It was the morning after Hallowe'en; hardly any sleep had been obtained, and I was still tremendously busy, arguing with the sewing machine as I tried to finish off a top, when The Emperor Penguin called to say that he was just leaving Adsevin's and that they would be round to collect us in fifteen minutes. I threw together what I could, knowing that I would have to finish my work along the way. As it turned out, that was close to impossible. The car was absolutely packed full of stuff, so that Donald and I had to sit with things piled on top of us in the back, and some of our precious irn bru supplies had to be left behind, which we were later to regret. With one brief stop at the off-license before we crossed the border, somehow a four hour journey managed to extend to nearly seve to extend to nearly seven hours. As we drove, the bright clouds played out a drama for us. When Summer in Winter shall come... a wolf from the east shall eagerly come goes the old doom song, which seems all the more appropriate in days of sublime weather and world-threatening war. One might feel that anything could happen. I saw a great wolf chase across the sky toward the west, and a great serpent also. They sported for some time, destroying other cloud shapes, until, close to sunset, along came Thor, riding on a disc of cloud rather like Apollo, but without Apollo's poofy clothes; and armed with his great hammer Mjolnir, Thor hacked the serpent Jormungand into golden pieces. One of the pieces reformed into a fish which received a telephone call inviting it to a party, at which the fish put on fancy clothes and acquired a friend. I was glad, as it had eemed rather lonely. Meanwhile, Jormungand's severed tail became the vivid head of a dragon, lying close to the ground, letting out a low, blissful roar, like some ancient Chinese omen. I looked into the eye of the dragon and saw the whole world burst in flames. There was fire on the horizon as we twisted eastward and then south. While it faded through streaks of pink, to the appropriate accompaniment of Wendy James, we hit the moor roads, and darkness came, and there was a huge yellow moon suspended above the dark sea, welcoming us back, as we shag us back, as we shall always be returning, to Whitby.
The cottage which we had booked was just as I had hoped it might be. We were welcomed by a friendly local dog as we let ourselves into the little yard. The living room was large and comfortable, at least by Whitby standards; the kitchen was enormous, which delighted everyone; the bedrooms were quite adequate, and pleasingly flexible, the stairs, later to be the source of much entertainment, where narrow and winding, but my knee was doing well, and I managed them without difficulty. In fact, it was doing sufficiently well that I laced myself into my thigh boots whilst dinner was cooking. Ate lots of yummy mushroom pasta. Pulled on the starry skirt which I recently made, and a small black and gold bodice; couldn't really be bothered to do anything with my hair. When we were all ready, we proceeded into the softest, warmest Whitby night I can remember at any time of year. A gentle sea breeze scarcely rippled the dark harbour waters as we crossed the familiar swing bridge into town. Walked up to the Elsinore. There were numerous adored old friends, some of whom we hadn't seen for two years, and there was much embracing and delight. Pictures were taken. Old wounds were unintentionally opened with small touches and kind words. For myself, I was doing just fine, but the Elsinore was fucking packed, and I really didn't fancy venturing inside to try and find the rest of my posse. I figured that they'd make it up to the Metropole event pretty soon, so we went there.
I had figured wrong, of course. As it turned out, I saw only three people I knew beside the swirling dancefloor of the Metropole: dear Coeur, wasted as always; Augeus, with whom there is never enough time to talk; and Glasgow's very own Joe, who was so drunk that he seemed unaware of his own forthcoming birthday. Most probably he did not need me to buy him another. I did, however, meet Pussybat, who is running a December event in Edinburgh where my company shall have a stall. She was really cool, and introduced me to several of her friends, most of whom I'd seen around in Edinburgh clubs for years but had never really got talking to. It was a fun evening, though certainly subdued, and not at all what I had been looking for. I met a few other nice new people, then headed home with Donald along the seafront, and quickly retired to bed.
