BiCon Diary

This originally appeared in BCN issue 75.

Neil Hudson goes to Worcester

Thursday. I am delighted to attend the international vomiting contest. It was won by two small children who did a lap of honour by shitting themselves. The event was held on the National Express coach to Worcester and is a clear signal that I am on my way to Bicon.

Bicon is well attended by all sorts of people, including firemen. I cannot help contrasting our emergency services with those of America. In the US, firemen are national heroes, risking life and limb to save innocent victims from the World Trade Centre. In this country, they come out to stop you putting condoms on smoke alarms. I suppose we just have crap emergencies over here. That smoke alarm has since contracted HIV and fathered an unwanted child. When will we learn?

Friday. After thirteen Bicons, the only workshop I can really be arsed with is the one on Watching the Telly.  I like the unambitious ones, they always seem to achieve more. We watch The Prisoner, and we’re not allowed to leave until we’ve answered loads of questions, which is unnerving. “Who is Number One?” I ask. “Oasis,” is the reply. It’s hard to see Patrick McGoohan’s problem sometimes.

We do the quiz in the evening. We answer every question with “I don’t know” and win the star prize, a Kinsey rating of 3.5.

Saturday. It’s a good job farting’s really funny, or our room would be a grim and sombre place. Fortunately we can funnel much of it away next door through the speaking tube that the university has helpfully installed in the wall. Although this marvellous device appears at first to be a hole in the wall where the phone was ripped out, it soon becomes clear that it is ideal for communication between rooms, as well as saving money on building materials. In the future, every major city in the world will have one.

Another good way to save money is never to clean the bathrooms.

I leave a pile of zines with an honesty box, which is a great way of leaving me free to do other things. Such as planning my workshop on “How to use a sodding honesty box”.

Sunday. Boy bands frequently use a vocoder to improve their vocal delivery. This electronic device takes their tuneless atonal wailing and adjusts it so that the results are perfect. Connect it up the wrong way and you get a karaoke machine. Of course I admire the courage of the people who sang, I just wish they’d use that courage in combatting international terrorism rather than doing things like that to songs that I used to like.

Monday. I worked out a long time ago that if I’m really sad to leave Bicon, it’s because it didn’t really work. I left in a good mood. Cheers, guys.

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