Sunday

Arriving back at the convention on Sunday morning I find things starting as they will continue: the posted schedule has been rejigged so the authors Robert Rankin and Jan Siegel have swapped places with Shiri Appleby (I suspect this is to fit in more photos and autographs). Having an inkling that Rankin's panel is going to be something a bit special I head in and find a seat during Paul Goddard's preceding session. I don't watch Farscape, so it doesn't mean a lot to me, but he talks about going to other conventions as a punter and meeting people who were his own heroes (principally Adam 'Batman' West) in a very endearing way.

Towards the end of the session a caption comes up on the screen advertising the last chance to buy photo session tickets for the non-Buffy guests. I abandon the last shreds of my dignity and head off to buy one, determined to actually get to meet somebody famous before the weekend is out. Unfortunately Andy Robinson tickets have sold out and I settle for a Joe Pantoliano instead, little suspecting the strange path I have embarked upon...

Back in the aircraft hangar Rankin and Siegel have begun their session. It's almost certainly the least well-attended one of the weekend and I manage to get a seat so near the front I don't even need to look at the screen. And, as I suspected, we're in for a very special treat indeed: Rankin is on spectacularly good form and has the crowd weeping with laughter as he and Siegel bombard them with tall tales, writing advice, performance poetry and parody country and western songs. Even the announcer sounds awed as they leave the stage: 'Go and tell anyone who wasn't here exactly what they missed,' he advises breathlessly, then, 'There'll now be a short break. Shiri Appleby will be on stage at half past eleven.' This isn't even close to being remotely true.

I go for another look round anyway. Of course, now I have a ticket for a photo session I have to keep an eye on the information boards so I won't miss my meeting with Hollywood, which is a pain, but they're still working through the last Siddig and Robinson photos.

I pop into the games room and say hello to Joty, before telling him my cunning plan to take Frazer Irving for a walk on the promenade and then pushing him under a tram. This will have the twofold effect of a) making my picture much more collectable (=valuable) and b) stopping him from cashing my cheque. Joty firmly tells me this is considered cheating in the art world.

Speaking of the 2000AD posse, by midday they've abandoned their remote outpost upstairs and pitched up in the entranceway to the main hall. Here they finally get some attention from passing punters. I later learn this is partly due to the intervention of the comic's editor, who's come along for the day (I don't actually see Tharg the Mighty anywhere around the hotel though).

I get increasingly nervous about missing the announcement of the Joe P photo sessions and resolve to have an early lunch so I'll be able to leap into action at a moment's notice at any time in the afternoon). While eating it I spot Cornell and his wife wandering past and, staying true to my vow, ignore them both completely. Suddenly I'm nervous: my hands are covered in grease and vinegar from my burger, I can't shake hands with a film star like this!

While on the way back from the washroom I spot Dave Golder, co-organiser of the event, trying to assemble a group of punters in the foyer for a special feature in his magazine's 100th issue. On a whim I join the group and fifteen minutes later I and 99 other lucky shlubs are standing round the back of the hotel.

Here's the deal: Golder's going to shout out a series of alternatives (eg, Peter Cushing or Christopher Lee) and the hundred of us will split up according to our preference. Photos of the resulting crowds will be taken by a photographer on the roof of the hotel. Big though I am I realise I will have to do something pretty special to make myself identifiable at such long range. My chance comes with 'The Ewoks or Jar Jar Binks!' - feeling Jar Jar's had a raw deal, and being completely lacking in integrity, I join the five other people supporting the guppy rasta as the 94 Ewok supporters jeer at us. I am at least a foot taller than everyone else in my crowd. Ha ha, oh jeerers - how many of you will be able to point yourselves out with such ease when the issue comes out? (I am the large bloke in the purple shirt - just for future reference, of course.)

I dash inside and find no sign of the Joe P photos having gotten underway yet. In fact, nothing seems to be underway anywhere and to placate the crowd the tech crew are playing 'The Best of John Barry' over the hall speakers at deafening volume. Hearing the score of The Black Hole again in this way proves unexpectedly nostalgic.

Still, eventually I wander into the dealer's room and get talking to Dave Golder at his magazine's stall. Interesting facts abound (Sarah Michelle Gellar would have been here, had she not been unavoidably detained by her really not wanting to come). I mention my one criticism of the guest list, that it's too American and current. Golder says they tried to book Tom Baker (he turns out to be a hero to both of us) but he has a strange deal with his agent about these things. Still, there's always next year.

I am getting nervous about missing my photo with Joe P so I go back into the hall and collar a steward. Her name is Donna and she looks harassed. I haven't missed it after all, it's just that the schedule has gone into total freefall.

I am so relieved to hear this that when I see Donna the steward wandering around shouting for off-duty stewards and volunteers to help with the organising I offer my services. Doing the same old circuit of the peripheral rooms has gotten a bit dull, and - ever the conscientous hack - seeing the con from the steward's point of view will allow me to write a better (relatively speaking, of course) piece about it for my loyal readers.

I am placed behind the information desk with a lugubrious Scotsman and issued an official steward's badge. This allows me to order punters about, sit in the front row of the main hall, and order air-strikes (okay, I made one of those up). Although the Scotsman and I are not that troubled with work, it's clear the stewards are hard-pressed to keep things running smoothly - apparently they've only got a third of the desirable number of volunteers. But there is a nice sense of camaraderie between them and some fringe benefits: when the Joe P photoshoot starts my badge gets me in at number three in the queue. It's not a very profound encounter, more a case of dive in, have one photo taken, then get out of the way of the next punter, and Joe seems much keener to be photographed with the ladies than with a great lump like me. I don't care.

