Scatmania

This post has been removed.

It’s 8 days until QParty.

I still have to write a speech. And some other things.

I haven’t heard back from the venue to confirm that they’ve remembered our booking.

I don’t have a clue what’s going on. Neither, judging by some of the responses I’m getting to e-mails, do many of the guests.

Panic hasn’t yet begun to set in, but I’m sure it will.

If you see me, give me a hug.

I received a surprising gift at work this morning. Click the picture for a full-size snap.

A gift box from InterRose, delivered by Royal Mail Special Delivery. The building manager who brought it up from the reception desk to my office kept insisting that it wasn’t from him (apparently the receptionist had been quite excited by it until she discovered it wasn’t for her, either).

I opened it up, watched by my co-workers. The box contained a single rose, it’s petals dyed purple, wrapped in a red ribbon, and a tiny envelope with my name hand-written on it. Looking in the envelope, I found a small card with the following message:

Lusting after and loving you from afar.

Your secret admirer.

x x

The current favourite guess amongst my co-workers is that the rose was sent by my mum. But I think they’re just jealous.

Thank you, secret admirer, whoever or wherever you might be. Although I’m pretty sure I know…

How to have a good time after returning from a tiring holiday and even more tiring return journey:

1. Return home delighted to see that Paul has tidied up your entire house.

2. Relaxed and refreshed, throw yourself backwards into a soft, comfy chair.

3. Talk to a friend about a sensitive issue in a safe, relaxed environment, making use of a whiteboard as an aid to discussion, knowing that it’s easy to remove the evidence afterwards with a bit of paper towel or a board wiper.

How to fuck up the above plan:

1. Throw yourself backwards into a soft, comfy chair that’s just a few inches to the right of where you remembered it was, banging the back of your head quite painfully against the wall.

2. Accidently write all of the most sensitive details of your discussion on the whiteboard in a permanent marker, because during the house tidy up, all of the permanent markers have been mixed in with the whiteboard markers.

3. Scamble to find a solvent with which to remove the data from the whiteboard before somebody sees it who shouldn’t.

4. Find paraffin. Accidently get it in your eye and have to wash it out.

5. Have to scrub hard at the whiteboard to remove the rapidly-setting permanent marker lines, working hard to ensure that the information is removed in order from most to least incriminating/embarassing.

6. Push the whiteboard too hard, dislodging a large metal sign mounted above it, causing said sign to plummet down into an empty pint glass (which shatters). The sign’s fall is broken slightly by your head, which is cut and begins to swell.

7. While applying first aid to your head (now injured front and back and somewhat grazed by it’s collision with the sign), hurt yourself by swinging your elbow into a door handle.

I’m convinced that my house doesn’t like me right now.

In other news: if anybody fancies a post-BiCon, post-Edinburgh catch-up natter session, get your arse around to The Cottage!

Claire and I are back in Aberystwyth. We’re exhausted and hungry, so don’t expect this to be a long post.

In fact, that’s almost it.

Will write more when I’m somewhat more recovered.

We failed quite miserably to see any live comedy yesterday (although the day before was good). I blame the wine.

Y’see, we thought: you know what would be nice before we go out this afternoon? A quick bottle or two of wine.

Six bottles of wine later, the plan to go and watch some shows somehow mutated into a different plan - and I use the word “plan” in it’s loosest possible interpretation - involving:

- Board games
- Partial nudity
- Talking bollocks
- Chatting to an ex-bodybuilder who got hit by a car and now runs a kebaberie
- Swimming
- Saunaing
- Watching films

Today we’re all sleepy and confused.

In a recent post (The Magic Of BiCon) I mentioned that some new friends and I had spent some time reading bad erotica (store-bought, would you believe it, not home-made) to one another. I just thought I’d take a moment to share with you exactly how awful some of this literary pornography was.

It was almost as though the creative process the author - based on the writing style, almost inevitably a man - had taken could be summed up as this:

1. Okay, I’m writing a short story. Let’s call it The Oilman, ‘cos that sounds saucy already. Ooh, and let’s make the oilman’s name Roger. Roger the Oilman. Hee hee, I made an innuendo.

2. Okay, now a plot: I saw Roger. We fucked. Then some woman arrived. Then we all fucked. Brilliant!

3. Hmm, that’s pretty good as-is. I don’t really see the need to put any effort into describing, well, anything. Guess I’ll just try to cram in AS MANY SWEARWORDS AS POSSIBLE into it. That’ll sell. That’s the measure of good porn, right? How many times the reader cringes per paragraph?

This really does feel like the process undergone. Who reads this crap? Just to really help you understand the quality of writing we’re talking about, here’s a snippet (from memory, might be slightly off but the overarching concepts are there):

Precum dribbled from his wet piss slit. His hairy cream sacks suddenly exploded.

Hairy cream sacks?!?! What the fuck?

Really ought to get up now.

Well, we made it to Edinburgh. After scooping up (well, not literally, although that could have been funny) Ruth and JTA from Maulds Meaburn we zipped off up the motorway and soon were completely lost in Edinburgh. Now I don’t want to point a finger of blame here, but I’ll say this: if Ruth’s contribution to finding the flat we’re staying in wasn’t a hand drawn map with only three road names and a “here be dragons”note in the corner, we might have found it a little easier. Thankfully the GPS unit in my mobile phone was able to show us the correct route, despite a few early hiccups in it not sufficiently distinguishing between a bridge and a junction, leading to dialogue like this:

Dan (staring at phone): Turn left.
Claire: At the roundabout ahead?
Dan: No, now! Oh, you’ve missed it.
Claire: We’re on a bridge, Dan.

