TAFF-Ddu
alias Twll-Ddu 17

Portions of a Dave Langford fanzine, produced in collaboration with Jim Barker: March 1980.
Cover by Jim Barker • Inside front cover by Barker and Langford • Twll-Ddu index

WHAT HAS GONE BEFORE: An unholy compact has been made between BEASTLY JIM BARKER (the Fiend of Falkirk), a known fanartist, and LECHEROUS DAVE LANGFORD (the Reading Ripper), who is guilty on several counts of near-literacy. Between them they produce TAFF-DDU, and the fabric of Western Civilization begins to crumble. What chance has the hapless READER against this joint assault? What consolation is it that his/her 60p went to a Worthy Cause (see p.13)? Read on:

TD or Not TD?

Well, is it or isn't it?

Have patience. An announcement follows: This is Taff-Ddu, a special fanzine produced by Dave Langford and Jim Barker (not necessarily in that order) to raise vast sums of money for TAFF. Only available for money (60p, or 75p by post, at the very least; dollar rates to be fixed by our US agent), from DAVE LANGFORD, 22 NORTHUMBERLAND AVENUE, READING, BERKS, RG2 7PW, or JIM BARKER, 113 WINDSOR ROAD, FALKIRK, CENTRAL SCOTLAND, FK2 5DB. All proceeds go to TAFF.

That's pretty unambiguous.

On the other hand, this is also Twll-Ddu 17 from Dave Langford, since it's absorbed the energy and precious bodily fluids which might have generated a 'normal' TD. Trades etc. are suspended for this issue; TD completists should send vast sums of money (as above) at once.

I suppose you need some such miserable cover-up, considering it's been 7 months since TD16. Running out of ideas, Langford? Burnt out with only 42 fanzines to your name? Time to move over and give Alan Dorey or someone the chance to rise on stepping-stones of dead Langford to become the Keith Walker of the new decade. Even this editorial dialogue business is a bit rancid, you know.

I was coming to that. Look at the rewards which came to past users of the grotty dialogue gimmick: Dick Geis with enough model spaceships to supply the Star Wars sequel or (at a conservative estimate) 5,271,009 episodes of Dr Who; Terry Hughes, winning TAFF on his first attempt; Chris Priest, incredibly famous pro and doyen of the Jacqueline Lichtenberg fan club....

So which reward do you expect?

Ah, no doubt I'll win TAFF as often as Geis, receive as many Hugos as Priest and acquire the internationally famous professionalism of Hughes. And all because I let my attention wander at Yorcon. There I was one morning, happy and carefree as a tissue sample preserved in the pathology lab, when Peters Weston and Roberts galvanized me into inaction by telling me to stand for TAFF. "Hic," I remember pointing out to them; "Me... TAFF ... you ... nominate?" Peter Roberts gave me a look which would have skinned a carrot at forty paces. "You silly person," he said, "I'm the impartial administrator."

Little did you know that at that very moment, Rob Jackson and Harry Bell were making similar vile suggestions to a Jim Barker still limp from drawing 5,271,009 'LA IN 81' cartoons.

I expected Jim to run on a platform of fuel economy – so many hundred cartoons to the pint. It turned out that I was terrified of his savage pen while he felt the same way about my inadequately domesticated typewriter; so to spare the world a rash of satirical limericks (about inarticulate him) and obscene caricatures (of deaf me), we swore a frightful oath to support one another through all adversity or insobriety, and to piss mightily on any shreds of opposition. Some opposition seemed a good idea, all of a sudden: full of false smiles and bonhomie, we invited Joe Nicholas to fulfil this necessary function. Without recording the actual reply, I will mention that shoulder-bags gave way and glasses of Cinzano curdled for several furlongs all around at the merest semicolon of his comments. Meanwhile, I sought material for a TD which would utterly astound TAFF voters. Ah, Seacon! The helium filled bin liners rising in the stairwell; Cas Skelton in shorts with a helium balloon tied to the zip; such luminaries as D. West falling-down drunk before the con ever started (Hazel wanted to know whether D's strange locomotion was a new dance); people at the info desk asking when was the next plane from Zagreb or how to find 'Hall 13' and the Astral Leauge initiation; Dave Piper gaping as 'Superman' signed 5,271,009 autographs – "You'll believe a man can write!" (Jim Barker's strongest memory of Seacon is of being totally ignored by Christopher Reeve ...); Peter Weston explaining how FGoH Harry Bell was a great fanartist, to an audience of thousands, none of whom admitted to having seen the Bell progress-report covers – "There'll be a special display of Harry's work in the fan room," Peter shrieked in desperation, and we fan-room hangers-on went running to concoct some such display while all the time, over Peter's head, was Harry's Seacon logo blown up to 30 feet square, but never once did he think of pointing up....