Happy as can be I go back to the desk. Another hour and Mazza's on stage again, at which point I decide I'll make my excuses and leave. I may not have got to shake Mazza's hand but at least I'll have seen both his panels.

At this point Donna reappears and thanks me for pitching in. She pauses. 'Have you met James yet?' she asks.

James who, I wonder for a moment, then realise: she means James Marsters. Mazza. Spike.

'Uh, not yet,' I say, trying to avoid looking as stunned as I feel.

'Well, don't worry, I'll sort it out for you. Thanks again for helping,' Donna says as she goes.

I'm definitely in a parallel universe.

'Meet James' turns out not to mean 'hang out and go for a pint with' but actually 'sneak in at the end of the autograph queue' - still, as I'm guest #1902 and only #s up to about 600 have been called in the first two days of the con, I'm not going to whinge. The Scotsman and I file along, purchase the designated glossy photos to be signed (I'd love to see the accounts for a convention on this scale), and then...

Well, there he is, sitting across a desk from me. He looks smaller than he does on the telly, a little scrawny gaunt guy with razor cheekbones. We shake hands and he signs the photos I've bought. I mumble something about how it's a pleasure to meet him, and then that's it. Still, it's more than a lot of people here will get to do.

Mazza clears off to have a snack before his session on stage (and, seeing as he's been signing autographs solidly for about five hours, probably have his hand packed in ice). As I'm up in Autograph Alley anyway I get a quick signature off Joe Pantoliano, who as before seems rather more interested in the lady conventiongoers than the blokes, the Italian-American scallywag that he is. Shiri Appleby is sitting nearby looking rather neglected and later on I will kick myself for not getting her to sign something for my co-progenoid Spea (I can't stand Roswell but Spea and her husband are big fans). Feeling I have walked amongst the Gods of SF long enough I return to Earth and the main hall.

Mazza does his second set, showing no signs of fatigue. As before, he's utterly beguiling - at the audience's request he poses, sings, performs Shakespeare. I realise I will probably sound like a gushing sopheaded goon when I come to write this up, but I can only call 'em as I see 'em. I feel like Darius off Popstars, overwhelmed by the feeling of love in the hall. It's quite extraordinary.

Mazza knocks off to go and sign yet more autographs. On the schedule is a gap marked TBA which many people have taken as a sign that a Big Star is going to make a surprise appearance. I've heard rumours of Tony Head, Alyson Hannigan, Sarah Gellar (my chat with Golder gave the lie to this one) and - most appetisingly - William Shatner. But in the end it turns out to be... no-one. Probably just as well as the schedule is now irrecoverably in pieces anyway.

In the bar I bump into my friend Hector, who runs a small role-playing-games store in my home town and we catch up on what's been going on. Vicky Pratt has signed some of his Mutant X comics and not for the first time I hear what a thoroughly lovely person she is. Suddenly regret only watching two episodes of Cleopatra 2525. This is an odd side-effect of convention-going: if you enjoy a guest's performance you feel obliged to watch their TV show/read their books, even if you haven't previously. Is a from-the-start re-run of Farscape due on the BBC any time soon?

An hour late, the closing ceremony occurs (in the delay, the operators of the technical rig and screen have fun baiting the audience, as they have all weekend). Traditionally the closing ceremony is the time when you learn which guests have stuck it out all weekend and which buggered off back to LA as soon as they'd completed their contractual obligations. It's a pretty good turn-out: Victoria Pratt, Tony Amendola (who I noticed earlier had snuck up to Autograph Alley), a hard-hat wearing Robert Rankin (who stuns the crowd again with a Dick van Dyke-style song about DIY), and - of course - Mazza, a guy who I've come to respect hugely over the course of the previous 48 hours.

And with that, it's all over. The big screen shows highlights of the event to a soundtrack of the theme from Enterprise, and while it's a song I've never really warmed to in the past, I suddenly feel like organising a mass singalong to it, I'm on such a high. Even picking up my Joe Pantoliano photo to see I look strikingly fat and drunk can't spoil my mood.

I collar Rankin, who's heading for the door, and tell him what a killer performance he gave this morning. 'I'll have to start reading your books,' I say rather brashly. 'Great!' Rankin says delightedly. 'Lots of people have said that to me today. Result!' And off he goes.

I pass Donna the steward in the crush who, ludicrously, thanks me again for helping out. I think I've got by far the better of the deal and thank her in return. The next one of these I come to, I may be wearing the steward's badge a lot more.

Golder is outside with Steve the Spike-a-like and his girlfriend and I happily agree to take a photo of them all together. I tell Golder what a fantastic time I've had and he looks pleased, if rather exhausted. The last I see of him, he and his deputy are climbing into the back of a cab with Rankin in search of a decent real-world pub.

So, what have I gained from this weekend? Well, apart from various CDs, videos, autographs and pieces of original artwork, I've learned to abandon common sense and take the chances you'll only get at this kind of event. Talking to Cornell, buying the Irving picture, getting the Joe P photo and meeting James Marsters - none of this was guaranteed on the ticket, but if you take your chances and are lucky then great things can happen for you.

I've had a quite extraordinarily good time, much, much moreso than I'd dared to hope for. It's extremely unlikely that next year's convention will be able to live up to this kind of standard.

But I am more than willing to take that risk.

Awix

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