We sat next to the gang who self-publishes “Brodie’s Law,” a hot British indie title. They were really friendly, and amazing marketers. They had people buzzing up to their table the whole time. They’re able to sell out their books every con they go to. Maybe it helps that Alan Grant wrote the scripts, or that Simon Bisley did the cover for their trade. But man, to see them work it and get people excited about their book is amazing…and frustrating that I don’t have those marketing skills. They said they call every shop every week to check on sales, see what they can do to help promote, make sure everyone’s stalked. One of them does a full-time job just with the promotion.
Since Simon did the cover for the upcoming trade, we found out he was going to spend some time at their table, right next tous! I was excited and nervous about this.
I’d heard stories about Simon Bisley being a drunken prick. A real lush and asshole. I’ve loved his artwork, but never tried to meet him at any cons. I’d heard his lines were always really huge, and once you got to the front of his line, he’d slur some mean comments at you and draw a horrible stick figure piece of crap, and piss you off with his rudeness and leave you really disappointed. But I was still kind of excited that he’d be right next to us. I didn’t know what to expect.
He was definitely a wild one, and Elizabeth and I felt a little in danger sitting right next to him. He was supposed to be there, and no one knew where he was, and all of a sudden he came stomping over, all shouts and attitude and attention-grabbing, and sat behind the table with us. There was a pack of punk kids who followed him over, waving their books and pens, swearing, telling dirty jokes, laughing. They had cigarettes and booze, and were drinking in plain view, setting their drinks on the table, on top of comics, etc. Simon was shouting and being obnoxious, and if he or anyone else did something rude or illegal (drinking at the con, for example), he’d shout out, “Security! Get these punks out of here!” At one point, I guess he didn’t feel there was enough of a crowd at the table, so he started shouting, “Simon Bisley signing over here!”
He was having his band of thugs pass him cigarettes to take drags from. They brought hard alcohol and beer to mix, and put Simon in charge of the mixing. He didn’t have any cups or glasses, so he grabbed the hard alcohol and gulped – and I mean pounded – half the bottle down, then pulled a beer from where he’d stashed them under his table and told me to pour it into the hard alcohol container. I’m not a drinker, and was having a little trouble understanding his accent. When I started trying to do what he said, He chastised me that I had to do it behind the table, so that no one would see, and he finally judged me incompetent and took everything away from me and did it himself, which was what I wanted to begin with.
One kid was actually trying to get Simon to sign one of his comics this whole time, and Simon would take it and open it, then make jokes and shoutings and get distracted. Then he’d smoke, drink, and never sign the book. Finally, after this had gone on for some time, Simon noticed the kid was still hanging around, and tried to get him to move on, so he could deal with some more of his fans. The kid said in exasperation, “Would you sign my goddamn book?”
Simon said, “With what?” The kid pointed at the pen Simon had thrown (or maybe knocked, while thrashing his arms about) onto the floor. Simon said, again, “With what?” And he looked where the kid was pointing. “With the chair?” that was behind us. He got up, then picked the chair up and held it over the book, and began doing a writing motion with the leg of the chair, which I assume dinged and scratched the book up a fair amount. I was afraid to look.
Finally Simon began doing some sketches for some of the people in line, in their sketchbooks. Most of his sketches were enormous, impossibly-proportioned erections spewing semen. One person asked him for a picture of a shrimp, for some reason This same person had me draw a picture of a shrimp, and his entire sketchbook was full of shrimp sketches. And I don’t mean pictures of small, whimpy people. I mean, the kind of shrimp in the sea, that you eat. Simon I think drew a car running over the shrimp. It was in fat permanent ink marker, and looked like maybe a fourth grader could have hashed it out. This was the quality he had been drawing all his sketches.
I disappeared for a while, and when I got back, Elizabeth looked like she was getting pissed. Simon had been telling her what he could do with his cock or his tongue. I was dreading having to say something if he kept it up while I was there. Sure enough, he made another comment.
But this time, Elizabeth said, “Simon, I’ve heard that people who talk a big game don’t bring a big game.” He replied, “Well said, luv, it’s true I’ve got a small cock.” And ever since that he was a perfect gentleman to both of us.
Elizabeth called him “the walking party,” and Simon liked the sound of that.
We met him again that night, and I think that’s when we all started growing pretty fond of each other.