So, Darth Vader, Padme Amidala and Boussh walk into this bar, right…

Star Wars Celebration Europe: a sweaty three-day extravaganza of sets, vehicles, props and costumes attended by tens of thousands of slavering fans.

Roll up, roll up. You want an ‘extra’ role in the fight on the Death Star? Line up, trooper. You want your picture taken in the Mos Eisley Cantina? No probs. You want to check out the Droid Park? Sit on a Speeder Bike? Take your kids to the swampy Dagobah stage show..?

It’s all here, everything the galaxy could ever dream of.

From the Death Star hanging ominous and silent in the entrancehall to the full size AT-AT looming over the stands – this is a vast and slightly stinky sprawl of utter geek heaven. And if there aren’t enough merchandise traders parting you from your hard-earned cash (and paying for ExCel’s coffee doesn’t cripple you), you can apparently cough up eighty-five pounds for the signature of Hamill himself…

…by Skywalker’s socks even talking about it’s exhausting.

My impressions of Celebration Europe came from behind the trading stand belonging to Forbidden Planet/Titan Publishing. The combination of many staff plus stacks of stock plus no breathing room plus cantankerous tills all added up to a nerve-frazzling few days. From the Dagobah stage came the thundering of the Star Wars theme tune – every fifteen minutes, endlessly, continuously, like some kind of swamp-water torture. Our remaining Commander Blys fairly marched off the stall-top – along with anything and everything the fans could get their paws on. I swear, if we’d had Wookiee shit, someone would’ve bought it.

Trying to get out from behind the stall was like taking on the trash compactor – monster and all. A half-hour lunch break was a twenty-five minute fight and five minutes of frantic face-stuffing… then back to the wads of twenties being shoved into your hands.

But at least it gave me some time to have a look at the people.

Like any convention, it wouldn’t be fandom without the costumed characters. At the top end, the awesome Obi-Wan who was a dead ringer for Ewan himself (I honestly had to look twice), the fully-seven-foot-and-fuzzy Chewbacca, the ubiquitous Garrison and one very fine Vader ensemble complete with red-robed Imperial guard. The fully caparisoned Commander Bly posed with one of his own mini-busts – and a special mention goes to my personal best-in-show, the bloke in the Death Star Sanitation Engineer uniform… yes, he came as the toilet cleaner. Top marks!

There were many slave-bikini Leias, verging from the very pretty to the truly terrifying – at one point, twelve of them clustered round Jabba for a photocall - and to facilitate fan-fantasies everywhere. On each box-disposal mission, I saw some grinning fan being molested by Stormtroopers, a eager Jawa queuing for coffees or a couple of Tuskan raiders grabbing a small and giggling child.

Somewhere, the part of me that yearns for my mothballed chain mail was kind of envious.

But, the Force has two sides… and so does costume-making. And lurking in the Dark? The small, rather effeminate Count Dooku (complete with beard), the somewhat padded middle-aged Amidala (who was wearing WAY too much scent), the bright pink Japanese mini-Stormtrooper, Jedi Two-Sabres (why do the fanboys insist on walking round with their lightsabers in their hands?) and the couple of ladies who thought Stormtrooper armour would look better with moulded breasts and high heels.

I do wonder if these people actually look in the mirror before they leave the house…

Anyway, a final special mention to the flawlessly costumed Grand Moff Tarkin (complete with cheekbones) who offered me sixty quid for my Gentle Giant tour t-shirt (an offer I turned down – I mean, we all know happens to him, and that’s just a waste!)

In a place the size of Docklands ExCel, thirty-five thousand fans need a lot of stuff to look at – and there are lists I haven’t mentioned because I simply didn’t get time to see them. I did a whistle-stop PR tour of the present media (not much) and the various non-Garrison guard units (Belgian, German, Danish and… erm… from Norfolk). One thing, though, stands out from the seething Convention morass.

I found a Norwich ex-cop who’d been at a Viking show in Hevingham, Norfolk in 1991 – and remembered my group. He also remembered the trouble we caused when we took Alan over the dog assault course in a collar-and-lead (they didn’t ask us back – can’t imagine why). He and I had a ‘Small World’ moment... and then realised it was kind of inevitable. He may’ve traded his blues for Stoormtrooper armour – and I my mail for a geeky t-shirt – but perhaps it wasn’t really that dissimilar.

There are the times in my life I think I've come a long way.

And then there are times I realise I've really not moved.

*Chuckle*