Whitby Review, April 2000: Put Your Ray Gun to my Head.

It was the best of times; it was the worst of times. This Whitby has been heavy with tragedy, which retaining the passion and the glorious sense of camaraderie which always make it delightful. It's going to take me a long time to get my head around some of what happened.

Ordinarily, when I go to Whitby, I go for a whole week, which gives me plenty of time to socialise and to recover from the effects of that socialising. This time, however, I had to prioritise fining myself a home to live in here in Glasgow over finding myself accommodation there; and, furthermore, I was attending EasterCon the previous weekend; I think that finishing that on the Monday and leaving for Whitby on the Wednesday would've been a mistake. I needed that gap to recover and to do all the necessary sewing and costuming, as well as keeping my other work vaguely up to date. I found a charming little cottage (albeit one accessible only via a ridiculous number of dangerous steps) for three nights, and Monique drove us down there after she finished attending her university lectures on the Friday afternoon.

We got into Whitby at about half past six, and we were pretty worn out from the drive, so the first thing we did was to go looking for food. The restaurant across whose yard we were staying, being The White Horse and Griffin, proved an excellent choice. It was expensive, but considering the superb quality of the food I didn't object to that. I had flash roasted duck breast on a leek fondue bedding with a delicious red wine sauce, wild mushrooms, new potatoes and crisp-dried herbs on top which I didn't recognise but which I simply have to find again someday. All this took a while to consume, of course, but it was worth it.

After dinner we rwe repaired to the cottage to tart up and get ready for the evening's events at the Spa. I wore my recently constructed silver-black zebra-pattern devoree velvet dress, a sort of a 1920s thing made more so by its matching headband with peacock feathers ("You are Isadora Duncan and I claim my five pounds." said Hirez). After some difficulty obtaining a taxi we proceeded to the Spa and found space at a table occupied by Tal and Trizia. Our entrance being at least a day and a half (fashionably) late, we were welcomed enthusiastically; it was wonderful as ever to catch up with so many old friends. We drank plenty of beer - the famous Whitby Spa blanched guinness (they'll never learn to pour) - and danced a bit when the music wasn't too technoey. I missed pretty much all of the bands, but they weren't really my thing anyway. I was more interested in socialising. I had some fun chemistry conversations with John Verberg, whom I have missed seeing on a.g. recently. It was weird to see Lyssa as a blonde, and wearing her own boots as well, which I usually see on Hatchetman; apparently he had decided to stay at home in his room and sulk because everybody hates him. I finally met up with Graeme Clark, after being in the same places many times but never quite managing to find each other; it was interesting to talk to him. I also found wee St. Andrews Laura, whom I hadn't seen in months, and was pleased to discover that she's healthier than she was, and has a new man who seems nice (though his "I've heard a lot about you." greeting was as daunting as it always is), and that they're getting a place together not so very far from Glasgow. Another dear friend (who shall remain nameless, since I'm not sure about the legal status of this) gave me my first ever taste of laudanum, which was delicious, and definitely my sort of drug. It was generally quite a quiet night, though, since I was tired, and I went straight back to my bed afterwards, eschewing parties at Mandy's flat and at the Abbey. One of the bouncers gave us a lift back to the cottage, which I thought was incredibly sweet, and a welcome reminder that the world is full of good people, even if they are sometimes less obvious than the crap ones.

On Saturday morning I woke up pretty early, still on a workday type of sleep cycle; but there was nothing to be done about that, and a lot of shopping which needed to be done, so I got up anyway and drank some bru and went out. I got presents for my family in the chocolate shop, then proceeded to Chattaways for an energy-restoring baked potato. I did the rounds of the local charity shops without success; I was too late, and all the good stuff had gone. The same was pretty much true of the second hand stall in the bizarre bazaar, though I did find a rather nice purple velvet and lace top there which I'm wearing as I write, and on another stall and I found a skikirt which goes nicely with it. My main purchase that day was a pair of new boots which I'd had my eye on in the catalogues for a while; I was extremely lucky that the manufacturer happened to have just the style I wanted there in my size. They fit extremely well and are comfortable to walk in despite the five inch heel. They were expensive, but they'll last me for many years. I also acquired a simple black fan which will be useful in many overheated club environments. Donald arrived then, and we managed to find him four new tops, which is great because he really needed some and he can be a hell of a difficult person to get clothes for. Now I'll have to make sure he goes out enough to show them off.

