Whitby Review, April 2002: Warm Leatherette

This was a Whitby many weeks in the making, being the first at which I had a stall to run, so that I was working frantically for three weeks beforehand trying to finish clothes, most of which went into a big box to be delivered to Karl's house, since his parents had generously agreed to help out with temporary storage. The final day before leaving I spent making my own clothes, as well as packing, so I was pretty tired when Wednesday came around, but I got up early, trusting Erith (romycin) to be on time with the car. Getting that side of things sorted went remarkably smoothly, and we were out of town by eleven a.m. It was around then that I realised this was to be no ordinary Whitby Gothic Weekend.

It was an interesting day to travel three hundred miles in a lovely wee car like Horus, a car driven by my new boyfriend, so soon after the seemingly prophetic death of Linda Lovelace. In the bright sun I could scarcely take my eyes off his delicate wrists against the steering wheel, recalling the screech of shiny black tape as I had ripped it the night before while preparing a dress. Donald had just given up on his thinning hair and shaved his head, so he too was looking rather striking, in his new little round black shades, albeit disconcertingly like a poster boy for the Nazi party - he had self-consciously avoided packing any black shirts. They played bleep music, mostly Aphex Twin and stuff by some DJ called David Holmes, but for the most part I managed to tune it out. We played a game called Feathers and Fur, in which the object was to count and compare different types of roadkill. Feathered things were way in the lead for most of the journey, but the brave sacrifice of several rabbits and a poor wee flat mouse as we approached our goal gave fur the prize at twenty five to twenty during the final approach to our seaside destination. Also seen were a dead car, a dead orange, and a dead cassette tape; and six creatures so mangled that their specific identity could not be discerned. Horus was careful and did not hit anything himself except bugs.

On Thursday morning, despite my best intentions, I awoke bright and early, being still on a schedule for work. A good big fried breakfast was cooked, after which Donald and I went shopping. It's always important to be among the first to the charity shops if one wants a chance of getting the good stuff. I found a gorgeous wee lace-up black velvet bodice, which I am very pleased with, and also a little snow leopard print crop top and a pair of long shiny black PVC gloves which are not of dress quality, but which will, I am sure, come in handy for other things. The chocolate shop is also an essential point of purchase, and there I stocked up on the liqueuers and jelly beans which would guarantee I could eat something during the rest of the week, no matter how much I might exhaust myself. We swung by the pub to say hello to friends, and to discover the loss of Kieran's hair, then grabbed food in Chattaways cafe, where they do a fine cheese baked potato. Donald decided that we should walk back, and that we should take what I had appraised as the long way, because he thought there must be a means to access the river path; that might have been nice, but unfortunately it didn't work out; the sun was hot and by the time we got halfway home I was flagging, suffering from heatstroke. I'm much better at handling these things since being on my medication, though. Donald fussed sweetly but unnecessarily. Back at the cottage I drank lots of water, ate salty cheese biscuits, took and extra calcium pill and then relaxed into a bath. I was soon feeling better. It was also good to get rid of the general bruises and aches and pains which come with pushing oneself doing physical work. My lower right arm, in particular, was experiencing the most obnoxious twinges, the legacy of too much sewing, too much typing, and too many hand jobs. It would be nice to say that I planned to rest it over the holiday week, but, alas, something has to lift the beer. Such is life.

Whilst the others wandered around town and the river, I fixed my skin, shaving and oiling and doing all that boring medical stuff, whilst watching a couple of queer mallards courting by the waterfront. I combed my hair with my fingers, since I had naively left the packing of a hairbrush to Donald, who usually takes care of such things. Oops. I put on my newly discovered and altered red velvet cocktail dress, which finally gave me a chance to wear the red glass beaded silver choker which always strangles me if I sweat or snaps free if I mosh, making it an impossible accessory for most social occasions. I cooked up a bit of pasta for dinner; then, when the others had returned and dined, we drove back into town to go to the pub. It was only about half past seven, but already the place was so crowded that folk were spilling out into the street. It being a nice night, that wasn't so bad. It was still quite possible to access the essential things - the toilets and the bar. So I drak a few pints of Murphy's and caught up with people. Lapis, whom I hadn't expected to see there - it had been an awfully long time! And her husband Matt, whom I met for the first time. Giolla, with the Joker in his hat singed from last November's fire. Fuzzygoth Dave, newly off the Glasgoth bus and happily plastered. Fury, shivery but full of energy for argument and fun; she was the first of several people to tell me Erith was cute and ask where I found him. I ought to make up some suitably glamorous and far-fetched lie. He and I handed out listerine squares (the first one's free!) to interested netgoths, some of whom were unimpressed, others of whom became impressively ecstatic after purely bucal contact. We all wandered between the Elsinore and the Little Angel, drinking and flirting and generally having fun, up until closing time, at midnight, which seems so early, but is not so bad when everyone's tired. Donald went home with Lapis whilst Erith and I returned to the cottage.