That's all you can remember?

Tact prevents my recalling of certain things, like Greg Pickersgill swaying up to the fanroom barmaid offering to "rub a certain part of my body against a certain part of yours," and his horror when he sobered up and was told about this, and the endless succession of go-betweens who had to buy his drinks in the fanroom thereafter. I don't know whether Simone Walsh wants to remember how after the Weston blitz on hotel security, she cried "I used to hate you, Peter Weston, but tonight you're wonderful!" and bought him a drink. There was Joe Nicholas displaying amatory prowess (Cathy Ball: "I'm looking for Joe ... I've heard he's good at snogging." Helen Eling: "He always goes to sleep at the crucial moment."), breaking off every few minutes to shout "Fucking hiccups!" while John Harvey claimed to be "so pissed I couldn't tell Ian Maule from Ian Williams" ... and other memories less coherent.

Like your collapse against Joyce Scrivner on Brighton beach at dawn, and how she picked you up by the scruff of the neck and put you back in your hotel?

Don't exaggerate. That's not in my notes. The next entry, after the torn-out bit, is a week later: telling Dai Price about the Kev Smith Butter Joke. (Kev always complains about Langford butter being frozen and unspreadable. Personally I think the tooth he broke was rotten already.) I was coming down with a cold at the time; as we started lunch I sneezed mightily and studied the results with morbid interest. "Must be the special powers of the cold virus – blow your nose once and the whole handkerchief goes grey and damp and ineffably revolting." Daio shut his eyes for a bit. "I suspect Kevin complains about the butter in order to take his mind off the conversation," he said. Which brings me neatly to how I'm standing for TAFF on the strength of great conversational ability.

Of course. Now, what about Novacon and all the parties you usually write up for TD? Where are the witty and wholly misleading facts?

Um. I've decided that as an Artist it is for me to deal with Life – Real Life. It is from the grey and teeming mundane existence that the true visionary distils his Art. Whatever that means. Thus, following a brief visit to town for material, I'm trying to assemble jokes from things like the FRESH MUSH sign I saw in the greengrocers', or the ads for Fullers beer (I mean, I thought they only made earth), or International Stores' horrible boxes of 'facial tissues' – which I always read as 'faecal tissues', or local newspaper placards like WHITLEY CHURCH HALL MAY BE WINE BAR (can hardly wait for the results of the investigation), or the book in the 'Teach Yourself' series which seems rather appropriate to this conversation with an italicized alter ego ...

What's that?

Would you believe 'Teach Yourself Schizophrenia'?

No comment.

The Day I Think I Nearly Met Larry Niven
Jim Barker

This article may offend people of a delicate disposition. Indeed, I had reservations about publishing it in such a well brought-up fanzine, but just at this moment I can't think of anything else to write about. So if you are offended... blame Mick Dickinson.

After all, it was all his fault to begin with. He and I and several dozen other worthies were in the process of enjoying Harry Bell's Weekend Party (otherwise known as Silicon 3) back in the summer of '78. It was my first Silicon and I'd really been enjoying the relaxed party-like atmosphere. All that stopped about 4 on the Monday morning.... It had been a regular practice for a large number of fans to troop off to a local Indian restaurant for their evening meal. I'd gone on Saturday night and ordered my usual safe mild beef curry. When I went again on Sunday night, I decided to be adventurous and try something new. The typical Indian menu is a mystery to me, however, so I turned for advice to Mike, who was sitting beside me blethering on about what a curry expert he was.

"All right," I said. "Recommend something."