In the morning my right knee was somewhat blistered. It seems there's a ridge of calcium deposit there which I had not previously been aware of, and which is now developing towards a point where it can be (and will need to be, regardless of doctors who seem to think that the inability to walk is of no significance) extracted. For the meantime, I treated it with calendula, which healed the surface up just fine, and I dressed and went to find myself some breakfast. Only then did I discover that it was not yet 8am. Of course, at that time of year it gets light about an hour earlier in England that in my home town. Oops. Still (though this may make me quite unique) I like to hear the morning seagulls. I waited till nine, then headed out to the shops. In the second hand places I found myself a little rubbery PVC snake-print skirt, plain but rather cute; however, there wasn't a whole lot else. The bazaar, too, was rather lacking in interesting items. There were some good designs for the raver crowd, yet, whilst I appreciated the imagination and work which had gone into creating them, they're not really my thing. I was, however, very pleased to find a feather-collared black bodice which I've wanted for years at a quarter of its original price. Donald bought several records, including an Eternal Afflict CD which I'd wanted for ages. We met Gothpat, and had some opportunity to try to catch up on one another's news. All of us were looking for David Gerard, who had mysteriously failed to appear in town at the appointed time. Pat was worried because she had his ticket. Upstairs, I found Scary Lady Sarah, who looked stunning as always and who still bounces like a small child when she talks about her DJing work. I also ran into Fuzzygoth Dave and other Glasgow goths, from whom I learned that Alex P had woken that morning on the rocks in Whitby harbour, whilst Joe had woken in neighbouring Scarborough, neither of them with any idea how they got there. Joe had apparently spent over a hundred pounds on drink shortly beforehand, which goes some way toward providing an explanation.
When we got home, collecting gorgeous edible thingies from the chocolate shop along the way, it was mid afternoon, but I was tired and in need of a rest, so I sat and read for a while - A Wrinkle in the Skin, which is a surprisingly awful little book by John Christopher, and a disappointment to one such as myself who has always enjoyed the world ending catastrophe sub-genre. We had dinner when the others got home, then tarted ourselves up for a night out at the Spa. I was feeling rather under-dressed, in an outfit which I'd worn once before, with lime green lace and black fishnet and cut-off PVC hotpants; especially since Adsevin was sporting a stunning red ballgown which she'd purchased that afternoon; but I had caffeine pills (Boots' fake pro-plus), which enabled me to feel a little more lively. At the Spa we found ourselves one of our usual tables at the back beside the windows, where it's easy to socialise. I wandered for a while, though I could find hardly any people I knew, which was a bit weird. The bands didn't sound particularly interesting, but at least there was drink. Tal and Trizia and Fury arrived, soon to be followed by Giolla and Nik Strychnine, so we had our wee posse together. Then, halfway through the night, there was the prodigal David, who at least had a god excuse; he was limping, with his feet wrapped up in bandages, after an allergy reaction caused him horrible injuries. At least he managed the most interesting footwear of the weekend. ;) Since it was easy to make space there, he was deposited at my table. It didn't take me long to be sure that he was exactly the same way as I had always expected him to be, having read his posts for something like seven years, yet never previously having met him in the flesh. Shortly thereafter, Dag also joined us. He is much prettier than I had expected, which explains a few things he's bitched about in posts to alt.gothic. He was also very cool to hang out with. I was delighted to spend my time with such lovely people, so we ended up just sitting around talking for most of the night; and David blew the traditional netgoth pick-up line by waiting until I'd changed back into my regular boots before he offered his compliments. Since he could hardly walk, he decided that we should all go back to his place, where he could hold court (and where Dag and Ian Sturrock were staying anyway). Amazingly, Dag managed to obtain a taxi with scarcely any effort; extracting David from conversation with every stranger he passed on the way to it was harder, but we managed, and were soon back in the palatial Georgian house which Edvamp had managed to secure (it so sucks that he couldn't make it himself), where, mercifully, there was coffee. We talked for a while and then, just before other people arrived, David passed out. A mixture of sympathy and amusement restrained us from waking him. We talked for another couple of hours, with Donald draping himself across the furniture in a thoroughly inconsiderate way (considering certain people's unrequited lust), then wandered home with a bouncy as ever JV, who was on his way up to the graveyard. I was tempted to join him, but knew I would need sleep if I were to survive the rest of the weekend. I was certainly right there. Shame I only managed about three hours before the dawn woke me.
On Saturday morning there was more shopping to be done, and this time I was determined to find something decent to waste my money on. Fortunately, the gothic bring and buy stall was a bit more lively. I got rubber trousers, a green and black bodiced dress and a wee flimsy silver dress there for under thirty quid. I also purchased a black PVC Vortex mini-skirt with shiny green patches and a holographic printed top which Vagabonds had on sale. It'll be a while before I get the chance to wear all this stuff. ;) Afterwards I went down to the beach. I hadn't been to the sea for over a year, and I really missed it. There was no-one else easily available to kidnap, but I actually enjoyed getting a bit of quiet time on my own. I walked across the sand to the very edge of the waves. Stood gazing out at the western horizon. My old friend and sparring partner the North Sea rushed up to greet me and embraced my boots with cold salt water and sand. I felt oddly lacking in desire. Usually the sea seems to call to me. This time, I had my feet firmly rooted on the ground. Perhaps I was waiting for something. Eventually, I turned my back and walked off in the direction of the pub.
