Herath (video lounge—room 1024)
EVENT: AUTOGRAPH PANEL—VANITY MYCROFT, BERNARD VINER, MERVYN STONE, PAUL CHESTER-ALLEN
LOCATION: Arkadia’s Boudoir (room 1013)
EVENT: PHOTOS, RODERICK BURGESS
LOCATION: Transpodule Chamber (room 1030)
EVENT: WRITING VIXENS FAN FICTION, FAN PANEL with Graham Goldingay, Fay Lawless, Craig Jones, Darren Cardew
LOCATION: The Seventh Moon of Groolia (room 1002)
CHAPTER SIX
Back in the mists of history, when he was introduced to his first ever autograph session, Mervyn thought it looked like a sweatshop.
Two hours and several hundred signatures later, after he’d lost the feeling in his wrist, he realised it was a sweatshop.
This one was like most others. There were the stars sitting behind tables against the far wall, and there was an incredibly long queue of fans stretching through the hotel lounge, clutching books, posters and bits of paper. Every so often the stewards would allow a half-dozen of them through, and they would rush eagerly to their chosen idol.
Posters were everywhere (attached to the wall with Post-it notes, which weren’t proving very effective as some were already peeling off). On them, scrawled in fat, hostile capitals, were the words:
PLEASE NOTE!!! 1) ONLY ONE AUTOGRAPH PER PERSON! 2) ONLY OFFICIAL MERCHANDISE! 3) PUBLICITY PHOTOS WILL BE AVAILABLE FROM THE STARS FOR A FEE IF YOU HAVE NOTHING TO SIGN!
Simon Josh was there, a grin sliding around his face. Mervyn remembered Roddy’s words, and it did strike him that Simon was strolling around in a way not unlike that of a Nazi commandant of a prison camp.
Tucked in at the end of a long line of tables, Mervyn could see a spindly man with greasy hair and shiny black eyes, sitting like a sinister teddy bear, magic marker at the ready.
He couldn’t be here could he? Signing autographs? Not him? But yes, it was Bernard Viner.
Bernard was the special effects supervisor on Vixens , and a deeply angry person. He was a man who constructed grudges as slowly and methodically as he constructed little model spaceships, and he had a huge grudge against Mervyn. Mervyn had lost Bernard his job on Vixens , and even though it was pretty much Bernard’s fault, he hadn’t forgotten and hadn’t forgiven. Mervyn made a mental note to avoid him as much as he possibly could.
Bernard hadn’t lost his touch. Every so often he would snarl at a luckless fan: ‘I told you—I do signatures only! I don’t do personal messages. Are you deaf or something?’ When he did sign a picture, it was done slowly and methodically and in complete silence.
Mervyn hoped this wasn’t going to be too arduous. With any luck this convention was full of fans uninterested in the behind-the-scenes team and they would flock to the actors instead.
As if on cue, one of those actors made a fashionably late entrance into the hall. Vanity Mycroft sashayed in through the double doors like a catwalk model, surveying the room with a graceful sweep of her whole body before striding in. Assorted fans and hangers-on chugged along in her wake, like tiny boats tooting the homecoming of a mighty battle-scarred warship.
At first, Mervyn assumed she had dressed down—jeans, jacket and plain blouse—but as she got closer he realised that the ensemble was a riot of labels; Gucci this, LaCroix that, Paul Smith the other. Mervyn wasn’t an expert on such things, but even he could recognise the studied casualness of designer clothing when he saw it.
Wait a minute… As she got closer…?
She was heading straight for him. Mervyn realised with a start that the seat next to him was empty, and the tiny printed card on the table by his right elbow read ‘V. Mycroft’.
