Whitby Review, April 2004:
You've got Red on You

This year's journey to Whitby was about the fastest and most trouble-free so far, though Donald and Erith ranted at each other most of the way about almost any available subject ("Pineapple is the stupidest of fruits. And pineapple rings - fuck's sake!"), and we did see an awful lot of dead things, probably casualties of high winds. There were thirty dead birds, seventeen dead mammals, eight unidentifiable (though distinctly meat-based) smears, one dead giant bee (it looked about five inches long!) and one dead orange. There were no human casualties, however. A sign beside one stretch of road proclaimed 'Fifty one casualties in the past year. A fifty four percent improvement. Well done!' We had a tasty lunch at Peaberry's in Penrith, and reached Whitby by half past four in the afternoon. This enabled us to do the shopping and eat a couple of pizzas for our dinner before it was time to head out to the pub.

The pub that night was much quieter than last time, the first indication that numbers were going to be lower overall, though that made little difference to the amount of excitement and drama. I enjoyed that first night being a relaxed night, supping a few pints with Fuzzy Dave and Paul and Tal and Fury, the latter of whom gave me a beautiful amethyst pendant she'd made for my birthday present last July. Unfortunately, amethyst is traditionally associated with sobriety, which was not my intended state, so I tucked it away to wear after I got home. Despite the quietness of the pub, we met a stranger who tarted at Donald, and this too seemed to set a precedent. I'm not sure what he'd changed about himself, but people kept throwing themselves at him all week. Anyway, on that occasion, we were happy to go straight home at closing time and get some sleep.

I am not good at sleeping in Whitby. I woke up at about five o'clock, feeling bright and alert, and bored, because no-one else would play; so, not realising quite how early it was, I woke up Donald, who was then exhausted for most of the day. Oops. Later, when Erith dragged himself out of bed, I had someone who was prepared to go shopping with me, so off we went to look at second-hand clothes. One or two shops were disappointing, with not nearly as much stuff as usual, but others had made quite an effort; one even had a 'goth' button on its till, and the staff had come to understand that not all black clothes are gothic and that some coloured clothes are, which is not bad going for outsiders. They also observed about our people "Some of them are more goth than others." I was impressed. There was still a shortage of goths in town, however, so Erith and I, along with some poor guy who lives there all year round, were herded together into a photo for the Whitby Gazette. Later, I bought a dark pink sequinned mini-skirt (probably intended as a top, but I'm not the right shape for that) and a silver and black web-lace shawl, a flimsy 'twenties kind of thing; both were very cheap, but, try as I might, I could not find any other opportunity to squander my money. Erith and I sat in Java for a while reading the papers whilst I drank a cherry milkshake, and then I went back to our cottage to read about Sapphists in nineteenth century London. Meanwhile, Donald tested the much-hyped jacuzzi in our bathroom, which was pretty difficult for him to fit in, even alone, but which, at any rate, did not have whirling blades at the bottom, as Erith had suggested.

That afternoon, after hanging on the telephone for quite some time, I was informed that EdwardS and Siani had indeed arrived, bringing my dear Stuart (Potato Junkie) with them, but that he'd managed to forget the directions I'd given him not twenty hours previously, so they had taken the sensible alternative course of action and gone to the pub. I joined them there, leaning against the wall outside, for a pint. Malcolm and Jane came by, and I was glad to talk to them again; and then Tal and Fury arrived and were instantly smitten with Stuart, as I'd warned him people might be, and said they wanted to put him in a pocket and take him home. Before such negotiations could get complicated, however, it seemed wise to return to the cottage and eat dinner. Erith's mother had cooked a delicious lasagne which was enough to feed our cottage's inhabitants and EdwardS, Siani and Stuart, officially residing in nearby Sailing By. There was nice wine, too, and olives, and salad, and Siani bounced about having gone to see Shaun of the Dead, which she agrees is "the best film ever made".