The bazaar has a tendency to get rather warm, so we were pretty tired after trekking round there, and we went straight home afterwards, walking along beside the sea. Brief visits to remaining shops produced a brown furry rabbit called Marlene and a bright red lobster whose name I don't know yet, but whom I intend to keep well away from the notorious 8-Ball.

Unfortunately, when we arrived home that afternoon, we got the first of the weekend's bad news. Monique was not feeling well, and was very stressed, and had decided that she couldn't cope with remaining at the event, being surrounded by so many strangers. Instead, she went away to stay with friends in a nearby town. She was very apologetic, but she really didn'idn't need to be; I was just worried about her, and I wish that things could've gone better for her. She really deserves for life to be nice to her for a change.

After Monique left, Donald made some pasta for our dinner while I entertained myself with a truly awful cheesy horror book I found in the cottage. Decided we should make the best of a rare opportunity to be alone together, but that went a bit haywire when he accidentally slammed my already injured knee into a doorframe, resulting in the kind of pain that had me screaming for two minutes or so; pain doesn't easily make me scream at all. It continued to hurt like hell afterwards, but there was nothing to be done about it, and it didn't seem sufficiently bad to warrant a trip to hospital; I figured that a reasonable quantity of alcohol should dull the pain. We got changed then, and I had my first opportunity to wear the beaded top that he bought me for Christmas, the weather having been rather too cold for it back then. Once we got to the Spa I changed into my new boots and we got the first of the night's beer in. I buzzed about being sociable as usual. I noticed that Tal was looking a little tired and stressed, but he seemed sociable as ever, and invited me to a party at his place later. It was revealed that the Edingoths had been fucked over by their bus driver, who had tried to extort an extra hundred quid and had then abandoned them, so much of the night was spent running around trying to find other Scotgoths who could give them lifts home. They shared our group of tables at he back of the main room, and we sat and discussed clothes; Jenny had a gorgeous white beaded head-dress on. Snap provided a lot of entertainment that evening, turning up this time in a rather skimpy little black rubber dress, drinking furiously and announcing, when called on it, that it was his prerogative to do so, as a Glaswegian. Naturally he was adopted by the Phillips brothers, since he seemed to be modelling himself on Fuzzygoth Dave. As the night wore on he was falling about all over the place, giggling and getting up to mischief and generally being a lot more fun than he ever used to be. On the way into the band room I encountered a guy whom I decided simply had to be a member of Sigue Sigue Sputnik - he looked fortysomething in all the wrong ways, with his face held together by a piece of black fishnet in that style that everyone I know has tried to copy, for fifteen years, without success, and he looked intensely pissed off with the world. That pretty much set the mood for their later gig, the only one I had been eager to see that weekend. It was cheesily fun for a while, and I did enjoy leaping about to some of their songs live, but hey, Jayne Mansfield, dying young was a good career move.

After the gigs there was quite a bit of my kind of music played, or danceable stuff at any rate, so I leapt about on the dancefloor for a while and got some proper exercise. When things closed down, Tal told us to follow him if we wanted to get to his party, so we set off to do so and promptly lost him. How somebody six foot four and built the way he is, with bright red hair as well, can vanish into the night quite so stealthily, I still have no idea. Anyhow, Donald, who had received directions elsewhere, had already run off to fetch alcohol from the cottage, so I was left with JV and his friend Scott from Chicago, Aziza and Snap, wandering the streets in roughly the area where we'd been advised the party would be, looking for signs of life. We found a window with a light on and threw coins at it for a while, hoping to attract the attention of those inside, but to no avail. We couldn't find an entrance to that building, despite our wanderings along the treacherously dark surrounding alleys. At least it was an adventure. Eventually we dedecided that our best bet was to return to my cottage, and there we found Donald, who, using a somewhat more detailed set of directions, was able to escort us to the party after all.