With practised ease he scanned the menu and, after a few seconds' deliberation, pointed to a particular dish. "I had that last night and it was very good." Now, since I've seen Mike go into raptures over a good curry and have erotic experiences with the chutney containers afterwards, I assumed he knew what he was talking about and ordered it. I forget what it was called, but it was beefy and had lots of herbs and spices and was very, very good....

Afterwards we wandered back to the hotel to spend the remaining few hours of the con's last night drinking and talking, playing video games and assaulting chandeliers with balloons. I outlasted most people, purely because I was sticking to a non-alcoholic diet in the vain hope that it would keep my weight down. I toddled off to bed around 4 in the morning, leaving more experienced fans like Harry Bell and Leroy Kettle to keep the bar open until breakfast-time.I woke up about 5, aware of a certain internal turmoil. Doing my best to ignore it, I rolled over and tried to sleep. It got worse ... Eventually I had to get up and lurch to the toilet across the landing, where I proceeded to to my best to get rid of the day's intake. Half an hour later I went back to bed. An hour after that I repeated the whole interesting process, but this time took a copy of SF Review to read ... to take my mind off it. It didn't work. I'll spare you the messy details of what happened between then and breakfast time, but let's just say I was very glad the landlord had replaced the toilet rolls I'd pinched to throw at the previous day's football game.

I don't know how the trots affect you dear readers, in other ways besides the obvious. Me, I tend to go very white, tremble and sweat profusely. That was exactly how I felt that morning when we gathered to say goodbye, though since there were a few others in much the same condition (but for different reasons), no-one seemed to notice. At that point I still hadn't connected my bowel trouble with Mike's curry (not being in a fit state to connect anything with anything), so I was still speaking to him as a group of us rode into Newcastle to get our trains home. I was the only fan heading north, all the others being silly enough to live south of Newcastle, and, having no travelling companion to help take my mind off things, I settled back and tried to read an article in SF Review about Larry Niven, one of my favourite authors. That didn't work, either. Two hours and several trips to the loo later, we arrived in Edinburgh; at Waverly station. I was still waiting for the tide to recede and by this time was bathed in perspiration. I was carrying a heavy suitcase and shoulder bag, as well. Naturally, I decided to visit the Edinburgh SF bookshop before heading for Falkirk.

Being mean, I resolved not to waste money putting my case etc. into Left Luggage for an hour ... I took it all with me. I'd forgotten that the quickest way from the station to the street is up the Waverly Steps. Eighty-odd steps there are ... that day it felt like eight hundred.

So: you get the picture. I'm at the top of the Waverly Steps, festooned in luggage. I'm panting very heavily, red in the face, dripping with sweat and (since I begin to feel a familiar sensation) looking for the Gents. At that moment, I see a couple walking towards me out of the crowd. The man is tall, bearded, looks American and is the spitting image of the photo of Larry Niven I'd been studying on the train.

[There will now be a short pause while you consider what you would have done in a similar situation.]

If I'd gone up to him in that state and said "Hi! Are you Larry Niven? I've always wanted to meet you," and it was him, God only knows what image he would have of British fans (me in particular). If it wasn't him, God only knows what image he would have had of Scots (me in particular) . I have a phobia about getting involved in embarrassing situations, and felt daft enough just standing there. So in the end I played it safe and did nothing while the two of them disappeared into the distance. Then I dashed for the Gents.

I never did find out if it was him. The Edinburgh Festival was on at the time; the city was full of visitors. Rob King at the SF Bookshop knew nothing about it, and when I finally did meet Larry Niven at Seacon I forgot to mention it. Meanwhile, I'm never going to eat anything Mike recommends again. Who knows who I might miss meeting this time ...?

The Fall of the Mouse of Usher

[This article is on a separate page – click here.]

Secrets of the Ancients Revealed
Or, What Is TAFF Anyway?

It has occurred to the perpetrators of this TAFF fund-raising fanzine that somewhere out there in the ill­imitable void, beyond the farthest shores of sf fandom, out amongst the distant galaxies of sanity, there may be people who buy or read this and wonder what it's all about. To quote at length from the 1980 TAFF ballot form:

The Trans-Atlantic Fan Fund was created in 1953 for the purpose of providing funds to bring well-known and popular fans across the Atlantic. Since that time, TAFF has regularly sent European fans to the USA and brought American fans to European conventions. TAFF exists solely through the support of fandom. The candidates are voted for by interested fans all over the world, and each vote is accompanied by a donation of not less than fifty pence. These votes and the continued interest of fans are what makes TAFF possible.