The meal made us all a bit sleepy, but the night was young. I ducked upstairs to get changed into my wedding dress. This may have seemed a bit excessive for a night of standing outside the pub, but I had thought it through, and I was snuggly warm within layers of satin and lace whilst the others froze. Siani curled up on the pavement, using my skirt and assorted other goths as a windbreak, which, of course, only meant that she was routinely abandoned looking after the drink. And a lot of drink was consumed that night. I stopped early, since my medication has been making my stomach delicate of late, and even food had proved to be a bit much; but a glass of water revived me, and I still had a good time. I was sober enough not to get involved when EdwardS went around taking photographs of people's tits, though it took Stuart about ten seconds to lift up his t-shirt, and Donald and Siani took only slightly longer. Standing against a wall with Stuart with his hand up my skirt, trying not to spill drink on the teenager rolling around on her back at my feet with her dress hitched up, I watched as, across the road, Donald tried to fend off the increasingly enthusiastic affections of a certain couple of our acquaintance, and Erith drank more and more heavily, with pints apparently finding their way into his hands as if by magic. I rescued Scary Lady Sarah and Justin from his ranting only to have Stuart proselytize incoherently at them about zombies, and then I was accosted by my friend Lindsay, who made big speeches at me about how I always look beautiful and glamorous and must never look any other way. As I fully expected to get trashed at some point during the week, this strictly expressed warning made me quite nervous. But by that point Stuart was getting cold, so we decided to leave, weaving out of the crowd and past assorted unconscious strangers, stomping back across the harbour to the cottage where, of course, he turned out not to be the least bit tired. Or at least, not without some effort on my part. He was sleeping in my lap by the time the others returned. Donald had found our friend Mary, whose drunken partner had been temporarily misplaced, and an entertaining stranger called Steve, and between them they had managed to steer Erith home despite the fact that he was utterly plastered and kept shouting "Fuck! Assfuck! Cunt! Fuck you, you monkey-fucking fuck!" at everything that moved. He was largely good humoured in his ranting, but it would have been quite understandable if somebody had failed to notice that. Stuart woke up vaguely to ask what sort of monkeys were involved, to which Erith responded, after a moment's hesitation, "Spider monkeys!" I guess that makes them goth, then. After another twenty minutes or so of listening to his monologues, we opened the door to EdwardS and Siani, who had just returned from carrying home a drunken Jezebel. Siani was tired and (briefly) ranted back at Erith, who, to everyone's surprise, leapt up and punched her in the crotch. She sidestepped, and he crashed across the kitchen to the floor. Of course, we all laughed at him for being beaten up by a girl half his size who wasn't even trying and who did actually have one hand behind her back at the time. Siani was sufficiently amused herself to be forgiving. At least no-one had been injured as badly as at a certain other party that night, where Fuzzy Dave and Preacher had been playing the 'hit me as hard as you can' game. Fuzzy had punched Preacher in the throat, at which point Preacher started to have real difficulty, but he still managed to punch Fuzzy in the face. Fuzzy, however, was too drunk to notice. Preacher then collapsed, but was brought back from the point of danger. His woman then arrived, somewhat annoyed after having been told he was only popping round to Fuzzy's for a couple of drinks, and she ran up and booted him in the arse. He was a little the worse for wear the following day.

Sometime the previous afternoon, Donald had had the cunning idea of stretching our leopard-print bedcover over the window to block out the light, so I actually managed to sleep until half past eight that morning. Erith stumbled down from his room not long after, looking decidedly the worse for wear, but apparently still drunk; and he made big tasty fried breakfasts. When these were eaten, I bounced along to Sailing By to collect Stuart, and it was time to shop again. He didn't have much luck, though. Even the bizarre bazaar was a bit dead compared to usual, though I did manage to pick up a pair of tights, white with black polka dots on them. I was pleased to see that, after a gap of several years, there is some innovative work going into long skirts again, but I still didn't see any which I might personally fall in love with. I did, however, purchase one on the second hand stall in the Metropole - a long thin crimson satin piece with interesting lace embellishments which used to belong to Rose and was made by the woman who played Pride in last year's fashion show. This cheered me up somewhat. In the Spa, we sorted out our Whitby tickets, which Whitby Jo, being absolutely wonderful, had left there for us after they failed to be successfully delivered to Kadath. Unfortunately the wristbands were a sort of deep orange colour which clashed with everything, but what can you do? We sat around afterwards talking to assorted friends, eating sandwiches and chips, and meeting a cat on a leash, which was utterly stoned from playing with its catnip mouse; then we headed back to the pub, and thence to the cottage. Stuart and Donald then went out again, to the arcades, where Stuart got the high score on Star Wars Trilogy Arcade; but I was tired, and preferred to relax aching muscles in the jacuzzi. Stuart later took his hosts out to dinner, whereupon Siani ate a plate of mussels bigger (in total) than her head, and EdwardS stuffed his face with garlic bread until the others pointed and laughed at all the crumbs and cautioned "You've got bread on you!"

