And large conventions beckon fans a thousand miles away.
America and Europe each send out the fannish call,
And each will draw a continent of members to the hall.
Now every year a chosen fan is sent across the pond,
To meet with other fans in a convention far beyond,
And certain people hassle us to raise the needed cash:
They corner us in auctions and they try to sell us trash.
The trip this year is westward, to the land of Uncle Sam.
We stage a race to choose the lucky European fan.
So who to send across the pond, and who to leave in place?
A drunken fuckwit versus a magician is the race.
A ballot will determine who we send to ConJose,
And some say "Vote for Tobes" and some say "Vote for Chris O'Shea"
And some will vote in order to reward the man they pick,
And some to get him out of here because he makes them sick.
We need another program item? We know who to call:
From magic shows to camerawork, he seems to do it all.
Projectors which can handle data? borrow one from Chris,
While Tobes, from noon till five A.M., is out upon the piss.
And Chris takes coins, balloons and cards, and handles them with style,
While Tobes just gives a simple, friendly, drunken-fuckwit smile,
And Chris says "here you plug it in, and here you make it zoom",
While Tobes just smiles and says "urrr, there's a party in my room".
So Chris we love! To Chris, respect! All hail to Chris O'Shea!
But Tobes it is who gets the vote when ballots come our way.
If we need something sorted out, then Chris O'Shea's the man,
But Tobes it is who wins the title "Transatlantic fan".
Douglas Spencer, 5th June 2002