There was standing room only when we arrived, though after downing a glass of absinthe in the kitchen Snap (whom Joe was by that time calling 'Snap-dave') obtained lying-down space for himself. Many of my best friends were there, along with a few cool new people. I met the fairy who blessed Fluffy Dave last year and made her promise to bring her wand again next time, since her powers had proved so remarkable. Sat talking to Fluffy Dave for a while and trying to reassure Aziza that she needn't be embarrassed by her boyfriend's behaviour, since it was, after all, not of a type with which either the guests there or the hosts were unfamiliar; did my best to avoid collapsing in hysterics when she insisted she'd never seen Coeur drunk. He found that one pretty amusing, too. About that time, Snap decided to take off his dress in the kitchen and show everyone his bum. Trizia decided it was time for a game of Strip Twister, and various negotiations began; I'm told it eventually came to nothing because a certain Scotgoth who had been asked to participate explained that he was unable to get out of his trousers because he'd stitched himself into them with wire to make them skintight.

I left the party a little while after dawn, not wanting to get caught by dazzling light since my eyes are very sensitive after protracted periods of wakefulness. I requested that Donald return with me for a while, as I didn't fancy getting up those steps by myself with my knee being dodgy. It was only then, as we walked home, that he explained to me why he would need to return directly afterwards, and why he had been absent for much of the evening, taking care of people. That was the first I heard about the events of the previous night. About the guy who fell from the clifftop graveyard. About Tal finding him, still with a faint pulse then, and rushing to get the St. John's Ambulance workers. About him being pronounced dead in hospital. He was only thirty. He had a sister, also attending the event, who must be devastated. I still don't know his name, or whether or not he was someone I knew. I suppose it was going to happen sooner or later - some kind of death, that is - with there being so many of us, and plenty of older ones now, and plenty of taxing physical circumstances; but it's hit everyone pretty hard nonetheless, and especially because it happened like this.

Sleep didn't come easily then, but it came in the end. I knew I needed it. I needed to be capable of looking after people he next day, should I be called upon to do so. I needed to be capable of bubbling and socialising and telling stories and hugging people and making them laugh, because I guess that's all thehe armour that any of us have, in the end.

I woke late the next day, breakfasted on chocolate marzipan liqueurs, found a Ramsey Campbell book in the cottage and spent the afternoon reading. Had more bland pasta for dinner. Donald was very tired and had a headache for which no treatment could be found, so he decided to remain at home, and said he might come out later. I changed quickly into fishnets and a lurid zip-front basque covered with gold beads and bright plastic jewels, slapped on a bit of OTT make-up and figured I was ready for 'Eighties Night. I hurried out alone, across the swing bridge and into Laughton's. It turned out they'd opened their doors early, which was why the queue was so short. The first person I saw when I got into there was Hatchet. He gave me a big hug, and I puzzled over how much healthier he was looking than usual. He told me he'd decided to ride up that afternoon and be fashionably late, beating my attempt at an impressive entrance by two days, the bastard. It was good to see him, nonetheless. I found my way into the main room, located a place where I could leave my stuff and went to the bar, which thankfully had both bitter and water this time, even if both tasted a bit dodgy. There I encountered some members of VNV Nation and their allies who were armed with water pistols. Apparently they had already offended a few people, including Lyssa, by spoiling their make-up, but personally I'm always grateful for cold water in that suffocatingly hot place. They got into a fight with the barmaid, who attacked them with the bar's water tap, at which point I escaped to talk to Al Golagnia for a while and then to dance. Shortly afterwards, I encountered Tal, who told me he'd spent a miserable day in the police station making statements, but that he was coping okay in the aftermath, and had decided to drink a great deal and have fun. It sounded like a good plan. I hugged him lots and wished him the best.

