I met Iain Banks at a book
signing in Guildford in September 1998. I had seen details of the
tour on The Culture Fanzine web site, and conceived a desire to
attend. I'd never been to a signing and thus had no idea what to
expect.
The family - myself, my wife and my two small boys - eagerly set off from the South Coast of England. Well, I was eager, anyway, but a little apprehensive. Thoughts of phrases to avoid had been running through my mind for the previous week - "Wow, you're even more Scottish in the flesh, Mr Banks", "What an amazing imagination you have, you must have had a bizarre childhood". Most importantly, I forbade myself two things: I would not say, "I am a really big fan", nor would I reply to Banks' question about what to write with, " Just write something witty". Cutting out my tongue would at all costs precede such outbursts.
Guildford was a surprise to me, as I had never been there before. Quite hilly, compared to the flood basin on the coast where I live, and, it would seem, steeped in history. Regrettably, I was in no position to explore as much I would have wanted. My wife wanted to see the sights and areas of historical interest, so I couldn't hit the record shops. A gorgeous public garden held our interest for quite some time, with a ruin situated upon a hillock within the grounds. Much there was to admire, and everything looking its best in the mild September air. Tucked away in the quiet seclusion of a corner was a statue of 'Alice Through the Looking Glass' - Guildford has a strong connection, of which in my ignorance I was wholly unaware, with Lewis Carroll.
An hour before the book signing was to commence, we returned to the bookstore venue. I had taken the precaution of purchasing the newly available paperback copy of 'A Song of Stone' that morning, but had had no time to read it. Also with me were three other Banks novels, in case I felt emboldened to ask for more than was my due. A good forty-five minutes before the start found me pacing the carpet, whereupon I looked up to see approaching me a hirsutely ginger chap in a long raincoat, carrying a brolly and being closely guarded by a very attractive young lady with blonde hair. "I know that chap from somewhere", I said to my wife in a voice pitched to be audible to the writer as he passed by, but ignorable if that should be his desire. It was (his desire).
Adrenaline appeared in my bloodstream as if by magic, and I was suffused with an unbearable mixture of eagerness, excitement and terror. The attractive and capable-looking lady who had accompanied Banks into the store must have heard my brain cells boiling, as she came over to me to ask whether I was here for the signing, and, as "the writer" was available at this time, would I care to speak to him early, before the rush? Oh, boy ...
[I approached Iain shyly at first, but his natural modesty and obvious friendliness banished my awkwardness, and we were soon chatting away like old friends. His work was discussed in some detail and he seemed to genuinely enjoy my questions and comments. It was agreed that we meet after the signing for a drink and an investigation as to what the night life of Guildford has to offer.]
Actually, that only happened in a Terry Gilliam - 'Brazil' sense, as when Jonathan Pryce's character goes off on one of his fantasies. What really happened was I was struck by a set of nerves as I have never before suffered. "I am a *really* big fan", says I, almost stammering. I hand over the copy of 'A Song of Stone'. "What would you like me to write?", asks Banks. "Oh, just write something witty!", I reply. I swear that at that moment, I was being manipulated by an unseen force. Part of me was promising to do myself serious violence as soon as I was on my own. The book gets handed back to me. "All the best from Iain 'Witty' Banks", it says. My life is a hell from which I cannot escape.
"I have some more books, would you mind terribly?" I ask, praying silently that this was all a nightmare. "No problem.". A hard copy 'Inversions' gets inscribed, followed by a copy of 'Against a Dark Background', for my wife. "It's the first sf novel she's ever liked", I say helpfully. "That's wonderful!", says Banks, doing his best in the face of underwhelming odds. Banks then signs another copy of 'A Song of Stone', again for my wife. She intends to give it to her friend (who seems to collect autographed paperbacks). "To [N]'s Friend [S], from Iain Banks", it says - a lovely, mischievous touch.
The serious business over, and with a minimal amount of self-respect remaining, I express regret at not being able to attend a book reading - none was scheduled. Attractive Lady confirms this is the case.
"Maybe you can do a reading when you visit Bognor Regis", I say brightly. "You have a *huge* fanbase in Bognor Regis!". Why didn't I say Chichester? Chichester has a certain presence, a certain ambience. Its very name exudes respectability. Bognor Regis is all about naughty postcards, "birdmen rallies" and that famous regal pronouncement from long ago, "Bugger Bognor!". Attractive Lady and Banks exchange glances. "Could be nice for next year, in the summer holidays. It's by the Sea", says AL. Such class, I think to myself, how effortlessly she rescued that awful, embarrassing moment. The slogan on the Bognor holiday-makers' hats, "I love my wife, but 'Oh, you Sweetie!'", sprang to mind.
People started appearing and gravitating towards the tableau we had created. The shred of self-esteem remaining to me suggested that I bow out gracelessly and let abler souls take on the mantle. Good-byes and Thank Yous were exchanged, and I left the scene feeling that I had somehow missed a magnificent moment by the slightest of margins, perhaps ten light years or less. All the important questions I had in my head had evaporated, any modicum of wit or charm that I possess had vanished. Smiling for the benefit of my wife and my boys, I expressed my delight at how the day had gone. Deep inside, a voice was telling me, quite calmly - "You silly basturt".
When's the next tour due?