Unfortunately, lying in the next morning was out of the question, as that was the day that I was scheduled to run my Incarnadine stall in the Bizarre Bazaar. Donald staggered home just as Erith and I were making ready, and headed to his bed as we drove the boxes up to the Spa. There was some minor difficulty in establishing just where we were supposed to be, but the location was quite adequate, and we got set up well enough. I worked for most of the morning on my own. Erith went into town to shop. It was quiet, but I was very sleepy, unfortunately projecting an aura of exhaustion which probably deterred customers. I sold only a few pieces of jewellery. When Erith returned, he brought water, and also a strange new kind of hula hoop which come in little cubes, and he bounced enthusiastically at customers, which terrified some but attracted others, seeming to work well overall. I took a break and got myself some chips and cheese (I am grateful that the Spa's caterers have familiarised themselves with Scottish cuisine); ate them upstairs, then wandered around the Bazaar myself, taking the opportunity to shop. I found a gorgeous black velvet bodice with long peculiar sleeves and white lace trim, well suited to my current fondness for sharp contrasts in monochrome. I also got a wee second hand PVC waspie, and, to my great delight, a second hand black velvet coat. I've needed a new long black coat for about a year and a half, but have been unable to find anything I liked, especially in comparison to my beloved but disintegrating old one. This was just thirty pounds, comfortable and just generally lovely.

Erith did a wonderful job on the stall while I was away, to the extent that I worried that I was cramping his style when I came back. I regretted my inability to pay him, but, well, I guess these things balance out. We sold three garments in all, and a lot of jewellery, and a few soft toys, including a purple Spiny which precisely matched the purple one year old who fell in love with it. Got a lot of useful trade contact stuff done. Had difficulty packing up at the end, having misplaced our alum key, but Marge (the Girl who Wanted to be God) was there and was wonderful as always, and rescued us, so we left her the rest of the hula hoop things upon our late departure. Drove home to find Donald cooking one of his delicious risottos for dinner, which was no mean feat in the poky little kitchen, the kind of place designed for people who eat only things heated up out of packets. Being very tired, it was good to sit down and relax and eat. I wasn't sure, though, where I might find the energy for the evening of entertainments ahead, so I resorted to the augmented caffeine pills which had worked so well for me six months before, whilst the others just drank tea. I wore my new bodice with the only skirt which suited it, and put my hair up in lace scarves, and probably looked girlier than I have ever done in Whitby before. Though people gave me compliments, I felt a little odd, rather as though I were in disguise. Anyway, we went on out, and Karl and Tal and Triz had captured a table as per our standard arrangement, though it was an extremely squished one, near the bar, vulnerable to surges of careless queue. We had a couple of beers and talked. Some perky bimbo came up flyering for a band called Accion Directe (cute name, shame about the music, which was, shall we say, uninspired) and insisting that we "stop looking so miserable."

"Why shouldn't we look miserable?" I demanded, not entirely serious, though entirely sincere. "We're fucking goths, aren't we?"

"Goths aren't miserable!" she giggled in her dizzy pinkness, and I withdrew my attention, broken claws scraping on the underside of the table. It might have been amusing if she hadn't seemed so surely to mean it. Um, sorry, wee girlie, but how old are you? And who put you in charge? Variety is fine and all, but it bothers me when the scene begins to cater to the clueless. It transpired that this incident was but a minor symptom of a greater malaise. Erith caught it when enquiring after the name on a blue netgoth tag, to be informed that its owner was 'an IRC goth' and didn't know who he was. Okay, this was never meant to be an exclusive clique thing, but it was meant to have some limits, and thus some relevance. The whole netgoth thing was a means of identifying a usenet community which anyone might join but which was nevertheless specific. At this point, there were born the seeds of the Grand High Netgoth Inquisition, and, over the course of the weekend, a number of inquisitors were recruited. Next time, we shall be ready to do something about this unholy dilution of the faith.