My secret weapon on that particular night was what used to be known as blasting powder, or exploding candy. Not everyone was brave enough to take it. I'm told that quite a few people thought it was speed. Heh. They'd've had a shock if they'd snorted it. Some people there were too young to remember it the first time, but most of them loved it, and others smiled nostalgically and said I was supplying little packets of their chihildhood. Only a few seemed to realise its true potential, however, and none of them were the people I was chasing.

I decided to be more of a grown-up this year and adopt a new plan of action for that exhausting night; to retire and stand beneath the air-vents before reaching the point of collapse, rather than pushing my limits on the dancefloor and then falling over on the steps unable to breathe. It worked pretty well, and I still got to dance to pretty much all of the stuff I really wanted to. I did something nasty to my lower right leg when landing badly at one point, but figured it wouldn't seize up until I stopped moving it, so I may as well keep going for the meantime; I'd rather be able to dance properly and enjoy myself at Whitby, even if it meant the possibility of not being able to walk for a couple of weeks afterwards. I finally caught up with Elise on the dancefloor, after being unable to find her all weekend, though naturally our opportunities to talk were somewhat limited. Upstairs by the edge of the gallery at one point, doing my best to escape that still more awful Kylie version of The Locomotion, I found myself wondering about the structural integrity of that old listed building, given that it appeared the dancers below were shaking the floor above; then I looked behind me and noticed the conga line which had developed there, one person after another gallivanting past, reaching g out for a kiss or to risk getting their wrists broken by attempting to make me a part of their little game. They seemed to have plenty of fun, but I reckon I was well out of that one.

Towards the end of the night, when I was looking around for parties, JV told me that he'd found one, and that the plan was to follow Coeur. Now, long experience has made me a little wary with regard to the reliability of following Coeur, so I made further enquiries and discovered that the party was at Kieran's place, where others of my friends had been before. Spilling out onto the street after the violent excitement of a final Adam Ant track, I was grateful for the cold rain on my bare shoulders. I linked up with the other Glasgoths who were there, said my goodbyes to the rest of my dear friends, and followed Joe around the streets for a bit until we spotted Preacher, whom we were then able to follow to the party. Inside, I was grateful for a seat and the chance to adjust the toes of my fishnets, which had become tangled around my own toes and were slicing them up. It turned out I had done pretty well to get a seat at the table with my hosts, some of whom I had not previously conversed with, as we got on pretty well, and had a good laugh, and they gave me rum and coke from a secret supply, as well as some pringles which I was unfortunately too dehydrated to eat without choking. During the night, the tablecloth became stained a darker and darker brown, Kieran managed to break a cup, and Preacher, whose nose had just been inadvertently badvertently broken by Coeur on the dancefloor (during Ghostbusters), managed to stab Kieran in the arm with a fork while Kieran was pulling his hair. The wound was quite deep but bled freely enough to clean itself; Joe tried to lick it clean, and then Liz made sure it was treated properly. Preacher hid the fork for fear that the blow would be returned, though nobody was actually upset about it. Joe and I took it in turns to beat Kieran's other arm with a plastic strap, as I demonstrated how to hit so it hurts properly. Hatchet came over to hang out for a while, but only really talked about motorbikes, so I was somewhat excluded from that one, and shortly afterwards he wussed out and went off to sleep. I met a sweet new person called Joseph, who had no accommodation and was staying awake for the whole weekend, just going from party to party. When it came to chucking out time, I walked back as far as the swing bridge with the Fuzzygoth, so we could talk about stuff; I must catch up with him again soon. I got home to find that poor Donald was still in pain with his headache and hadn't been out at all. We clambered up the winding stairs to bed and did our best to sleep.