Various of my friends were in the pub, and I soon learned that Donald had recently been seen heading homeward, so, after a quick lunch, I did likewise, and got in without a problem (there are never enough keys for these places). Soon afterwards I got a call from EdwardS and Siani, and managed to direct them across the town to the cottage, where they were to stay with us. Siani was just as I had expected, which was good. :) Both of them were tired, but managed to drag themselves out again when they realised how little time remained in which to shop. I curled up on the couch and tried to take a nap, but failed. When The Emperor Penguin and Adsevin returned, it was time for dinner, then I sat about finishing making my clothes for the evening; my enormous translucent blue plastic ballgown skirt (from a mattress cover donated by Kirsty) and my clear PVC lace-up top with picture inserts from David Cronenburg's Crash to suit the evening's Film and TV theme. This seemed to be very popular at the Spa, where several people asked to take my picture, both for their private collections and for publications; hopefully it was good advertising for my business as I ran about handing out flyers. We were there quite early, so the place was quiet at first, and it was easy to get things done. I even danced for a while, with Dag, before the floor got too crowded. We shared our usual table with a friend of Karl's, called Nanny, who was undertaking a challenge by a 'friend' (who, as I guessed, turned out to be her ex husband) to the effect that she couldn't be photographed posing with a hundred men in one night. Naturally, there were plenty of men willing to volunteer, with little persuasion needed, and she eventually racked up a total of two hundred and ten; so not only would the challenger be obliged to leave his jaguar at home and drive a fluorescent pink robin reliant to work for a week, he would also be obliged to buy her twenty one bonus bottles of champagne. A pretty good haul for one evening, I thought. It was, in general, a night filled with tarting; inevitably, I ended up sitting on David, whilst Iona in turn sat on me, showing off a gorgeous embroidered grey dress; I kissed her very cautiously, mindful of her Typhoid Mary reputation, but it must have been alright anyway, because she snogged Donald for some time and he was okay. Thereafter I requested that would-be photographers lend me some lipstick first - damn it, what is the world coming to when one can wander round a goth event and find nobody with that vital bit of make-up? I found another couple of people eager to make the mess worse. What do they teach them at goth school these days? Eventually, to my delight, I encountered Eleanor, who is always too much of a lady to be without her little bag of cosmetics, and, using Giolla's shades as a mirror, I was finally able to fix my face. Ah well... I'm sure that there were those who had a rougher evening. I was told about Coeur drinking thirty eight vodkas to put himself in a party mood, then falling to the floor, crawling to a nearby bed and promptly falling off the other side of it again.
Since David was determined to have another attempt at holding a party, this time without passing out, it was decided that his house would once again be the venue for the evening's later entertainments. Leaving Donald entangled happily beneath three enthusiastic admirers, I headed back with Dag, escorting the first wave of party-goers; this was fortunate, since it took two of us to find the place. Once inside, H Duffy and Siani immediately resumed their conversations about lesbian sheep, whereafter it became difficult to discuss any topic without it somehow leading to bestiality. Although I had no alcohol with me, there was plenty of drink to go around, and Pussybat, though there only briefly, gave me a beer. I was tired, though, and more than anything I was glad of Dag's coffee. As my friends wandered off, numerous strangers arrived, mostly Sahf Lahndahn goffs in expensive clothes with expensive drugs and a sort of anti-punk attitude that made my blood crawl. I didn't feel that I had the energy to be fluffy and nice in that situation. Hung around for a while, noting that (with careful phrasing) David and Dag had Rose McGowan on their couch, but I only felt more awkward then because my accent had already become so homogenised by the presence of my various friends, and she was still speaking strong Glaswegian after some ten years in exile. David escorted me upstairs so that I could rest for a while (my intention being to stay there until most of the clientele had left)... and then we had an accident. Aw, shite, I guess it was always inevitable. "This is what happens when we don't have thousands of miles between us." It did mean that there was a good excuse for not returning to the party, though certain portions of the party did their best to find their way to us. "There are people shagging in the bathroom! How dare they!" "What are they on?" "A bed." "This place is weird. Why would anybody put a bed in a bathroom?" Etc...