As that evening wore on, I began to experience a now familiar problem with my medication. I think it happens when I have both caffeine and alcohol as well (either one seems to be alright on its own); it has been theorised that these distract the parts of my brain which would ordinarily control the problems caused by my hydroxychloroquine sulphate. My doctors' principal suspicion (though we must wait longer to be sure) is that this interferes with the optic nerve, so that messages from my eyes are distorted on their way to my brain, causing visual disturbance and nausea, and a sort of hypersensitivity also as my other senses try to compensate. I felt that one coming on, so it didn't get bad, but nevertheless I was not much able to enjoy myself when I had to keep concentrating to avoid feeling ill. Erith was tired, so he very generously left early with me, and drove me back to the cottage, where I was at least fit for the sort of things which one can do with one's eyes closed.

The following morning I felt much better, not least because I managed to sleep right through till ten a.m. I went to check on Donald then; he had come back alone and slept well, and not minded the walk, so that was okay. I refreshed myself with a shower while he cooked breakfast. In the afternoon we all went back into town to have a last look at the bazaar, where I bought a second hand purple cocktail dress with black lace overlay; and then we spent an hour in the second hand bookshops down by the harbour, where I found a wonderful huge pile of comparatively rare HG Wells novels and essay collections. Hooray! We bought about fifteen books between us all. I was a little disappointed that there was no Ballard; the shop's owner said that it and the rest of the Brunner had been purchased that very morning by some other goth. I guess one can't get to everywhere first. We attempted to hunt down the offender, but our investigations floundered after we determined that it was neither Hirez nor Augeas.

Back at the flat, I stole one of Erith's anthologies and read an Algis Budrys short story while he cooked delicious salmon in creme fraiche. We drank a nice bit of Ruddles and were so contented with our full stomachs that it was nearly ten p.m. before we got around to organising ourselves to go to the Spa. I wore my thigh boots with my newly designed dress, constructed from clear PVC in which were encased a number of personal adverts (some obscene and some disturbingly fluffy, a delightful demonstration of human variety) which I had cut out from New York newspapers. It was a little stiff, but functional. Ahem. Donald was still rather dressed down, as he has to re-learn that sort of confidence following his illness, but he didn't need to try to get attention, since he had sxxxy deth chyx falling over one another to get to stroke his head. Meanwhile, Erith made an anti-fashion statement with safety-pinned blue jeans on which his little sister had drawn crosses. He got nasty looks from a number of ponygoffs. Dudes, like we'd care!

Due to the greater popularity of the bands, the main room of the Spa was less crowded than it had been the previous night, which made it easier to wander around and socialise. There wasn't a great deal going on, though; the whole atmosphere was rather subdued. This may have been because a high proportion of people already seemed to be ill, and many more complained of tiredness. I got my ill reaction gradually catching up on my again, though I was able to suppress it until the end of the night, and my friends were very helpful in coming to sit close and still while we talked. I got to appreciate Paul C's splendid new silicone breasts and angular corset, whilst Fury competed by balancing bottles of alcopop in her generous cleavage, using a straw to ensure she could still get at the drink. As the night wore away, everyone was looking for a party, and a few possibilities presented themselves, but nothing good seemed to come through, and I really didn't feel up to going to the graveyard, for all that I had long ago promised jv. So Donald and Erith and I wandered the streets for a while, then went to Bits n' Pizzas, which was full of goths and bouncy, friendly staff dancing to the Kerrang music channel (one can't expect it all, I suppose). There we got a very tasty (and very big) peperoni pizza and read in the Whitby Gazette about teenage joyriders who had driven a stolen car around (three) local streets at the shocking speed of eighty five miles per hour before being chased by police and crashing into Woolworths. Apparently they received cautions. Woolworths appeared none the worse for wear. Hmm. We summoned a taxi, and went off back to the cottage to sleep.

