So it's half past eight on a fairly dreary Saturday morning in mid-May 2003, and I'm sitting in the restaurant of a four-star hotel somewhere between Canning Town and Custom House in London's docklands. The hotel, for all its opulence, has a bland and dispiriting quality to it - this may be due to the fact it's only been open for a fortnight, but is more likely a result of the way it's seemingly been designed, styled, and staffed to be as indistinguishable from any other in the chain as possible, and thus allow salarymen to travel the world without ever seeming to move. Visible from my window is the awe-inspiring bulk of the Dome, a structure with a popular perception that sums up this small-minded, money-grubbing attitude. The omens for my stay here are not good.

Then a blonde woman approaches the next table, where another lady with darker hair and a rather sour expression is sipping coffee. Both were clearly very beautiful once upon a time, and have been diligent in trying to hang on to this. As they are no more than five feet away, I can't help overhearing their conversation.

'Hi, are you Maud?' the blonde woman says. 'Hello, I'm Blanche Lavalec, I was in Moonraker.'

'Oh, hello,' the coffee drinker replies, rising to shake her hand and offer her a seat. 'I was in The Man With The Golden Gun and Octopussy...'

And down they sit to have breakfast together, members of an exclusive and rather odd club, the sorority of ex-Bond girls. It figures. It also explains what Andy Robinson (not an ex-Bond girl, but wacko sniper Scorpio in Dirty Harry and devious tailor Garak in Deep Space Nine) was doing in the bar last night eating fondue and reading the paper.

It's convention time again.

'... everyone who comes to a convention suffers from some degree of autism, don't they?' (anonymous cult TV actress)

The north end of Blackpool sea front on a cloudy day has a bleak edge-of-the-universe quality not unsuited to the hosting of major league SF gatherings, but the slightly dodgy infrastructure in the region has prompted the editorial team of Europe's bestselling sf/fantasy/horror magazine with a title that looks a bit like SEX to relocate down here for this year's event. Not that I'm complaining - well, actually, I am, as I live just outside Blackpool and all the travelling's a bitch - as London has a wizzy, SF vibe all of its own, especially some bits of the Jubilee line.

This time round it's a slightly different kettle of fish from the hotel-based antics of last June. For one thing, the event is being held in the Excel exhibition centre, a structure which resembles something Albert Speer would have come up with on one of his more grandiose days, five minutes walk from the 'designated event hotel'. And where last time it was absolutely clear who the star guest was - James Marsters from Buffy - this time round there doesn't seem to me to be a particular standout prior to the event. The guest list, as it turns out, is not that extensive due to several cancellations. Novelist and renaissance looney Robert Rankin is on the scene once more, and from TV's Stargate there are Michael Shanks and Anna-Louise Plowman (didn't like the movie, never watched the show, so you won't hear much about these guys - sorry). We also have John Shea, who seems to specialise in playing bald comic-book icons without bothering to shave his head: Lex Luthor in the Dean Cain/Teri Hatcher Superman TV series, and Professor-Xavier-in-all-but-name in Mutant X. Completing the line-up are Michael Rosenbaum and Sam Jones III, who play Lex Luthor and Pete Ross in the consistently entertaining Smallville. (Oh, and some make-up guys, but I've forgotten their names.)

In the next cavern along, however, the London Expo is being held, an event stuffed with dealers in all kinds of memorabilia, rare comics and videos, props, replica weapons, art, and so on. Here a good few more actors have pitched up for the weekend, Andy Robinson and the Bond girls amongst them.

Part of my preparation for any convention trip is some protracted and rather tedious soul-searching on the subject of autograph collecting - to wit, who does it benefit and why do it? Meeting an actor for (at most) one minute means nothing to them, there are another three hundred people in the queue behind you (they hope). As much as you hope they're going to say 'Goddamn, you seem like a pretty cool guy, let's hang out after the show!' - it's never going to happen. I am occasionally quite unsettled by this deep-seated, unrealistic hope, which I think is a fundamental part of con-going psychology and seems widespread amongst the attendees. Personally I hope that my own inclinations in this direction arise from a desire to share the company of talented writers and performers and express my appreciation to them in a not-too-fawning way, rather than simply hoping the magic celebrity dust of any old film star will somehow rub off on me. Like I say, I hope this, and sometimes I even manage to believe it.

'Would you stand on your head for us please?' (Man in audience)

'No. Go away.' (Robert Rankin)

Part of any con experience is, of course, the queueing. I start early on this, but not early enough, especially as the traditional delay in starting is being observed. Robert Rankin and a Dalek appear to entertain the queue, and there are momentary thrills such as spotting the captain of Robot Wars' Plunderbird team wandering down the exhibition centre concourse. Just watching my fellow SF geeks and overhearing their conversations is fun enough: 'Did you know that Shinzon's knife in Nemesis is an exact copy of Faith's in Buffy?' someone asks, to much oohing and aahing. T-shirts proclaiming loyalty to a particular show are worn like gang colours or military decorations, although there's not much chance of violence erupting and even if any does, no-one's going to get hurt as these are SF fans, after all (but once they invent a lightsaber that actually works...!).