The following morning, my plastic clothes being somewhat the worse for wear, I borrowed an AGSF t-shirt, its smug slogan all the more ironic given that my eyeliner had not been smeared but the bottom half of my face was a bloody mess. Ah well; these things happen. Down in the kitchen I made a brief attempt at rehydration, then decided it was better to resort again to caffeine. Got to chat with Ian for a while, which was cool, and had the opportunity to catch up on world news, though this contained nothing surprising. Then it was time to go to the pub, where I found Paul and Augeus and Donald, and discovered that Donald had blown his ample chances of fun on the previous night by passing out as he leant over our bed to get alcohol he had promised to a party. Poor thing. I was, however, somewhat envious of his rested, energetic look. Whilst the others set off for the netgoth meal, he and I wandered home together, meeting several friends who asked me "Who hit you?", sounding, as they always do, more worried about what I might invite for myself than about what nasty people might do to me. I reassured them that there hadn't been a fight, though by that time I was staggering, too, in dire need of more caffeine. Or sleep? Nah, sleep wasn't working by that point. When I got back, I found that Siani and EdwardS had already returned from the netgoth meal, ranting about how shite Trenchers is and how it sat everybody in random groups at a distance from one another. Ach, I can't say that I'm surprised. Sadly, they were packing up their things, ready to depart, since EdwardS had to work the next day. I packed up a lot of my things so that they could take them back home for me, leaving space in The Emperor Penguin's car for David (which had, incidentally, been arranged prior to anything else happening). Everyone ate a good big meal, though I left out the bits of carrot in my food, because I figured they might tempt fate. "They'll be there anyway." EdwardS cautioned. "Sure," I said, "but that way I'll know they're somebody else's."
It took me quite a few more caffeine pills to summon up the strength, and there was no way I was dragging my bruised body into my preferred green sequinned dress, but I pulled on a green and black lace dress instead, put a heavy scarf in my hair so that my head was held upright in imitation of alertness, and headed off for 'eighties night. Unfortunately, Laughtons had a problem with its licensing, so the event had been moved to The New Angel, the best anybody could arrange at short notice, which had a dancefloor the size of a postage stamp with the corner chewed off, and precious little space besides that. We crammed ourselves into a small corner by the DJ booth, the rest of our posse soon joining us there, David bouncing (able to stand at last) because GothPat and Scary Lady Sarah were spinning vinyl. The music was great, and I would really have loved it, but I scarcely had the energy to stand; with the caffeine in my system, my body was demanding more oxygen, of which the crowded building had a strictly limited supply, so I had to support myself by holding on to something or someone most of the time. I also had to keep pulling my dress up, since it was doing its best to escape (did I lose that much weight in three days? Eep!), though it was better after wee Laura kindly gave me a safety pin. Since my hand had been stamped, I sat outside for a while, chatting to friendly strangers and enjoying the cool air against my skin, but the bouncers, confused by the great tide of people, soon forbade that, and I was ushered back indoors. I really wanted to hang out with my friends, but it wasn't working. For a while I sat on some steps, Dag beside me to fend off the folk who might have trodden on me otherwise. He was really sweet, but I didn't want to spoil his night, and I realised I wasn't going to get better; I was going to have to leave. I hurried around my dear friends to assure them that, afterward, there would be a party at my place for those able to make it; then I had to say my goodbyes.
By the time I was crossing the swing bridge, I felt much better. It was clear that I wasn't completely exhausted, it had just been that taxing environment which had brought me close to collapse. Big lungfulls of cool air did a lot to restore my strength. Good. After a debacle like that, I was aware that I had a reputation to repair. As soon as I got home I set to work, using lipstick to inscribe obscure signs of the sort which would attract the attention only of regular readers of alt.gothic, and these I distributed along the route from Church Street to my cottage, in a treasure hunt stylee. The escaping dress was annoying me, so I slipped into something more comfortable - red velvet and sequins and my favourite ragged old black shirt - and curled up on the couch in a further futile attempt at sleep. The Emperor Penguin and Adsevin came back briefly on their way to go walking by the Abbey. It was a beautiful moonlit night. I got myself a beer, managed to eat some chocolate, and settled down to read my book. Shortly thereafter, David and H Duffy arrived, both of them also having problems coping with the crowds in the New Angel, so we sat about and drank and talked. My flatmates returned, and then Dag showed up, having miraculously survived Donald's typically awful directions, and having been told to fuck off by several locals whose doors he had knocked on in the process. Poor thing; I'm glad he persevered. He was glad, too, when he discovered Donald's bottle of Talisker. He even agreed to sit on the couch with the rest of us instead of moping in a corner. David admired his boots and he completely missed the point. He drank at a frightening speed, especially for one who had already consumed twelve pints of beer and two double shots of Bells (which I shall not call 'whisky'). We suggested that he try to wait ten minutes between gulps, but those minutes really seemed to drag for him, so that he would be reaching for the bottle again after four. Watching him bounce up and down the stairs several at a time, always just managing to avoid smashing his head open on the low beams, was most entertaining. Hearing him profess his love of alcohol above all else was slightly disturbing, but not altogether surprising for a Scandinavian goth. Are they all like that?