On Sunday there were books, so there was little communication within our household, nor any perceived need for it, and we were in no rush to go anywhere. Small town England mostly shuts on Sundays anyway. I curled up with a copy of Alan Llewellyn's The Strange Invaders and a bag of brandy liqueuers. Donald had Brunner and Erith had Aldiss. Donald also had a cold, so he decided he was going to spend the whole day at home. He hadn't been terribly impressed by the planned events of the weekend anyway. Erith declared that goths are browsing animals, so we didn't bother to cook, simply existing on snacks until half past four, when it was time to start tarting up to go to 'eighties night. My green sequinned dress didn't work, so I just threw on an old black lace ra-ra skirt and some lace bras and assorted necklaces, binding my hair with a mass of shiny rags and ribbons scraped off the floor of my sewing room. Erith wore a suit, with carefully trashed 'windblown' spiky hair. It was genuinely windblown by the time we got into town. The new ticket scheme for 'eighties night was much appreciated, as we were able to confirm our attendance and then bugger off to the pub. Seven is far too early to go to any club, plus they only have shite drink there; in the Elsinore we drank a few pints of Murphys whilst hanging out with Vargr and chatting to assorted passers-by. Shapes made from string and bright lycra gyrated in the distance, clearly enjoying their weekend, but we wondered what they were doing at ours. The popularity of the event, or of the scene itself, has clearly grown to the point where it is attracting those who have nothing to do with it, and the sad thing is that it has begun to cater to them more than to anyone else. Vargr lamented not having heard the Sisters all weekend. It was then that I began to scheme toward the establishment of a new night for the latter days of Whitby Gothic Weekends. I shall see if I can find a suitable small venue, and we shall have a night for mopey music and old punk tunes and all the stuff which DJs ordinarily reject as too bitter, the requests which cause them to exclaim that everyone will leave, slit their wrists, or become horribly depressed. I want to reclaim a space in which those of us who still remain can acknowledge our delight in the darker side of things. I bounced this proposal around for the rest of the week, and found a lot of support for it, especially as there's never enough physical space for everyone at the existing events anyway. So, we shall see.

At about half past eight, we wandered down to Laughtons, where Tal and company had secured the best possible table, a big one near the door which had coat space, seating space and air! As Erith sat marvelling at his passage back in time, I leapt onto the dancefloor for Get Into the Groove, then hastened to fetch armfuls of pints of water, as many as I could carry. Crash came shortly afterwards, an old favourite, and then Ninety Nine Red Balloons (I would have preferred the German version, but whatever), which only seems to get more relevant these days. By that point it had become extremely difficult to get onto the dancefloor due to the mass of speeding children all energy and no etiquette, but I was content to dance at the side. I was bouncing and happy, and Erith seemed to enjoy himself too, though he remained in his corner feeling lost, the gap between our ages more obvious than ever.

It turned around upon the playing of Tubeway Army's Together in Electric Dreams. I ran up for that one, expecting the usual excitable crowd of netgoths who would hurl themselves together celebrating the means by which we hold onto contact with one another after the end of such events, when we are once again geographically far apart. It used to be very much acknowledged as our song, and a dear thing. But that night, on that dancefloor, I didn't see a single other netgoth. I scarcely saw anyone over twenty. I drew back, disturbed. Some subtle change had worked itself whilst I had scarcely noticed. 'Eighties night had ceased to become an extension of the scene which so many of us loved back then, and had instead become a parody, with parts played out by actors who scarcely understood their lines. Actors who never stood still for a second during Vogue. Actors who embraced Kylie without even the defence of irony. It became clear that the netgoths had left the building. I stumbled back to my seat. Creatures in knee socks and trainers gambolled on the steps. This was not evolution. Goth is dead, I thought, and no-one cares. I felt that I was breaking up with a lover whose flaws I ought to have noticed long ago.

Long live the new flesh.