I dragged myself out of bed at half past ten the next morning, got my stuff packed up, did what I could (allergies permitting) to help Donald with the housework, then headed out to the Elsinore to socialise with whom I could before I left. Found Giolla there, gleefully recounting the fun had in purchasing a tuning fork and thus playing with the metal bits that run through the side of Preacher's head. We discovered that it was Augeus' birthday, and loudly announced that and his (alleged) age to the rest of the pub. He received drinks, jelly babies, a design-a-tie kit and some metal castings of sheep droppings. Hatchet came by for a while and said he will visit me sometime; I'll hold him to that. Other people said they'd try and make my July party. I had lots of fun hanging out and talking to people, some of whom bought me drinks, so that I quite forgot to eat; then, alas, it came time for me to leave, and I hugged and kissed goodbye to friends I may not see again for months. I accidentally left my little pink spark gun behind upon leaving. I like that gun. I hope someone returns it to me.

Monique arrived at the cottage shortly after three, to collect us. It was good to see her looking more cheerful, and confident that she had made the right decision in going to visit her friends, but I do feel somewhat sad that she feels she'll never fit in at Whitby; I think maybe she was unlucky, and just didn't meet enough of the right people there, because I always find it extremely friendly and welcoming. I was sleepy while we drove home, riding off into a rich sunset the colour of blood oranges which limned all the clouds with gold. I will go back to Whitby soon. This is the life I want, the world I want; when I'm there I can see it clearly. Death is always a horrific thing, but we need to keep celebrating being alive.

Whitby Review, November 1999: Can a Little Bit of What you Fancy do you Harm?

We set off on Thursday, intending to leave at eleven, and doing pretty well, by the usual standards, in getting out of Glasgow by two; the journey went well, with only one emergency stop required, though that did result in me getting hit in the back of the head by several apples, which I suppose I could blame for any failure on my part to remember people whom I met over the weekend and should otherwise have recognised; but you know how it is with these things; often one is catching up with delightful people whom one literally hasn't seen in years, and one can remember that they're lovely, but names disappear. Anyway, we arrived in Whitby about half past six, transferred our belongings to the cottage we were renting over on Horner's Terrace, and had time for some food before heading off to the pub to look for everyone else.

We had been planning to go first to the Buck Inn, but we met Iona on the bridge and she told us that most of our friends were in the Elsinore, so off we went up Flowergate, ducking past an argument which I suspect was the first break-up of the weekend - Whitby gets into swing quickly these days. Iona was handing out safety pins to everyone she snogged. Donald decided (wisely, as it turned out) to collect his early, though I avoided getting one altogether. Later in the evening, I was awarded one by Tal, who drew me aside and snogged me in a game of Pass the Safety Pin - I disposed of it onto Fuzzygoth Dave, who was excelling even his usual standards of drunkenness on that occasion, having been drinking since his train reached Newcastle sometime around lunchtime. Eventually I fought my way across the crowded room to a place where I could talk to Mandy and Hatchet and catch up on their news, and see Mandy's new tattoo. I even got a seat. Considering how hard it was to get to the bar, I didn't drink much that night, but Giolla did have a rather delicious new homebrewed substance with him which was more than adequate, and we passed a pleasant evening before fighting our way back home through gales which ripped the scarves right out of my hair (something I frequently have trouble doing myself) and almost succeeded in flinging them into the sea.

The following day, the gales had doubled in ferocity, and scarcely anyone was out on the streets; but dammit, we needed to shop. Donald and I both woke up unreasonably early, and by lunchtime we had done the rounds of the charity shops, where I bought some nice red velvet 'underwear' and a little 'ages seven to eight' zebra-pattern velvet top which Donald claimed wouldn't fit me but which I'm wearing quite comfortably as I write this. I'm a sucker for zebra stuff.