Friday evening was a time for superheroes, with the result that I actually felt somewhat underdressed in my new candy apple red thigh high PVC boots, despite the number of compliments they received (almost as many as Stuart's Mad Hatter hat attracted earlier). Stuart, in his new yellow and black striped tights worn with rather skimpy swimming trunks, was Bee Man, and Erith, in his black PVC catsuit and harness, was Wipeclean. Together, they fought crime. Unfortunately, they could do nothing to defeat the criminal nature of the bar queue in the Spa, the result of hopelessly inexperienced staff on stupidly long shifts being expected to cope with a constant press of thirsty goths. There was much annoyance at this. Giolla found us and provided a helpful measure of triple-distilled absinthe, but it was still a fairly sober night. Still, we had other matters on which to concentrate our attention, not least of which was The Damned, the band I have most wanted to see at any Whitby ever. Apparently, they hadn't thought the event would be up to much - a few sad old people in black moping about, probably - but then they sat on the wall outside watching people go in and decided they fancied just about everybody. This impression was reinforced when a PVC-clad nun leapt up on the stage and started chasing Captain Sensible about with a riding crop. Well, it was his birthday. We were assured that members of the band would be available later, starting at a fiver. Their set was fucking amazing. They managed to play most of my favourites and quite a bit of more obscure stuff, and they were musically extremely impressive, managing an enormous range of material. Although my knee was arguing with my boots and I couldn't walk too well, I managed to dance a bit, at least to Eloise. At the end, when they were milking it a bit for the obvious encore, I wandered off to the back of the crowd, but I stuck around to see the Captain reappear, wearing a dress, to sing Happy Talk and invite some fifty members of the audience up onto the stage.

Of course, we were all a bit knackered afterwards, and I couldn't walk home, and I wasn't sure about Bee Man's insistence he could carry me (he didn't always look like he could carry himself). So we thought "Let's mug The Damned and take their bus!" But The Damned were not around to be mugged. So happy were they with their drink and their new friends that they didn't leave until nine in the morning, by which time poor Whitby Jo was exhausted and ill; and first, they extracted a promise to let them play next Whitby too. A third day of Spa events was added to the October calendar. Meanwhile, our heroes were very fortunate in locating a taxi, so were able to return to the cottage and pass out like civilised people.

We had decreed that Saturday would be Pirate Day (a few people had been pirates the previous night, but, well, there's always a little bit of looting to be done, isn't there?); so I bounced out of bed at ten and pulled on my white silk pirate shirt, striped tights and velvet culottes. Unfortunately, my captain was still asleep on the couch, and needed tea and raspberry breakfast cereal before he felt able to buckle any swash. Thereafter, the two of us, accompanied by Erith, set out on an adventure along the seafront. A man with a lifeboat asked us if we wanted to take a trip on the sea, but we said that if we wanted a boat we would steal one, thank you very much. Stuart then admitted that he doesn't actually like boats or the sea very much. "I'll be a land pirate." he said meekly. We reminded him that he also gets sick in cars and buses, at which point he concluded that people wishing to be robbed would have to come to him; or else he'd get a big tower and a harpoon gun and drag his prey toward him. For the meantime, he settled for ice cream, and we sat about in the bandstand overlooking the waves. The last bit of his cone precipitated a fearsome seagull fight, our first taste of violence for the day, and then off we went up to the Spa to see if there were any new stalls, but still we had no luck there. Erith offered to buy us lunch at a cafe by the beach, but we discovered it was stupidly expensive, so they had tea and I had a chocolate milkshake. I was fascinated by a notice in the toilets which said 'Place tampons in the bins provided. If you flush them down the toilet, the drains will clog and alarm will sound'. The notion of people's sanitary habits being greeted with alarms was quite amusing, and I had visions of angry waitresses marching across the cafe floor holding up bloody dripping things and demanding "Is this your tampon?" of some unfortunate customer.

After our non-lunch, we went down onto the beach itself, and Stuart decided that it was time for him to make a formal challenge to his enemy, the sea. I felt a little awkward, since the sea and I have been allies for the past few years, old arguments over Norwegians having been resolved; but I do love my pirate captain so, and I'm sure it understood. We carved 'Arrr' into the sand first, to give it fair warning. Stuart then ran back and forth stabbing the waves with his cutlass. Apparently we could tell it was defeated because it didn't muster any kind of attack in response. Erith and I then set off along the path back up to the top of the cliff (or steep grassy slope) to visit the Metropole, but Stuart, deciding he could take on the land too, decided to scale it directly. Unfortunately, he hadn't reckoned on the thistles growing there, so he gained a few injuries, and the handle of his cutlass broke, which quite distressed him. We watched him struggle for ten minutes or so before he finally dragged himself up the last few feet and scrambled over the top to find some old lady sitting on a bench shaking her head at him and laughing. But the land was conquered, all right. Alas, there proved to be nothing much to conquer on the second hand stall, so our bold adventurers bravely wandered home for another cup of tea.