Which sums it up nicely: TAFF is part charity (for the impecunious fan), part pat on the back (for the well-loved fan) and above all is a continuing link between the once quite isolated US and UK fan commun­ities. Continuing is an important word: it's never too late to donate something to this worthwhile cause, because there will always be a next trip, a next race between fans to win TAFF – and the fares always go up. If you bought this copy of Taff-Ddu you've contributed – thanks! – since all proceeds go to the fund.

The TAFF ballot also includes cun­ningly devised promotional 'platforms'; this year's are printed below....

Jim Barker

After lurking for years on the fannish sidelines, Jim burst into view in 1976 by illustrating for Maya (that notorious Hugo-nominated genzine). Since then he's been a prolific supplier of high-class, witty fanart to many places, including Twll-Ddu, DNQ, Drilkjis, Nabu, Gonad the Barbarian, Maya, Mota and publications of the BSFA (British SF Association). His co-authored cartoon strip 'Half-Life' (with Chris Evans) has an enormous following in Rutland; he is fan GoH at the 1980 UK Eastercon. Jim is large, bearded, partially drunk, somewhat inaudible, and like all the best UK fans is a convivial Celt (ie. Scots): he has thus topped the Checkpoint poll (as fan artist) and received both Hugo and FAAn nominations. It's obvious that Jim is uniquely qualified to be the 1980 TAFF delegate.

Dave Langford

After lurking for years on the fannish sidelines, Dave burst into view in 1976 by publishing Twll-Ddu (that notorious Hugo-nominated personalzine). Since then he's been a prolific supplier of high-class, witty fanwriting to many places, including Mota, Inca, Gonad the Barbarian, Nabu, Drilkis, DNQ, Twll-Ddu and publications of the British SF Association (BSFA). His co-edited sercon fanzine Drilkjis (with Kevin Smith) has an enormous following in Liechtenstein; he has featured on many UK con committees and programmes. Dave is tall, clean-shaven, partially sober, somewhat deaf, and like all the best UK fans is a convivial Celt (ie. Welsh): he has thus topped the Checkpoint poll (as fan writer and editor) and received both FAAn and Hugo nominations. It's obvious that Dave is uniquely qualified to be the 1980 TAFF delegate.

Not a Number ... A Free Fan
Jim Barker

Just suppose you're a well-known fan artist. You're highly active, providing artwork for all and sundry. You belong to the BSFA, for which you do the majority of your work. Then one day you decide you've had enough. You want to resign. They won't let you. You quit anyway. No explanation ... just a short, sharp letter of resignation.

You go home after posting the letter, start to pack for a long overdue holiday from fandom ... and get gassed in your own bedroom.

You wake up in a strange hotel room. You wear a convention badge: number 1465. You've been kidnapped by the very people you worked for, and brought to The Hotel, where there's a perpetual, never ending Convention going on.

And there's no escape. Unless you tell your captors why you resigned. You refuse. You are not a number – you are a free fan! But now you've become The Captive, and until you escape or give in, that's what you're going to stay....

Okay: maybe that's just a bit melodramatic, but I hope that it fills in the background to my Captive series for those of you who've never seen it before. (In case you haven't guessed, that's a Captive episode starting over there on the right.)

I've been doing the strip for well over a year now. It's a regular feature of the BSFA journal Matrix, and I don't think I enjoy doing any other fan work quite as much as I enjoy the Captive.

He was born when I idly imagined the theme of the TV show The Prisoner translated into fannish terms, proposed the idea to Eve and John Harvey (who edit Matrix) and sat down to draw the first strip. At the time I was already doing my Half Life strip in the other BSFA fanzine Vector, so in order not to hog all the limelight I asked various well-known fans if they'd like to contribute scripts based on the theme. I'm really pleased at the response I had. Such luminaries as Kev Smith, Paul Kincaid, Rob Jackson, John Harvey and Ian Williams are among those who have provided scripts.