We had lunch in the usual cafe (Chattaways, opposite the Elsinore), then fought our way up to the Spa, grateful for waterproof mascara. There we caught up with more old friends among the tumult of the bizarre bazaar. We succeeded in finding a new top for Donald, which is always difficult; I got a cute wee purple dress from the second hand stall (always a dangerous money magnet) and was thrilled to find a brand new two-tone blue velvet waspie for only sixteen pounds, as I'd been wanting one for ages but they usually cost three times that much. I picked up tights and other bits and pieces too, then went upstairs to have coffee with Giolla, and met the delightful Lapis. Donald and I struggled home through an even fiercer storm, delayed this time only by toy shops in which I think he would have purchased every last one of the glowing insects available, had I not been there to dissuade him.

Shortly after we arrived back at the cottage, our friend Monique arrived, having travelled over from Luxembourg. It was really great to see her, especially as she's ill and was then awaiting surgery, so she'd been incommunicado quite a bit over the preceding months. We sat and talked through the latter part of the afternoon, ate dinner and tarted up (me in my new waspie), then caught a cab to the Spa.

Due to the cancellation of Gitane Demone (turned away by customs) and one of the other bands, the atmosphere in the band room was a little subdued. Manuskript were playing, and I quite like them, but I see them fairly often. The music between bands was of too technoey a variety to appeal much to me, so all in all I didn't spend a lot of time in there, which was a shame, because I'm quite certain that's where all the pretty strangers whom I'd been making eyes at on Thursday must have disappeared to. Still, we got a good table in the big room, got the beer in, stashed our stuff and proceeded to wander. I spent most of the night catching up with old friends and dodging certain drunkenly amorous netgoths' advances, while trying to explain to another netgoth, without success, that his 'nice boots' line had not necessarily 'failed' because I didn't pin him to the floor there and then, and that I actually think his footwear is rather pleasant too - but there's no getting through to some people. I managed to freeze myself while searching for Hatchet and Al Golagnia, who had gone outside to play in the storm after watching the big forked lightning ("nasty... scary...pretty...fun!") crashing down over the sea; and then by searching for the husband of a dear Brummy friend, since he had ventured into the storm half an hour ago and not returned. Fortunately, all three adventurers turned up later, safe and sound. I just got slagged off by the Geordie goths who said I was a wuss for shivering in such weather when I live in Scotland.

I met lots of cool new people, drank more of Giolla's slightly illicit substances, got into a couple of one-sided consensual fights, snogged even more people than I had intended to (despite attempting to preserve my lipstick) and lost the people I'd been trying to pull. Then, suddenly, it was closing time, and we got a ride home in the biggest taxi I've ever seen. It was pretty scary walking along the terrace to get to our door. Monique said she felt vulnerable, being small and light - I was just relieved, for that brief time, that we didn't have Aidan with us, as I think that being tall and light would've been much worse, and he would've sailed away into the night.

The storm of Friday night had abated not one bit when Saturday morning came around, so we spent several hours huddled up in front of the fireplace in the cottage, watching awful children's television programmes (bring back Multi Coloured Swap Shop you bastards!) and trying to ignore the wailing of the wind. I spent most of this time sewing frantically, finishing off the silver/black violet sequinned dress thing which I'd been working on for three days. In the afternoon, The Emperor Penguin drove us all up to the Spa, as we felt the need to do more shopping, and we stood for a while pressed against the clifftop wall beside it watching huge waves crash down against the beach. In all my years of visiting Whitby, I have never seen it like that. The waves were breaking two hundred metres from the shore, and were ripping up half the sea bed. It was stunningly beautiful, in a wild, thrilling way, but awfully fucking cold.

In the bazaar, we found another top for Donald and I picked up a second hand halter top and bodice. We hung around for a while, admiring the courage of those who had walked there, then drove away home to get tarted up for the evening. I was relieved that my new dress worked, although Lee later complained that I was spoiling the usual atmosphere of Whitby by wearing too many clothes - mind you, he was looking at my back when he said that. ;) In the Spa, many people were wearing science fiction costumes to welcome the (pretend) new millennium (mine was accidental, though everyone assumed otherwise). Mercy the Gothbunny, Fluffy Dave and Coeur were all being those Centauri or whatever they are from Babylon 5 - they made a cool looking set. Dave, in particular, was just perfect as Vir. He was hit on the head with a wand by a sparkly fairy who blessed him with the power of pulling. Within an hour of that, he had a woman on his lap, and by all accounts the fairy's blessing worked brilliantly.