Giolla came by later with two more bottles of drink and about thirty pounds' worth of jelly beans, which were deposited in a large bowl on the floor. When Donald got back, also very drunk, he and Dag ate them by the handful, which the rest of us felt was rather missing the point. Donald swiftly became horizontal, having difficulty lifting his head off the floor (though he looked very happy, and took Dag's side in the ongoing argument), so his accounts of what else had happened at the New Angel were somewhat incoherent; it did sound as if everyone had a good time. I wish I could have been there, but, ach, I guess one can't have everything.
David had arranged to meet a whole lot of other netgoths back at his place the following morning, so he set off there shortly before noon. I got myself tidied up, wishing we had eggs so that I could mix up some better prosthetic skin for my chin, and I ate some chocolate and wandered up to the pub with Donald. Dag had already left; Adsevin saw him in the chocolate shop, where he told her how pleased he was that he'd been miserable and melancholy the night before (he'd been positively bouncing about it... hmm...), and she tried (in vain, I think) to explain to him that he hadn't been thrown out, and that we do actually really like him. Other remaining goths gathered in the Elsinore to say goodbyes and arrange reunions. David and his flatmates were there, having just been thrown out of their abode; the lease had expired rather earlier than they had expected. David had arrived just in time to rescue my clothes from a cleaning woman and her small bouncing child. The others had (now famously) identified his jacket by his condoms. At least Karen was happy, having pulled somebody whom she'd known online for two months, and, it seems, having fallen deeply in love. Donald was of the opinion that she wasn't the only one inclined to fall in love with that particular cute little fishnetted thing. She was lamenting the difficulty of maintaining a relationship when they lived in different counties. I concentrated on my pint. As the others left, Donald took David and his stuff back to our cottage, and I went to talk to the lovely Fury, whom I had scarcely had time for all weekend, and to dear Augeus, whose woman had not been in a party mood, so that, sadly, he had missed all the various gatherings. I tried to get some lunch, along with Giolla, but I couldn't manage a whole potato, only cheese. After one more pint, I decided I was really overtired, and I headed home.
Back at the cottage, the others ate dinner, and I managed a couple of liqueur chocolates. The local news ("today this school recorder group had a special visit from the mayor...") was turned off in favour of some new band compilation CDs David had acquired, which everyone agreed were truly dreadful. Gradually, guests began to arrive. Some of them had just been to a bonfire party, where a small child had protested "Who invited you?", and had then decided to walk into the fire because Giolla was standing there; he was quickly carried out, since he was wearing shellsuit trousers. Don't try this at home, kids. Giolla is always well armoured, and also rather less likely to be upset by being burned... What followed was a rather peculiar party in which the couch became a focus for debauchery whilst other groups chattered inanely about clothes and a cute little punk boy bounced around in disturbing flares. We tried to be sociable, but the wide eyed locals protested that even a simple drinking game like I Never was "too intellectual" for them. When they asked "Can we play murder in the dark?" it was seriously tempting. ;) Eventually, we had Giolla, so perfectly suited to it, play the Pied Piper and lead them all out into the sea, whilst we made ourselves comfortable with unpleasant leftover drinks and Karl's still more frightening cocktails (one of which he named 'CS Gas'). It was a pleasant ending to an exhausting but rather wonderful weekend.
The following day, we dozed for hours, robbed, as one often is in these situations, of any sense of urgency. Eventually, Adsevin popped by to explain that it was half past two. Oops. So we got up, and got the packing done, and had food and that sort of thing; and before we knew it, it was dark. The Emperor Penguin and David both had to sit on the boot of the car to get it closed. They were concerned that it would spring open somewhere along the motorway, causing us to crash. I pointed out that, in such an instance, the first thing to hit the tarmac would undoutedly be my David Cronenberg top. Curled up in the back between Donald and David (had to, actually, to fit in all the bags). I can't think of many better ways in which I might experience my first car crash. It didn't happen, though. Everything went smoothly. I think that's what perplexed me most about this whole Whitby event. So unlike the others. No time for angst or disaster. Easy enough to make me deeply suspicious. Heh. ;) So we drove off at last along the quiet blue-black country lanes, faint lights shimmering ahead, The Jesus and Mary Chain on the stereo; and then later, when plans began to be discussed, Die Artze: Ist Das Alles?
This way to go back to Jennie's Whitby Gothic Weekend reviews page.