Oh ... and Dave Langford, who holds the distinction of being the only fan whose script was rejected – for being too fannishly above the heads of the average BSFA members in the street. (I still want to do it, though not for publication in Matrix.)

When Dave and I first thought of a joint fanzine, a Captive strip was one of our first ideas. We hope you enjoy this strange joint effort. At six pages, it's the longest strip I've ever done – so you'd better enjoy it!

PS: I have a file of scripts and plot outlines ready, but I'm always on the lookout for new stuff. So if you feel you'd like to contribute, drop me a line, huh?

The Captive

[Alas, no good copy of the original artwork survives.]

A Tale of the Jungle

[This article is on a separate page – click here.]

The Incredible Shrinking Fan
Jim Barker

Andrew Stephenson started it all. We were both hanging artwork at the Eastercon '77 Art Show, and he ambled over for a look at my cartoons. After a few minutes he turned to me and said "You're Jim Barker. My God! You look like one of your characters!" Since at that time the typical Barker cartoon character looked like a squat barrel with big feet, I wasn't enormously flattered.

Sandy Brown helped it on its way. At the same Eastercon, he was flitting about taking candid, photographs which were to be published in a BSFA fanzine. He asked me if he could take a picture of me, and like a fool I agreed. When the photograph was published – on the back cover of Matrix – I looked like a wall-to-wall artist.

"Right!" I said. "I'm going on a diet."

No-one believed me....

Up to about six months ago* I used to describe myself as 'mountain-shaped with long brown hair and glasses, usually drinking Newcastle Brown with a Scottish accent". I've always been big. I was a big baby. People used to say that it was puppy fat, and I would lose it once I started to walk. Up to June 1977 I'd been walking for roughly twenty-two years, and I still hadn't lost it. I was never actually miserable about being fat, though I will admit to being a bit sensitive about admitting how much. I actually did weigh; but there were a couple of occasions when I decided that I'd be better off shedding a couple of stone, and once I actually did it. Unfortunately I was tempted back to nice things like chips, chocolate and cream cakes, and rapidly put it all back on again. This tine, though, I was determined to get it off and keep it off.

To make sure I was going about it properly, I paid a visit to my doctor. She told me I weighed 16 stone 10 pounds, that I should weigh 11½ stone, but since I was big-boned she'd let me off with 12; then she gave me a diet sheet to follow. It made depressing reading. I was allowed 1000 calories a day – 300 each for breakfast, lunch and dinner, and 100 extra for snacks. The trouble was that all the things I really liked were chock full of calories (which is probably why I needed to go on a diet anyway). Did you know there are 272 calories in 4 oz. of chips? Or 540 in 6 oz. of steak-and-kidney pie? Or 160-229 in one pint of beer? I resigned myself to a summer full of fruit and salads. I worked out that I could have 9½ lb. of boiled cabbage for lunch, or 3 pints of tomato juice for breakfast. On the other hand, if I felt like making a pig of myself, I could have 1 lb. of spaghetti in tomato sauce and still be within my 300 limit. Grimly I got down to it, and faithfully followed the diet sheet. I lost my first stone in three weeks.

Apparently the first stone is al­ways the easiest to lose because it's mostly water. After that you start attacking the fat. However, such a rapid loss is very encouraging psychologically, and I started actually enjoying watching the pounds slowly melt away. There's no point in saying that those first three weeks were easy. They were hell!!! You just can't satisfy your stomach with a slice of crispbread when it's crying out for a fish supper. Gradually, though, I started getting used to eating less stodge and more of the things I was supposed to. I started leaving potatoes uneaten on my plate and refusing extra helpings of apple pie. I discovered that Boots do a huge range of low-calorie meals, so I could tuck into a plate of braised steak or curry with the happy knowledge that there were only 350 calories in each. They also offer pills and tablets which are supposed to inhibit your appetite and make you eat less: I never trust these things because of possible side-effects. When I tried 'Ayds' for a while, they made my teeth slack. So I stuck to plain willpower and stapling the lips together. (There's an old joke that the best diet of all is a lemon, sucked first thing in the morning. By the time you get your mouth unpuckered it's time for bed....)