For a while now I've been working on bubble wrap dress designs, but I don't think I could have equalled the splendid gown Iona was wearing. Her voice, however, was as rough as it usually is by Monday morning - she could scarcely speak at all. This was when I found out that she had snogged at least three people who had first warned her that they had tonsillitis. I predict an epidemic among the UK goth population. Donald was then smug, explaining that the very reason he had snogged her so early in the weekend was to reduce his chances of contracting an infection. ;) Had he simply resisted, she probably would have thrown herself on him later.

The costume I liked best, however, belonged to Augeus, who was carrying a whisk in one hand and a sink plunger in the other, and was going round saying "Exterminate!" to people, being a dalek. :) He eventually abandoned the whisk after Donald attempted to swallow it - it's now lying somewhere in our flat. He says he never wants to even see the plunger again, after where it's been - it is now in the possession of a certain avowedly heterosexual Glasgoth, who excelled himself that night by snogging at least three different men (and not just Donald), then stood for hours gripping the railings above the stairs where he had been dropping things on bands while numerous different people spanked him (for his birthday) with the assorted objects they had to hand. I am wondering if he's even going to try to explain that one away as an accident caused by alcohol. He looked like he was having fun, anyway. :)

Hatchet told me that some evil Glasgoths had gotten him pissed in the pub in the afternoon by feeding him four bloody marys. I was most disappointed to have missed out on such entertainment, and requested that he do it again so I could watch, but he protested that it was impossible in a corset and a long PVC skirt which prevented him going to the toilet. Giolla said he had substances which could get around that problem. Then Hatchet ran away.

There were several really impressive costumes on display, including a cute female in a bra made out of wire, and a timelord whom Augeus felt it was his duty to exterminate. The music was more to my tastes that night, so I hung out in the band room and danced awhile before being shot by a gang of space pirates, collapsing onto the floor under the power of their ray gun, luckily managing to finish my pint first.

At various points during the evening, I encountered Karl, who was, with witnesses, attempting an alcohol consumption record; by the end of the evening he had consumed something approximating 200 units [1], and he was still walking and talking coherently. None of us have yet been able to figure out how.

Being a bit more organised that evening, I found it easier to stock up on drink from the bar, so I had a good five or six pints as well as all the things other people fed me, though it wasn't really enough to get me drunk. Whitby Spa nights are too short, damn it! Augeus invited me to a cocktail soiree at his place later, but I didn't managed to stick by him till the end of the evening because I was too busy trying to locate and hold onto other people. I eventually left with Al Golagnia, Giolla and Lapis in search of the party, while Donald went home to fetch some whisky. We followed Augeus' directions, but the flat I'd thought was his was completely silent. The stairs were covered in assorted pretty goths clutching bottles. The flat next door was open, but the goths there said they had no idea who Augeus was. A charming woman among them invited me in anyway, and I was tempted, but I figured I had better stick with my friends. So we headed off out into the streets with some vague notion of tracking down my friend Maite's party instead. Al Golagnia then announced that we should go and collect Hatchet, since he stayed "just round the corner"; it was only after we had already walked for several blocks that I remembered Hatchet had told me where he stayed, and realised that the Seattle netgoth and I must have quite a different idea of what 'just round the corner' means. Luckily, the rain and wind had gone by this time. We collected Hatchet and also acquired Coeur, who was wandering the streets randomly as he often does. Thus equipped, and fortified by absinthe, we went in search of parties again, but we were unsuccessful, Maite's description of "you leave the Spa and follow a little path and then there's a street somewhere there - you'll see it - and then there's a hotel..." proving less than useful. By the time we gave up, my feet hurt so much that I could walk no further; Al Golagnia was wonderfully sweet and carried me back to his hotel, where I crashed in the spare bed.