She threw herself into the seat, and addressed her entourage. ‘Right. Mummy’s on duty now. Off you fuck.’ Her fans dribbled away, save for one thin-faced girl in a cardigan who produced a number of sparkly magic-marker pens, an ashtray and a packet of Benson and Hedges and arranged them in
EVENT: AUTOGRAPH PANEL—VANITY MYCROFT, BERNARD VINER, MERVYN STONE, PAUL CHESTER-ALLEN
LOCATION: Arkadia’s Boudoir (room 1013)
EVENT: PHOTOS, RODERICK BURGESS
LOCATION: Transpodule Chamber (room 1030)
EVENT: WRITING VIXENS FAN FICTION, FAN PANEL with Graham Goldingay, Fay Lawless, Craig Jones, Darren Cardew
LOCATION: The Seventh Moon of Groolia (room 1002)
CHAPTER SIX
Back in the mists of history, when he was introduced to his first ever autograph session, Mervyn thought it looked like a sweatshop.
Two hours and several hundred signatures later, after he’d lost the feeling in his wrist, he realised it was a sweatshop.
This one was like most others. There were the stars sitting behind tables against the far wall, and there was an incredibly long queue of fans stretching through the hotel lounge, clutching books, posters and bits of paper. Every so often the stewards would allow a half-dozen of them through, and they would rush eagerly to their chosen idol.
Posters were everywhere (attached to the wall with Post-it notes, which weren’t proving very effective as some were already peeling off). On them, scrawled in fat, hostile capitals, were the words:
PLEASE NOTE!!! 1) ONLY ONE AUTOGRAPH PER PERSON! 2) ONLY OFFICIAL MERCHANDISE! 3) PUBLICITY PHOTOS WILL BE AVAILABLE FROM THE STARS FOR A FEE IF YOU HAVE NOTHING TO SIGN!
Simon Josh was there, a grin sliding around his face. Mervyn remembered Roddy’s words, and it did strike him that Simon was strolling around in a way not unlike that of a Nazi commandant of a prison camp.
Tucked in at the end of a long line of tables, Mervyn could see a spindly man with greasy hair and shiny black eyes, sitting like a sinister teddy bear, magic marker at the ready.
He couldn’t be here could he? Signing autographs? Not him? But yes, it was Bernard Viner.
Bernard was the special effects supervisor on Vixens , and a deeply angry person. He was a man who constructed grudges as slowly and methodically as he constructed little model spaceships, and he had a huge grudge against Mervyn. Mervyn had lost Bernard his job on Vixens , and even though it was pretty much Bernard’s fault, he hadn’t forgotten and hadn’t forgiven. Mervyn made a mental note to avoid him as much as he possibly could.
Bernard hadn’t lost his touch. Every so often he would snarl at a luckless fan: ‘I told you—I do signatures only! I don’t do personal messages. Are you deaf or something?’ When he did sign a picture, it was done slowly and methodically and in complete silence.
Mervyn hoped this wasn’t going to be too arduous. With any luck this convention was full of fans uninterested in the behind-the-scenes team and they would flock to the actors instead.
As if on cue, one of those actors made a fashionably late entrance into the hall. Vanity Mycroft sashayed in through the double doors like a catwalk model, surveying the room with a graceful sweep of her whole body before striding in. Assorted fans and hangers-on chugged along in her wake, like tiny boats tooting the homecoming of a mighty battle-scarred warship.
At first, Mervyn assumed she had dressed down—jeans, jacket and plain blouse—but as she got closer he realised that the ensemble was a riot of labels; Gucci this, LaCroix that, Paul Smith the other. Mervyn wasn’t an expert on such things, but even he could recognise the studied casualness of designer clothing when he saw it.
Wait a minute… As she got closer…?
She was heading straight for him. Mervyn realised with a start that the seat next to him was empty, and the tiny printed card on the table by his right elbow read ‘V. Mycroft’.
She threw herself into the seat, and addressed her entourage. ‘Right. Mummy’s on duty now. Off you fuck.’ Her fans dribbled away, save for one thin-faced girl in a cardigan who produced a number of sparkly magic-marker pens, an ashtray and a packet of Benson and Hedges and arranged them in
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