Eventually the doors open and we start to file in, although for some reason tickets 351-700 are getting in before numbers 1-350. Although I'm #76, this doesn't bother me that much - but the person next to me in the queue, a rather nice girl named Tracy, gets a bit irate - 351-700 are effectively jumping the queue for photo session tickets. Eventually we get in and are issued with rather rubbish goody bags of Stargate DVDs and suchlike (does anyone want a Stargate TV show DVD? First come, first served).

Expecting another long delay before the actual kick-off, and with the first guests being Shanks and Plowman, I pop into the Expo for a while. The queue for James Doohan's autograph is immense, as befits such an icon of TV SF (he was Scotty in the original Star Trek), but there's no waiting at all for some of the others, so I avail myself of the handwriting of Andy Robinson ('Blackpool? That was another madhouse'), Bob Picardo (Voyager's hologram doctor), and Eunice Gayson (guaranteed, surely, a small sort of immortality as the actress who says 'And your name is...?' to Connery at the start of Dr No).

Browsing around I find some people are actually selling three-inch-square pieces of the original Enterprise bridge carpet at eighty quid a shot. Surely this is a wind-up? Apparently not. Hmmm. I move on to the 2000AD stall where I pick up two pages of original Doctor Who comic art and a Green Lantern/Green Arrow spread at a very reasonable price. I am also pleased, and very smug, to learn that Frazer Irving's wonderful Judge Death splash page - which is all over merchandise here today - has won numerous awards in the last year. What I wouldn't give to have the original artwork on my wall - oh, hang on a minute, I do!

Back next door I discover I've missed John Shea and MJ Simpson (here to plug his DNA biography) talking, and catch the end of the SEX team doing their first panel. They are as uncomfortable as ever, but they are replaced on stage by Robert Rankin (the long delays between speakers which plagued last summer's event have been sorted out). Rankin does his usual chaotic mixture of stand-up comedy, unaccompanied singing (selections from the forthcoming DIY: The Musical), obscenity, blasphemy, and blatant self-promotion (with the aid of members of his fan club in the audience, who ask helpful questions like 'Where can we buy signed copies of your excellent and reasonably-priced novels?').

'Hey, Sam! This girl says my action figure looks like Patrick Stewart!' (Michael Rosenbaum)

After Rankin's finished I acquire a signed copy of one of his reasonably-priced novels and check out the Expo again. Some more celebrities have appeared (it's mid-afternoon by now). Alice Krige (the Borg Queen from First Contact) is incredibly sweet and seems delighted to be here, and mentally I forgive her for her dodgy accent in Reign of Fire. James Doohan looks very sick and frail and I wonder if he really should be here doing this. His queue is still massive, but the one for Walter Koenig (Chekov in Trek, Bester in Babylon 5) is non-existent so I get his autograph too. He looks sad and weary and I feel quite sorry for him.

By now Michael Rosenbaum is signing at the SEX event and I take advantage of being only #76 in the queue. His hair's grown back, he's wearing shades, he looks like a rock-star, and he's clearly having a whale of a time. I grab a seat ahead of his panel at the end of the afternoon.

On before him is his co-star Sam Jones III, who only decided to attend a few days ago. He seems like a nice enough guy, and his panel is pretty routine stuff for this kind of con. The guest stays on the stage at all times, answers the questions as politely as possible, tries not to appear freaked out when a total stranger reveals an encyclopedic knowledge of their life, on no account accedes to requests for personal contact or favours, and attempts to project a sincere appreciation of the fans' interest in them.

Someone clearly forgot to tell Michael Rosenbaum this. That, or the only way he can deal with the slightly creepy adulation of his fans is to turn the panel into a bizarre piece of improvised comedy involving the entire audience. Or he could just be nuts. He appears unannounced while Sam Jones' panel is still going on and takes over the mike, letting Sam clear off to sign some more autographs.

Things stay true to form to begin with - how does he see Lex's character progressing, what's coming up on the show, and so on. Then there is the first of several questions concerning his role in a cross-dressing comedy entitled Sorority Boys:

Female punter (clearly not seriously expecting to be obliged): 'Michael, in that film you wore a special padded rear end. Can I just check that your real rear end is firm and not padded in any way?'

A glazed look appears on Rosenbaum's face. His laid-back, deadpan drawl does not change. 'Hmm. Yeah, okay then.'

The assembled crowd watch enthralled as a total stranger gropes an international TV star's arse on stage. Unfortunately the floodgates have now been opened and a new punter takes the mike.

