exciting was the news that special dispensation had been received from the local church for us to get up onto the roof and pretend to be Ace. Sadly, two problems arose to blight this excursion. Firstly, a wedding was still in progress as we all trooped up to the church, which if nothing else must have sealed a memorable day for the happy couple. Secondly, access to the roof turned out to be via a terrifying climb up several hundred narrow, crumbling steps. This proved disturbing to many who attempted it, particularly when one party going up met another coming down and both camps were too scared to move. If the church ever again plays host to a gathering of science fiction fans Im sure theyll be better prepared. And lock the doors.
Alfred Lynchs panel was a rather dry end to the afternoon, but then what would a con be without some actorly buffer plodding his way through edited highlights of a career conducted largely in the theatre? Actually, his relaxed manner was especially admirable bearing in mind that hed only agreed to come because he lives next door to Nathan-Turner, who had threatened to climb over the fence and poo on his sheets if he didnt. Alfies talk was even briefly educational, informing us all of the hitherto unsuspected artistry of Ian Briggs script. No, really - it was on a par with Shakespeare, at least. This thespy pretension was, to be fair, provoked by some naive questions from a member of the audience who presumably doesnt do much reading.
But thats how the afternoon ended: an old man dissecting scenes from the Curse of Fenric like a zealous teacher trying to engage a GCSE drama class. Yet another great moment in convention history.
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