Minneapolis is where Joyce lived, and where she and various other Minneapolitans (is that the right word? If not, it ought to be) had organised another convention for the weekend after Worldcon. You might think that this was overkill, two cons in two weeks, but as cons they could hardly have been more different.

Let’s start with the name. ‘Chicon IV’ was clear and easy to understand (given the assumption that we are talking about sf conventions). ‘Plerghbcon’ on the other hand… Yes, that was its name: ‘Plerghbcon’. Don’t ask me why; I don’t like to exhibit my ignorance. The most my notebook has to say on the subject is ‘REMEMBER THE PLERGHBCON!’ just like that, in caps. I suppose I was trying to invoke ‘Remember the Alamo’ but god knows why. The con was in a Ramada Inn, in Minnesota, a far cry from a mission converted into a makeshift fort, in Texas.

Second difference, the pocket programme (yes, spelled like that), at Plerghbcon was a model of clarity and simplicity, having everything you needed on two sides of a sheet of paper (US Letter size), folded in half and half again so that it did indeed fit in your pocket. One side had the ‘Dance Card’, a metaphor for the key events of the con, and the list of key people, such as the Chair (Joyce herself), the rest of the committee, and the Guests of Honour, of whom there were three. The pro was Pat Wrede, and the fans Peter T and me. I had membership number 002, so I’m guessing Pat was 001 and Peter 003. I still have my membership card, which I didn’t have to wear at all times.

The other side of the sheet of paper had two useful maps, one of the hotel layout and the second of the nearby environs of Minneapolis helpfully annotated with restaurants, cashpoints and liquor stores. The hotel was long and thin. Reception and three of the convention rooms (video, art show/huckster and program) were at one end. The pool and the Party Suite were at the other. In between were other meeting rooms and the hotel restaurant, carefully marked on the restaurants map as expensive.

This meant that fans were having to walk a distance between bits of the con, passing through another convention happening in the Ramada at the same time: a policewomen’s convention, with women in uniform and guns and handcuffs and everything. It would be entertaining to be able to report that we had to suppress Stu’s and Peter’s cries of “Pigs!” every time we went past, but it wouldn’t be true. I’m not aware of anything untoward going on. Probably because of the guns.

To give a flavour of the con, it’s probably easier to show you the programme pages themselves, and point out that the most common programme item was ‘Party Suite (still) open’.

[I was about to write ‘popular’ instead of ‘common’, on the basis that when I am told that Smith is a common surname, I always respond, ‘Not common, popular’. But then I realised I was making a statistical point, so ‘common’ it is.]

Mind you, the Party Suite was pretty popular with me. My notes say: ‘Pissed as a rat on Saturday night.’

My responsibilities as a fan guest of honour were light, consisting of talking to people (but not giving a speech) and having a massage. Massages, it seemed, were a thing in Midwest fandom, so I had to have one. Immediately afterwards, I went swimming in the pool, causing one of the masseuses to ask sternly what I thought I was doing, as I was supposed to be too relaxed and floppy to be able to swim. To be honest, the swim was more relaxing than the massage…

I haven’t done the cast list yet, so here it is. Ken Josenhans, Anne Laurie Logan. That’s it. Well, you already know about Joyce, Stu and Peter, so I won’t mention their names again. Okay, okay, more names, from the pocket programme.

The dead dog party was held not in the Ramada Inn, but on Fourteenth Av.S. This was not entirely coincidentally Joyce’s home, where Stu, Peter and I would be staying overnight, and no doubt others as well. Joyce made the house rules very clear: ‘This is a female household. The toilet seat goes DOWN.’ Yes, Joyce, of course, Joyce, whatever you say, Joyce.

The next day was more goodbyes. I have a remembrance of going alone to the airport, but in reality I was probably taken there by Joyce. Stu was going home to New York, so he was likely there as well, but I would be seeing him again before I returned to England. I don’t know where Peter was heading, but my next destination was Washington, DC.