Male punter: 'Michael, I was wondering: when you saw yourself dressed as a woman, did you find yourself attractive?'

Rosenbaum: 'Hmm. I think the more important question is, when you saw me as a woman, did you find me attractive?'

Male punter: (pause) 'Well, yeah.'

Rosenbaum: (deadpan) 'Thanks man, that's good to know.'

By now the audience has woken up to the fact we're in for something a bit different here.

Female punter: 'Michael, I was wondering if I could have a hug?'

Rosenbaum: 'Hmm. (to audience) What do you guys think? (generally positive bleating from crowd) There's one guy there really doesn't like it - "Answer some damn questions, I didn't pay good money to watch all this groping and hugging!"'

A vast line of women wanting hugs forms by stage. Rosenbaum does his best to oblige for a while, until he's asked an unexpectedly interesting question.

Rosenbaum: 'I don't like being up on this stage, I'm gonna come down so I can see who I'm talking to.'

The actor wanders into the audience (behind the scenes, security staff turn pale). Unfortunately many seats are empty due to signings and photos sessions on far side of cavern.

Rosenbaum: 'Look at all these empty chairs. Everyone's off getting that Shanks guy's autograph, for Christ's sake... (reaches punter) Hmmm. I've come down here to meet a woman with Bondage written on the front of her T-shirt. That's nice.'

Bondage punter: 'Can I have a hug?'

Rosenbaum: 'You're a sick, sick audience.' (next punter in line steps up) 'What's that on the front of your T-shirt? Poncharelli from ChiPs. What was the name of the other guy on that show?'

Poncharelli Punter: 'I don't know.'

Rosenbaum: 'I don't think anyone in the world knows that.'

Rapidly becoming a cult hero to all of us, Rosenbaum returns to the stage. He is midway through hugging a fearsome Swedish girl when Sam Jones reappears behind him.

Jones: 'I asked them how Michael was getting on, and they said people just keep asking to hug him. No-one asked me for a hug! What's with that?'

Swedish girl spots her opportunity and goes over to hug Jones. The two of them settle down and appearing to be having a profound conversation with phone numbers being exchanged. The great man is not impressed.

Rosenbaum: 'What am I now, the host of Blind Date? "How did it go for you two love birds?" Jeez.'

Chaos resumes with Sam Jones III now watching from the stage.

Punter: 'If you could be a vegetable for the day, which one would it be and why?'

Rosenbaum: (appears to be deep in thought for some time) 'Rhubarb, because it sounds the cruellest. Next.'

He wanders over to a new section of the auditorium and sits down with a family. The camera operators are earning their pay just trying to keep him in shot.

Rosenbaum: 'My, sir, that's a very impressive moustache you have there.'

Luxuriantly Moustached Punter: (possibly contemplating violence) 'Thank you.'

Rosenbaum: 'I think Lex would look good with a moustache like that. What do you think?'

The Luxuriantly Moustached Punter seems not to trust himself to be able to reply in a suitably deferential fashion.

Rosenbaum: 'It's kind of a Barney Miller moustache. Do you know who Barney Miller is?'

Luxuriantly Moustached Punter: 'No.'

Rosenbaum: 'It's a TV show from the 70s.'

Luxuriantly Moustached Punter: 'Is it.'

Rosenbaum wanders back to stage dum-dum-dumming the Barney Miller theme tune. More hugs are dished out until a teenage girl takes the stand.

Teenage Punter: 'Why were you taking the p*ss out of my dad's moustache just then?'

A question rarely asked at a SF convention panel.

Rosenbaum: 'Why was I taking the...? Jeez you guys here say p*ss a lot - listen to me, I'm turning into Jerry Seinfeld...'

Alas, this cannot go on forever and after one last question - 'If Lex Luthor is a genius, why doesn't he figure out that Clark Kent is Superman?' - and (once Rosenbaum's stopped killing himself laughing) answer - 'I ask the producers that same question every week' - it is time for this extraordinary fellow to depart, so the hall can be reset for the evening's award ceremony. The identity of the weekend's star attraction is suddenly no longer in doubt.

I head back over to the hotel for a burger before the evening's festivities, hoping that it won't bankrupt the H2G2 Post's expense account. But as I wander down the exhibition centre concourse, I spot an oddly familiar figure going the other way - a short man dressed all in black, with a tidy grey beard, owlish spectacles and a unfeasibly broad-brimmed hat. Upon my soul, if it isn't Greebo's friend. It looks like Robert Rankin's hopes of winning Best Author this evening may have been a little bit premature.

In the next improbable installment: one man's battle with an imploding video system, a best-selling author discusses his interest in transvestitism, and surprising predictions concerning the fecundity of the H2G2 Post film critic come from an unexpected source.

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