It was pretty much at the last minute that our redoubtable leader, Sue, contacted me regarding the Gillingham Movie Fair. Two things prompted me to accompany her there. Firstly, I had never been to a Film Fair, in fact didn't even know what one was (apart from the fact that they made the Wombles - though that was probably a different one). Secondly, and more interestingly, she'd been tipped off by Mr Merchandise himself, the boy Sig, that noneother ex-Doctor than Sylvester McCoy was attending! And not just attending, but flying back from a cruise around the Florida coast to attend. Florida to Gillingham, overnight. At the invitation of Gillingham borough council. Well, wouldn't you? No offence to anyone involved in this preamble, but my scepticism circuits were overloading that morning. Thus it was with no little lack of excitement that I jumped into Sue's car for the journey north.
It was a lovely sunny day, and Doctor Who was driving in his sprightly yellow roadster, Bessie... sorry, came over all Barry Letts for a moment there. Always happens when I'm grappling for a cliché. But it's true: it was a lovely sunny day, one which showed off to good advantage the splendid old church in which Gillingham Film Fair was housed. Confusingly enough, it was actually in Chatham. Unless it was the other way round.
I soon discovered what a Film Fair is, and translated into my own frame of reference. It's like a jumble sale: except that some of the merchandise is new, and all of it is related to films, or science fiction, apart from the bits that aren't. This tenuous linking thread allowed exhibits as diverse as the Ingrid Pitt fan club, the Laurel and Hardy Appreciation Society (complete with impersonators), and a life-size TARDIS and Dalek (courtesy of noted fan Julian Vince) for kids to jump on and sad old gits like us to take photos in front of.
While waiting for McCoy to arrive (yeah, right!) we sauntered around, taking in the ambience. On the Ingrid Pitt stall I couldn't help noticing that the woman attempting to sell photographs of the Hammer star looked a lot like an older version of her hero. I was quite impressed by the effort she'd gone to - she was almost as convincing as the two Laurel and Hardy lookalikes, sweltering away in the sun. Outside the hall was an extra treat - a display of Cars from the Films (and tv). Mr Bean's mini, some vintage of Batmobile, even Chitty Chitty Bang Bang complete with clown (also sweltering). I grabbed a photo of myself next to the Beanmobile, to add to my collection (namely, me in Bessie, aged 10, and me next to Bessie, aged, er, 23).
Eventually it was time for the personal appearances, which started with a question and answer session. This took place, rather ill-advisedly, in a screened-off section at one end of the hall. Amazingly enough, there he was! Slyvester himself, every last loitering line of jet-lag etched into his already characterful features. He was joined on 'stage' by two compatriots from the world of entertainment; a stolid fellow from the Laurel and Hardy appreciation society, and the Ingrid Pitt lookalike, who was, of course, Ingrid Pitt. A rum old half hour ensued, with the conversation rarely rising above the babble of the crowds only inches behind us - either in volume or quality (ooh! Bitch!). Ever the professional performer, it was Sylv who coped best, his enthusiasm comparing even more favourably with that of his fellows when you consider the circumstances. Ingrid Pitt, by contrast, seemed ill at ease - perhaps it was her companions, perhaps the audience, perhaps being reduced to dragging her own fan club around provincial indoor markets. I don't know. A moment of startling viscosity threatened when she became so disturbed by the fact that no-one was asking her any questions that she actually pointed it out! Eek! Her fans quickly rallied and a rush of asinine enquiries on the Hammer films followed - hurrah.
The dull bloke's best contribution was an attempt to come up with a connection between the three disparate parties on stage, for which he is to be congratulated as I wasn't convinced there was was any rhyme or reason behind their choice. His question? Which actor links Doctor Who, Hammer Horror and Laurel and Hardy? For those of you who may enjoy this challenge, I will save the answer till the end.
Following the talk, for want of something better to do, I queued up for Sylvester's autograph. Yes, I know I've already got it, and yes, I know I didn't really want it that time either. But for a lover of the quiet life such as myself, being faced with a celebrity is not a commonplace experience. What else to do? Of the choices on offer, history has generally favoured autograph or assassination, and as the pen is mightier than the sword I usually defer to the former - but it's sometimes a close call. As readers of this journal may know, autograph queues are generally mundane affairs until I enter them, at which point they are overtaken by a benign kind of surrealism, its heady maelstrom forged in the moment the worthy and I make contact.
...Luckily this wasn't one of those occasions. There was entertainment, though, this time provided by a curious sprite who spent the entire time hovering behind Sylvester. Watching awestruck one moment, now scampering to the other side, then attempting to make conversation - who could this mop-headed jester be? Readers of long-standing: yes, it was our old chum Hamilton. McCoy's enigmatic features seemed constantly to be battling between justifiable irritation and extreme exhaustion, and fortunately for H. the fatigue won. It was fortunate for me too, as it meant that McCoy didn't try to engage me in any of the mad banter I've come to know and fear him for. However, there remains one strange element to this encounter: I can't remember to this day what I got him to sign.
The panel reconvened for a second discussion later in the afternoon, but we didn't go to that one. No doubt it was ten times better in terms of acoustics, thrust and parry of conversation and general guest/audience interface. But we were looking at some vintage Star Wars toys, which was more fun, in a bittersweet kind of way. Cruel, stabbing images floated before my eyes of that fateful car boot sale ten years ago when I bade goodbye to my entire collection for a mere several pounds. And I thought I'd done quite well! I consoled myself by remembering the rosy glow on the face of an angelic child as she trotted off with my Millenium Falcon. And tried not to picture her ten years on, a mercenary teen who's just sold it on at an obscene profit to fund her participation in some obscure youth craze.
I do still have my Jabba the Hutt. That's worth twenty quid, apparently, or three thousand if it's in the box. This is the abiding memory I will take with me to the grave of the third annual Gillingham Film Fair. I urge you all to attend next year's, when I believe the council plan to invite Chloe Ashcroft, Gary Downie and Harrison Ford.
By the way, the connection was Peter Cushing - who was, of course, in Star Wars as well. Oh Lordy.
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