Peculiarly Nervous?

The Nervous? Convention – Cardiff, 31 October 1998

Words by Tim Lebbon – Photos by Gary Greenwood

It was raining again. The gutters were full, carrying away the detritus from the night before: cans; chip wrappers; free night-club tickets. To begin with, surfacing from sleep was much the same as any Saturday morning. The pleasant sense of freedom, knowing that work was two days away. The hint of a hangover, reminding me of too much wine imbibed the previous night.

Then I remembered. The time was upon us.

It was Halloween.

We were Nervous.

Organised by Darren Floyd of RazorBlade Press – ably assisted by June, Ros and Linsey – the Nervous? Convention in Cardiff on Halloween promoted and celebrated horror writing. It also happened to tie in nicely with the launch of Gary Greenwood's debut novel The Dreaming Pool, and my own book of two novellas Faith in the Flesh (both from RazorBlade Press). That we were still waiting for the books to arrive from the printer was but a minor consideration.

Fried breakfasts flew

(and where were the books)

Programmes were readied, the PA was packed into the car

(but where were the bloody books?)

Sandwiches buttered, drinks loaded

(but the BOOKS???)

At ten thirty, just under two hours before the whole event was scheduled to begin, the ominous rumble of a lorry insinuated itself upon our senses. Remember the tank attack in Saving Private Ryan? That unbearable mounting of tension, when the clatter of their tracks can be heard approaching nearer, and nearer?

We unloaded three-and-a-half thousand books, then set up the convention room. Then, at twelve o'clock, the festivities began.

Firstly, I interviewed the excellent crime and horror writer Peter Crowther. I had to be careful, as all of this was under the watchful eye of his charming wife Nicky, but I still managed to slip in a question about his clothes-rack problem. Stephen Volk was in Cardiff for a screening of his excellent Ghostwatch, and after he was spotted at the convention he was urged onto the stage to tell us a bit about the drama, and the legend now surrounding it. Fascinating stuff.

It was as if the guest had not changed when Simon Clark took to the stage to be interviewed by Matt Williams – both Simon and Steve are tall, with very short hair (me being polite, here, but hey! I'm a slaphead too!), both dressed for the day in dark jeans and light denim shirts. Twins of terror. Brothers of bedlam. Simon entertained us with tales of his pyromaniacal childhood and told us of the heart-stopping moment when he had a bullet removed from his nostril (though actually, come to think of it, the insertion of said bullet must have been the actual moment of terror).

Next drum roll the book launch. Gary and I took to the stage and entertained the audience with a consummate display of reading, posing and witty repartee.

I'd been staying sober up until this point, a slur not being advantageous to the reading of either novella in Faith in the Flesh. But now that my reading was over well, anything that follows may have happened, may have been said, but it's all the more likely that it's pure fantasy.

Ramsey Campbell, interviewed by Darren Floyd, was on form – entertaining, informative and amusing, and after an embarrassing moment when all the guests, including Gary and myself, mounted the stage for questions none of which were forthcoming all that remained to be done was to go to the pub.

This we did. And Theakstons Old Peculiar commenced to do utterly strange things to my perception of reality. Was that really John B. Ford and David Price in the corner of the pub? Did I really have embarrassing photos taken with Gary and his girlfriend ly? Did I honestly hug Darren and tell him he must do this again next year? Were they Steve Lockley and Paul Lewis, future RazorBlade writers and Cold Cuts editors? Was that really my wife Tracey sitting there, chatting to Ramsey's wife Jenny about childbirth? Was the gents an outside toilet with a corrugated plastic roof? Did I actually slap Simon on the head (he was sitting down, of course) and call him baldy? Is it true that Simon, Max O'Hagan and myself flashed our hairy chests, in the mistaken belief that there is a direct correlation between body hair and intelligence? Did I really chat to Pete and Nicky about sharing their son's nickname (and no, I won't tell you)? Did that Theakstons pump just keep on pumping, eventually spilling me out into the street from where, somehow, miraculously, I suddenly found myself waking up at home at eleven o'clock the next morning?

But no. I don't believe a word. I think I imagined it all.

(Thanks to Darren and his team of wonderful helpers for putting on such a marvellous event. When's the next one?)