I was beginning to feel a lot healthier. It only took me five minutes to got my breath back after running for a bus, instead of ten; most of my clothes were getting baggy on me. Unfortunately there was an unexpected drawback.... In late August I had lost about 2 stone and was down in London on holiday. On two occasions I went for a drink with friends, and both times the room began to spin after less than a pint of lager. I don't know if it's true, but I've been told that this is due to the fact that I've lost body fluids; these days any alcohol passes straight through the stomach wall into my system. Result: instant drunk. Regretfully I crossed beer and spirits off my diet.

By this time I was getting into the swing of things. As well as the diet I was also following a course of exercises from a book I'd bought called Physical Fitness In Forty Minutes A Week, I'd chosen it because that didn't sound too strenuous. Basically it consisted of three 10-15 minute periods per week of sit-ups, push-ups and jogging on the spot, which weren't too demanding. Up to then I had religiously avoided any form of exercise; I used to get knackered getting up to change TV channels. Why, after a few sessions I even managed to stop sounding like a beached whale after ten minutes (and that was just looking at the book). All through the summer and into the autumn I kept, up the diet and exercises, and every day I would step onto the scales: my food intake was governed by how much I'd gained or lost on the previous day. Come September/October, I'd lost three stone and about six inches off ray waist. People started coining up to me and saying "Good Lord! You've lost weight!"; several even asked for autographed copies of my diet sheet.

Eventually Novacon rolled around. I'd told a few people at the Eastercon that I intended to become slim and sylphlike, but I felt they hadn't taken me seriously. I wondered how they'd react to the new, improved, four-stone-lighter and eight-inches-thinner Jim. I'm pleased to say that virtually everyone who'd last seen me at Eastercon noticed a difference. Comments ranged from "You're looking trim" to "You're not looking very well". (Even Dave Langford of the whisky-soluble memory thought I looked remarkably like Jim Barker.) I was also popular when it came to buying me drinks, since I abstained from alcohol throughout that con, and stuck to Coke or ginger ale.

One of the con's highlights, for me, was having a good long chat with Brian Lewis about diets. He too had once been put on one by his doctor; he'd got down to 10% stone, which gave me a target to aim for. I also collared Sandy Brown and bribed him to take a pic of me to replace the previous one. This time he didn't have to use his wide-angle lens.

I did abandon my diet for a few days, and with a spurt like a mushroom put four pounds straight back on. Still, I returned to the diet afterwards and with a break for the festive season I've been on it ever since. At the time of writing, I seem to have reached an impasse: I've been stuck at 12 stone 6 lb. for a couple of weeks. As long as I don't start putting any on again, I'm quite happy. I've lost just over 60 lb. in weight, and have shrivelled from a 44" waist to a 34". My life's ambition is now to lose that final 6 lb. and try to squeeze into a pair of 32"-waist trousers.

The advantages I've found in slimming: I feel a lot. fitter; I don't bulge in quite as many places (and the bits that do are meant to); I can fit into styles of clothing that it hurt to look at this time last year.

The disadvantages: the drink problem I mentioned earlier; the fact that it's cost me a fortune to restock my wardrobe (I had two made-to-measure suits which ain't made-to-measure any longer. Apparently I've shrunk too far to get them taken in. I tried to sell them through our local paper, but nobody was interested. Now if anyone wants to buy a brown three-piece suit, 47" chest, 44" waist and 30½" inside leg, one with flared trousers and the other plain, both worn only twice, you might let me know ...). The other disadvantage is that I've never felt so cold in all my life. Without my natural protective blubber I was really freezing, until I bought my Secret Weapon – a pair of long johns. (Stop laughing at once. Some people have no sympathy.) I went out one day without them and promptly came down with a cold!

I seem to have become something of a sensation at the newspaper office where I work. Ten people, including the editor, the advertising manager and one of the directors, are currently following copies of my diet sheet, though perhaps not quite as seriously or as ruinously to the wardrobe as I did. So: if anyone does want to lose a few pounds, I can recommend one diet, anyway....