Anyway, we somehow finally reached the flat. It’s a little less spacious that last year’s, and a little further away from the city centre, but it’s nice and it has a garage to put the car in.

[pause in typing to have sex]

We’ve been to a handful of shows yesterday and the night of the day before. We’re basically following the formula we settled on last year of Peter Buckley Hill’s Free Fringe all the way. We’re also taking every opportunity to evangelise against this year’s new rival, the Laughing Horse Free Festival. You ever seen an argument between advocates of different Free Software licenses? Same thing, really: we feel that Laughing Horse is providing the Wrong Thing [TM] to it’s comics. Anyway, that’s a debate for when I’m not blogging from my phone.

It’s nice to spend time with Ruth and JTA, anyway, because I always forget how much I end up missing them in Aber.

Oh, and I AM checking my friends’ blogs, too, but posting comments is challenging, so: congratulations to Paul on his new upcoming job, to Andy for getting Radio One airplay (wish I’d heard it!), and to Faye for finally learning to take time off. And to those of you who’ve commented on my recent posts or e-mailed me: thanks, I’ll reply eventually!

Suppose it’s time I got up and had a shower.

Claire and I are in Preston, and I’m taking advantage of the opportunity to get hold of real internet access, characterised by the fact that, as you’ll see, I’ve put links in (it’s a pain in the arse to do while posting from my phone, as I have been). I can’t post long, as we’re soon about to head off to Maulds Meaburn to pick up Ruth and JTA and then on to Edinburgh, in accordance with the plan, but I’ll say a few words about how things are going and how I’m feeling.

BiCon was mind-blowingly fabulous. I really enjoyed it. In fact, I cried with happiness on the car ride up to Preston (after we’d finally escaped from the crowd of people trying to hug everybody goodbye at the end of the conference). The workshops were interesting and mind-expanding, the entertainments were fabulous (oh, by the way, I’m so going to get a copy of Killer Bunnies for the Geek Night crew in Aber - it’s brilliant - big thanks to Alex and Lucky for introducing me to it), and the people were, almost without exception, amazing. I’ve come away from the event with contact details for loads of cool and interesting people I’m hoping to get in touch with soon (if I’ve given you a QCard, send me an e-mail!). Notably missing from my list is contact information for Dirk - if you happen to read this, you crazy hat-wearing beast, get in touch! Also, apologies to Suzy for not managing to say goodbye before we left - it wasn’t on purpose: we just couldn’t find you.

Wow, the BiCon LiveJournal community just exploded with activity.

Anyway: now we’re in Preston. My sister Becky has brought back a hammock from her recent trip to Thailand, and - with the help of my mum, her boyfriend, my other sister, her boyfriend, and Claire, we managed to finally attach it between the tree in the garden and a study fence post. I’ve got some pretty good photos which I’ll have to share with you at some other time (imagine a human pyramid, on a slope, with a pair of bolt cutters, reaching up to lop off part of a tree which is being weighted down by a man jumping on top of it, and you’re headed in the right direction).

We’re running a little late, because my mum’s tumble dryer seems to be taking about a lifetime and a half to finish drying our clothes so we can get on the road, but we’ll get moving eventually. No doubt I’ll make a post or two from Edinburgh, and then a wrap-up or two when I get back to Aber on Tuesday 28th. I hope everything’s going well back home (I haven’t heard anything from Paul so I’m guessing that Troma Night went without a hitch); somebody drop me a text or an e-mail or something to let me know you’re all still alive and well.

Three sit on the damp grass. One reads out a bad example of a good erotic story, stopping from time to time to turn the book around and show the pictures to the others, who laugh.

Five cuddle up in each others’ arms, in some sort of exclusive party for those they love - or might like to love - the most. It’s past 3am now, and the quiet skies are punctuated by occasional, beautiful flashes as meteorites strike the atmosphere. “I’ve never seen a shooting star,” one says. “Then just watch,” says another, adjusting his arm to better cup her icy hands, “And maybe you’ll see one tonight.”

Suddenly, low on the horizon, there is a bright green flash and a long white trail. “I saw it!” she says, excitedly. They all have. Their extremities, damp and cold, are beginning to numb, but they’re beyond caring. The rest of the party has started to disperse. A few couples cuddle or chat or share a drink nearby. One or two have curled up under blankets or duvets or towels. But these five stay where they are, wrapped around each other in peaceful comfort. Now and then an arm or a leg will move, or a hand will adjust it’s grip on another, and it is good. Sometimes, not quite by accident, two pairs of eyes will hold a stare for a little longer than necessary, or two faces brush against one another.

One leaves. Then another. Then another. The remaining two, still untired, chat on, watching the skies, until exhaustion takes hold and a sudden drop in temperature threatens hypothermia, and they call it a night.

It all started with a midnight picnic, and it all finished with the deepening of a new friendship. Almost nobody said anything, because nothing needed to be said. Time, and trust, and a little bit of love.

Magic.