It was not an unpleasant evening; I had fun with my friends, and certainly more fun than if I had gone straight home from the Spa; I just wish that a certain netgoth there had had the guts to wait for an answer after his surprisingly daring invitation to me, instead of running off and being too shy to talk about it again. I really am getting to the point where the big stick over the back of the head approach seems like my best option. If you are reading this, dear, you must know who you are. This is a hint.

Sorry, I shall take a deep breath now.

There, that's a little better.

Okay, on with the story... I arrived home at about half past ten the next morning to discover a distinct absence of Donald. This happens from time to time, and I figured that, since he had been carrying whisky when last seen, he may well have been welcomed into pretty much any gothic home. Monique sadly had to leave in the afternoon, so I stayed in and missed the (less organised this year) netgoth meal, wanting to spend some time with her. About half an hour after she left, after three in the afternoon, Donald eventually staggered in, still pissed out of his skull, grinning enthusiastically, with his whisky all gone. Apparently, he had found Augeus after all, in the flat which had been silent at our approach; he was one of only six people who did find it, and they'd been prepared to serve cocktails for twenty; they did the honourable thing, and drank all the alcohol anyway. Though he couldn't remember very much of it, he was sure he'd had a good time. He stuffed his face full of fried food and promptly fell over.

We were unable to wake Donald again in time for 'eighties night, so The Emperor Penguin and I just got tarted up by ourselves and then hurried out, he in a too-warm looking red velvet waistcoat, me in the purple sequinned dress which I felt was essential for the final 'eighties night of 1999. In the queue, Tails gave me free popadums, and Giolla gave me absinthe so strong that I felt quite warm and dizzy immediately after consuming it. This was good, since the cider which was all I could obtain to drink inside really tasted like shit. I regretted having missed the meal, as I had eaten little and therefore lacked the energy necessary to do a night like that properly, dancing to almost every song; still, I got by. There wasn't as much of my favourite stuff as usual, so I didn't feel compelled to dance non-stop anyway, although it was nice watching other people. By this time, Iona had snogged so many people that all of her hundred and sixty safety pins were gone; the whole of the weekend had a tartier atmosphere even that usual. I met a couple of very nice girls and became rather friendly with dear Lapis, though I'll admit I was distracted by that certain other person, though no opportunity existed to flirt on that occasion. I was lucky to find a rare cold-air spot on the dance floor for the extended remix of '1999', which was, after all, the important one of the evening, and all in all I had quite a bit of fun. Lapis and I went upstairs to watch the phenomena that are The Last of the Irish Rover and Nellie the Elephant from above. Afterwards, a few people came back to the cottage with me to drink whisky and absinthe and talk, and to say goodbyes, since, like most of the rest of Whitby's temporary goth population, they were leaving the next day. :(

Monday is always the quiet day, but it is a good day for winding down, and it's a good time for making new friends, since all of the remaining goths in town tend to band together in the Elsinore for moral support. We shopped earlier, and had dinner, but were there by the evening to get in a few pints and a very sticky, string-producing pizza. People came back to ours again afterwards, including several people whom we didn't know but were pleased to make the acquaintance of, and we drank whisky, port and beer and a little more absinthe, and talked into the wee small hours.

On Tuesday, there were only about eight goths left in town, including ourselves. We tidied up the cottage, ate a big roast dinner and then travelled off home along the motorway. In the lake district, we saw one of the most beautiful sunsets I have ever seen (a fine one for riding off into), spreading streaks of golden fire above a valley thick with white mist. The golden glow gradually subsided as we descended into the mist, and we drove through a dark tunnel of fog for a long time before emerging into a bright, clear starry night. Stars to make wishes on.

Six months is a long time to wait, but I am looking forward to the next Whitby already (although I hope that certain things might get sorted out before that). I suggest that, if you are able, the rest of you netgoths out there in the ether come and join me.

This way to go back to Jennie's Whitby Gothic Weekend reviews page.