transcribed by Anna Hepworth
being a transcription of Page 3 of progress report one (May 1983) for Swancon Icks (#9)
Well, the title of this little number is kitsch, and probably passe, but so what? It otherwise so perfectly describes the glutinous conglomeration of some of the most high-powered con convenors this state of excitement has ever known, busy glutinating over the embryonic Swancon Nine.
I do rave on a bit, don’t I. But anyway, as I always say, and with regard to my opening pre-amble, even being trendy is passe these days. Passe is passe is passe is. . . If I knew any Latin I would probably quote it here. Sic, sic, sic, ad nauseum.
But, such heavy philosophy aside, g’day. Welcome to this, the very first, protoplasmic, Swancon Nine progress report. Now, the trouble with most progress reports is that they never report any progress. Not here, loves.Every day, in every way, we here at Swancon Nine, Citadel of Little Placcy Magnetic Things on the Fridge, are getting better and better. We have testimonials to prove it:
“They are getting better and better.”
Mrs N. Ema, Kronkup, W.A.*
See. I mean, just for instance, would you believe that there is a completely filled, albeit tentative, programme** already on hand? Well there is. And more on this anon.
Now the obvious thing, all hot and throbbing in one’s face, is that herein should be encapsulated The Story of How It Came To Be. But you see, my dears, I wasn’t here, and none of the other lazy lummoxes have written me anything. The same goes for the to-be-expected praiseworthy profile on the Guest of Honour. Next issue, cross my
But. I can tell you about the committee. I can tell you about the fund-raising extravaganzas we’ve been involved in. And indeed I will, in the forth-coming, ensuing, and totally unavoidable pages ahead. By could I tell you some things. Who suggested a Bordello Party as a fund-raising activity? Hmmm? The truth will out, unless my hand is crossed with substantial amounts of filthy lucre.
But before we go any further–and it is dark down this end of the garden, and the path is not always easy–let me say sorry. Yes, sorry. Sorry if you’re finding this progress report in any way offensively offensive, too fannish, and not to the point. I’m really really sorry. And on this sorrowfully sincere note I might merely add that I’m treating this little number, Swancon Icks, as just yet another fanzine. Which means I [sic] hoping for great steaming piles of correspondence and articles and thing (i.e. contributions), you lazy lummoxes, you.
* There is actually a place called Kronkup in Western Australia, though I may have spelt the name incorrectly. I’m not so sure about the existence of Mrs N. Ema.
** EXTREMELY IMPORTANT NOTE CONCERNING THE PROGRAMME. I will not, under any circumstances whatsoever, tolerate aesthetic mindlessness in the guise of leaving “me” out of the programme. “Program” is a big no-no. (Indulge me my whims; they are but a few and simple pleasures).