Erith had also been making his observations, and he understood my distaste. We left at about ten o'clock, making our way back to the pub. There was Gothpat, who had not been permitted to DJ at 'eighties night. Scary Lady Sarah, also rejected, was apparently away at the Metropole (which we had figured would simply be too crowded). I doubt either of them would have let that thing happen. The pub was surprisingly crowded. We hung around and drank. Schemed with Hirez and chatted to an extremely drunken Lapis. David came and talked for a while, having been wary of speaking to me all weekend. Well, that's cool, because I don't really want to hang around with him, though I am happy to be friendly and I was glad to hear that he'd been having fun. He congratulated me on the way that things have been going with me and Erith, which I thought was really very sporting of him. And, well, I am really happy; what can I say?

Later, in the pizza place, we watched video of the previous night's goth visitors, and we met a young Glasgoth whom no-one had ever seen before, though apparently he's been to one Bedlam. He was very fluffy and lost looking; I asked him to say hello at my stall next time, because he seems as if he ought to be adopted by somebody, or at least introduced to everyone. After we had eaten, Erith and I wandered back down toward Laughtons to speak with those who were leaving. They came straggling out, all somewhat subdued; there was no bubbling crowd about the doors as has previously been the case. So we got a taxi home.

We spent part of Monday afternoon in the pub, saying goodbye to those who were leaving, and looking at Dave the Hat's photos, since he was among the last people there to have taken paper ones. It was a pleasant tradition. Now we simply squint at the backs of one another's digital cameras, though soon shall come the age when we are sitting in the pub gazing at laptop displays. A trip to the chocolate shop produced presents for our friends and loved ones back home, then we sat around and munched truffles until it was time to go home for dinner. Another risotto thing. Yummy.

On Monday night, there was the beach party. Wrapped up warm, we got a cab to the Duke of York, then hastened down the steps onto the small stretch of beach beyond. It was a clear, bright night, with a mass of stars visible in the purple sky; we could see, there, the planetary alignment which occurs only once every hundred years; Mercury, Venus, Mars, Jupiter and Saturn all in a row. The sea lapped steadily against the shore. Schoolchildren sent us Morse signals from the distant bandstand. In the centre of the beach (a thoroughly impractical place, far from shelter) a fire had been built from driftwood, stacked up around a tall twisted bough which Giolla and Karl had been using for knife throwing practice earlier that day. I found a place at the side of it, just far away enough to avoid my hair blowing too close, and settled down with a can of Caffreys, snuggling into the big black wool scarf which Tal kindly lent me. I suggested that we build a wall of sand for shelter, but no-one was willing to help. The fire had been left unbanked. I watched my men poke at it with sticks, trying to push it into a sensible shape, but by then it was really too late.

It was a beautiful evening, despite the chill of the wind. I took off my boots and ran down into the waves, though no-one would accompany me. I like the feel of the surf against my shins, and the salt smell of it. I splashed around for a while and stood looking at the dark horizon. It is always so tempting to plunge in further, to swim on and on until the cold overcomes me and I drown. I felt the pull of it as always. But there behind me were my friends and my lovers, warm by the fire, chattering loudly and drinking, so I went back, pounding my bare feet on the sand to warm them, and Tal fed me blackberry wine to warm my insides. Giolla had a delicious sloe vodka, too. Since it was almost Beltane, various people proceeded to jump over the fire. Preacher did it best, with an impressive somersault. Others were less accomplished, with the result that the fire got squashed. Various attempts to restore it were made. Erith sacrificed the remainder of his bag of dolly mixture. Several people bravely filled their mouths with bad absinthe and breathed it out across the flames, creating three foot blasts of fire. But the night grew colder. We realised we couldn't find Donald. I left a message for him, and we went up to the Duke of York for another pint. There, Trizia and Karl had already secured a suitable corner. Donald turned up after half an hour or so. He'd been off looking for more wood, and the people he'd informed of that had simply failed to relay the message. We were relieved, and drank heartily. Bartholomew the hippo danced on the tabletop, shedding thick furry layers of outer clothing, more practical than anyone else. When the place closed, we all walked back to Odi's, it being closest, though I had to halt a couple of times along the way to stop Giolla becoming overenthusiastic in showing off his knives to Erith. Once there, the rest of the beer was produced, and also vodka, from which Erith made an evil smelling cocktail involving gummi bear sweets. A game of poker was played. I sat on the sidelines and talked to people, mostly Augeus, who was celebrating his birthday and had eaten so much that he must lie on his back for comfort. Everything went delightfully until Odi decided to climb out of the window onto the edge of the fifth floor roof. Erith had earlier been appointed the voice of his paranoia, on account of his habitual cynicism and baiting; when he coughed, Odi looked back and said "What, are you going to tell me I can't fly now?"