POSTSCRIPT: 6 February 1978. I'm down to 12 stone 4 lb. this morning. Whoopee! Think I'll have a fish supper to celebrate....

* reckoning from 1976.

TYPIST'S NOTE: Today (March 1980) an exclusive phone call to Jim Barker revealed that our hero has since the glorious days of this article succeeded in regaining one (1) stone. The typist would make some pretty clever and malicious crack about this, were it not for a vague sense of guilt at weighing a few pounds more than Jim. The typist's only consolation is that he's quite a bit taller (see cover), so the bloat doesn't show too clearly. End of impolite interruption. (DRL)

Odds and Ends

The Woodwind Lyre

Jerry Pournelle,
When his Mote in God's Eye wouldn't sell,
Asked friend Larry to cure its failings
By putting in some aliens.

Christopher Priest, in a finite void,
Had an infinite hyperboloid
On which a peripatetic town
Was somehow short of Lebensraum.

Alan Dean Foster
Topped the best-selling roster
Untainted by Creative Art
(The film-men handle that part).

James Branch Cabell
Rhymed his name with rabble,
And frequently consigned to hell
The myriad fans who said Cabell.

Theodore Sturgeon
Allowed his emotions to burgeon:
On sighting a friendly visage, he
Always attempted syzygy.

Marion Zimmer Bradley
's fan club doesn't do badly,
Since founded and urged to carry on
By Zimmer Bradley (Marion).

Larry Niven
To Knownspacesagacide* was driven:
The bloated corpus at last reappears
Exhumed by Ringworld Engineers.

Anne McCaffrey
(Whose Dragonsequels are a laff) re-
turns with a tale of Eldritch Fear:
Weredragons in the Dragonweyr.

"The Known Space series is now complete." – Larry Niven, 1975

George the Tortoise

... I suppose I really should tell you about the tortoise.

(GLOSSARY for colonials ... TORTOISE (n) a non-amphibious turtle)

This enterprising beast appeared one day while a friend (of Hazel's) was digging her garden. Suddenly the earth cracked open before her unbelieving gaze; the sun grew dark, two-headed calves were born, soufflés fell; and from the tortured soil there burst a mud-caked reptile, for all the world like a monster from a very-low-budget Tokyo-smashing film. This apparition (it was a frightening 8" long, and one can only hope the lady never went to see Alien) sent the friend into temporary hysterics. She'd only acquired the house recently, and was as affronted as if she'd found a dozen sitting tenants and a family curse waiting for her in the cellar. Next day she accosted everyone she met with words of calculated subtlety like "I expect you've always wished you had a tortoise?"

Hazel drew the short straw, and a barely animated clod of earth (the Friend had hardly cared to touch it, let alone hose it down) was added to the Langford household. It was called George. Hazel explained that all previous tortoises in her life had been called George and at this late date she saw no extenuating circumstances which permitted any exception. I know that long ago when she collected snails, each of her fourteen identical thoroughbreds was called Fred. It simplified matters, since when you wished to summon a particular snail – "Here, Fred! Heel, Fred!" – there was no straining to recall its name.

George the tortoise sat around and did very little, giving impersonations of Peter Weston writing his TAFF report. Hazel took up tortoise-watching and would breathlessly report the creature's every move, which on the first day consisted of yawning twice (high excitement to Hazel, who as an Egyptologist has been trained in the still more ascetic discipline of pyramid-watching). At first I contented myself by giving George an austere smile when I passed him (or possibly her), but presently we were forced to take action: two weeks after his emergence, George had not eaten despite being surrounded with what to Peter Roberts would have seemed a veritable feast. I spent long minutes tickling him under the chin, at which his little jaws would move (possibly he was grinding his lack of teeth in hatred), but not far enough to permit the insertion of lettuce, dandelion leaves/flowers, bananas, bread & milk, groundsel, vitamin pills, or even the tyre lever with which I hoped to bring him out of his shell open his mouth a little wider. From time to time he would snort in a disgusted Pickersgillian fashion, shoulder aside the proffered titbit and wander off to stand witlessly in the bowl of water Hazel had provided. Capillary action, that miracle of science, then drew the water through the wrinkles and crannies of his forelegs, leaving us with a dripping-wet reptile efficiently transferring water from bowl to carpet.