Then he was gone. Aw Hell, I thought, it's like Terry Pratchett at the Central Hotel all over again! One of those situations which must needs be approached delicately. Well, Odi was persuaded to return, but his woman was not best pleased. At that point it seemed polite to leave.

Tuesday was quieter. I got up four hours before either of the others, finished The Strange Invaders and started reading the original novel of Logan's Run. Donald was very sleepy, probably still feeling the edge of his cold, and he said he wanted to remain in the cottage all day, but Erith eventually got up and came into town with me. He was stressed because of personal stuff from back home which had just intruded into his holiday (sometimes mobile phones are truly the agents of evil). I bought him fish and chips and we wandered around for a while, deciding to cheer ourselves up in the arcades, where he beat me at Whack-a-Croc (but only by a wee bit, and he did cheat and hit one of them with his fist), and fifty pence was fed into two pence pushing machines. I bought a small soft grey dolphin which looked appealingly crap, and we sat on the seafront for a while, watching the wind on the water. Drove back home and he made gorgeous orange chicken stuff for dinner. Later in the evening, with Donald feeling better, we all walked into town. The wind had died down and it was a pleasant journey. We couldn't find anyone in the pubs, but for a group of Deutschesgothen whom we didn't know, but we had a last pint for the road. Then we walked up to Royal Crescent, in the hope of finding the flag which allegedly marked Tal and Trizia's flat. We didn't see that, but we did hear, through a bright open window, the distinct sound of Trizia's laughter, at which we shouted, and Spooky appeared at the window, and we were shortly thereafter let in. They were delighted to see us, especially as we had vodka to contribute to their small party. It was a perfect last evening, a time for laughter among friends and the planning of future meetings. I got drunk for only the second time in the week, on vodka with apple and cranberry juice; but not very much so, which was good, as Erith's stress led to him drinking an unwise amount, and I decided it was best to take him home; Donald stayed behind, happily draped across the couch and being stroked. Unfortunately, since it was no longer officially the goth weekend, and we were past midnight in small town England, there were no taxis to be had. My damaged knee was pretty sore, yet there was nothing else for it but to walk, me supporting Erith as best I could. The fresh air was good for us both, anyway, and I think it helped him to have some time in which to talk. On the last stretch of road home, high above the town, we stopped to look at the stars, now more brilliant than ever, and at the aligned planets. At such times, one realises what it is that's really important. I wonder if this Whitby Gothic Weekend has seemed smaller and less remarkable to me because my life is bigger and more remarkable in general. Why would I be so impressed as I used to be by the romance and glamour of a holiday when I am so happy in general, and so much in love with both my men? Why would I ask for the moon, when I have the stars?

When Wednesday morning came around, it was time to leave, but Erith wasn't fit to drive, despite the assistance of paracetemol. Donald and I packed things into Horus as best we could and I fried up the last of the mushrooms with some onions and leeks to make breakfast. We eventually left in the early afternoon. The site owners were perfectly charming and understanding about it. We stopped in town, where Horus wanted to play on the swing bridge, and I picked up a Whitby Gazette, which featured pictures from the weekend, though we scarcely knew anyone in them, only Clive and a distant, out-of-focus Tal. I also bought a much reduced lego dinosaur set which made Donald happy, though he was forbidden to open it in the car and distract Erith from driving. Due to the hassle which Erith was still getting over the phone, we needed to hurry back, but we did stop off for a cup of tea and a bite to eat at Penrith's George Hotel again, where a lovely caterer took pity on us and stayed late to provide us with access to a menu which had officially closed for the day. The sun was getting low as we crossed the border back into Scotland, streaking the hills with gold, and as we drew closer to Glasgow we were greeted by eager sheets of rain. I felt curiously glad to be home, though we all agreed that we had enjoyed the holiday. And that we'll do it all again, in six months' time.

Pictures!

In an exciting new move, I have got off my arse and added pictures to this site. All the ones just here belong to the Whitby Gothic Weekend described above. Simply click on the thumbnails to see the full sized things.

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