Of course we were showered with advice from folk unprejudiced by actual contact with tortoises. We learned, for example, that they eat when warmed up enough to set their tiny metabolisms ticking. We therefore turned on the gas-fire. Impelled by who knows what atavistic urge, George grunted into action and made a kamikaze dash at the fire, lumbering in so close that I had to wear asbestos clothing to retrieve him. His final dynamic act on reaching the hottest spot was to go to sleep. (Him or her, I meant to say; we never found out, though Martin Hoare offered to sex it with a pendulum. "If it swings back and forth over him, it's a male; if it swings back and forth over her, it's a female.")

Yesterday there was something of a breakthrough. Plainly George's look of concentration over the weeks had been the outward expression of momentous tricklings within, for quite suddenly he delivered himself of an enormous flood of urine. It may be that part of the strain had been due to uncharacteristic concern for our carpet, since this did not occur until we'd experimentally put him out in the sun. Having irrigated the back yard, George stalked purposefully on to the lawn – into would be more descriptive since it hasn't been cut for over a year – and bogged down like a lonely wanderer who had strayed into the great Grimpen Mire or a BSFA meeting. Hazel put him back in an outdoor pen she'd contrived from bits which had fallen off our house; he made a purposeful circuit of the walls. Then, satisfied of privacy, he flung himself upon a passing dandelion and devoured it utterly. A swathe of devastation was cut through clover, vetch and grass; George, flashing a tongue of amazing luminescent pink, was actually foaming at the mouth. This taught me a deep moral lesson which I shall never forget; I was going to write it up for Readers Digest but couldn't think of a good punchline, so I thought you'd like to know instead.

POSTSCRIPT: Shortly after this was written, George escaped via levitation or a secret tunnel. Somewhere in Northumberland Avenue a rogue tortoise roams, and while this reign of terror endures no cabbage is safe. Already furtive whispers are abroad, accusing me of having unleashed the monster; already crowds of suburbanites with torches gather and mutter before the ruined gates of the Langford hovel. Some night, beneath a gibbous moon, the Tortoise will confront them there ... and of what will follow it is not well to think.

Or, as my pet word Morphological often says, "Of course I can prove I'm a Dave Langford word ... I've got 5 syllables, ain't I?"

TAFF-DDU Contents

Published by the Vast Twll-Ddu Empire at 22 Northumberland Avenue, Reading, Berks. RG2 7PW, UK. A Jim Barker and Dave Langford production. All artwork by Jim except crossword and pages 5, 6, 29.

All uncredited writing, like that nonsense above [i.e. below cartoon], by Dave Langford. All contents copyright © 1980 Dave Langford and Jim Barker ... certain items appeared in different form previously, as follows:

TAFF-DDU print run is 300.

THANKS are due to vast numbers of people: when Barker and Langford do a fanzine, everybody has to get behind and push. Special praise goes to JOHN HARVEY (e-stencils and The Captive), KEITH FREEMAN (provision and personal delivery of paper), PHILIPPA STEPHENSEN-PAYNE (collation) and HAZEL LANGFORD and EVE HARVEY for being generally wonderful. Thanks too to HARRY BELL, BRIAN EARL BROWN, MIKE GLYER, ROB JACKSON, LEROY KETTLE, BOB SHAW (the real one), TARAL and VICTORIA VAYNE, for reasons which are unsubtle.

Lastly, a couple of plugs: The Best of Elmer T Hack, a collection of the super Jim Barker/Chris Evans strips from Vector (with an appreciation by Chris Priest) costs a mere £0.80 from Jim (address p.3).

Ansible, the UK newszine of which it has often been said but never proved, is available from Dave Langford: send £1.20 for 8 issues (UK) or, abroad, £1.00 (no foreign currency) for 6 issues (Europe) or 5 (US, Africa, Australia). Contains True Facts, sometimes.

Mac Malsenn Returns!

[This cartoon strip is a separate image – click here.]

The Elmer T. Hack Farewell Christmas Card

[This cartoon strip is a separate image – click here.]

Twll-Ddu 17 copyright © Dave Langford and Jim Barker, March 1980.
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