Shortly after our return, the cottage was invaded by EdwardS and Siani, who were very hungry. Donald joined us and we went out in search of afternoon tea, though we managed to totally miss the excellent Whitby Tea Rooms, which were right next door; instead we ended up in a cafe by the marketplace which seemed to be run by two schoolgirls. Seated alone upstairs, it took less than a minute for Stuart and Siani to seize balloons on sticks and start battering each other with them. Naturally, others joined in, though we managed to maintain a pretense of civility when ordering our food. I had a most excellently lurid cherry milk shake which tasted of pink sherbert dib-dab. Siani, somewhat foolishly, had a scone with cream, which ended up all over her face; and EdwardS busied himself with sticking balloons up his t-shirt so that people could take pictures of his tits for a change. Later in the afternoon, there was just time for a game of Zombies!!!, which Donald won; and then it was time to do evening things; and Erith began a strange series of rants about a tractor he'd found amongst his things which he didn't remember buying, and which inspired a bizarre kind of paranoia. "It's not the tractor, it's what the tractor represents." he lamented. Then he said it was ugly. We cautioned that, when one wakes up with things in one's bed which one does not remember acquiring, that's generally not a polite way to begin conversations.

Evening piracy requires a little more glamour than daytime piracy - and either sort trashes clothes quickly - so we made sure to get changed whilst Erith cooked dinner. Donald was sleepy after enjoying another jacuzzi bath, and he said he'd join us later. Up at the Spa, we found several other buccaneer types, some of whom were exquisitely dressed, but none of them seemed to be approaching it as a working evening; they were all terribly sedate. We, on the other hand, were involved in swordfights almost from the moment of our arrival. I had a new cutlass and Siani had a floppy rubber sword, and our duel raged across the pink room at the back of the theatre; I lost a wrist, but she lost both of hers, and then jumped about with the sword gripped between her thighs. I sliced through her waist, and she held the sword in her mouth and kept trying to attack me until I slit her throat. Despite this warning, attacks continued, with a number of young strangers borrowing weapons in order to get in on the action. These events were watched avidly by a number of pirate fans, some of whom described themselves as having pirate fetishes, and Stuart and I had to watch where we stood for the remainder of the night; this was a little easier for me, since I only drank a couple of pints and some benedictine and some absinthe. Stuart was drinking 'pure green', a foul concoction of vodka, medouri, apple sours and sprite 'lemonade', and it soon went to his head. This only made him fiercer toward me, and more amorous, so we had to make a few excursions outside to cool down. On one of these we found a poor wee cat, looking very skinny and underfed, lurking about under The Mission's tour bus. Taking pity on it, we decided that the Whitby Gothic Weekend's charity toward cats should manifest as direct action, and we promptly went back inside to loot some catfood from the big pile Jo had collected. Unfortunately our feline friend had gone when we returned, and we couldn't find it anywhere, so that mission had to be abandoned.

The Mission attracted a huge crowd of fans into the band room. I couldn't really be bothered with them, having seen Wayne Hussey perform their songs solo not six months ago, but they certainly had an effect on the atmosphere. There were overemotional women everywhere, and quite a bit of drama. Poor Donald ended up spending most of his evening dealing with other people's crises. Poor Tal had health problems and was forced to retire early. Stuart only had alcohol problems, but when, fighting against my advice (when he could hardly stand straight), he broke his beloved cutlass on Siani, it all became too much, and he got desperately upset. Without it, he said, he felt "like half a pirate", though I thought the drunken heap he formed on the floor looked very piratical indeed. Anyhow, he chose this moment to deliver some information he really ought to have provided to me before, which I didn't feel in the least bit up to dealing with, so that was the fun over for the evening. We staggered back to Sailing By and clambered up to his little room under the rafters and talked for a long time. I don't know how things are going to go now, but I love him, and I know he loves me, and I hope it can all be alright.

In our absence, Siani and Donald sat on the steps of the Spa waiting for EdwardS, who was also waiting for them, but somewhere else, somewhere he'd decided on without a great deal of reasoning; but apparently they had fun talking about pre-Communist Russia and watching Wayne Hussey get carried down the steps by his roadie, stinking of cheap red wine. Erith, meanwhile, had gone off to witness a duel between Sexbat and Hirez, the former of whom had had the gall to call the latter a post-modernist. This duel took the form of a series of challenges against other things, and Hirez was eventually declared the winner. Their final opponent had been middle age. The eternal nineteen-year-old had gone to bed early feeling a bit rough, and Hirez boldly kept drinking until three in the morning at Lyssa's party, where he and the hostess participated in a second duel involving TV puppet favourites Sooty and Sweep. In the absence of All About Eve, there was, it seems, nobody to fight Sue's corner.

Sunday morning was spent listening to Stuart be sick and attempting to feed him useful medicines, though he did recover something of his, um, usual abilities, before noon. We chatted to Siani in the kitchen for a while, then staggered back along Church Street, in the bright sun, just as the church bells rang. Donald and Erith bustled about downstairs, still arguing about tractors, whilst we revived ourselves in the jacuzzi. Stuart and Erith then went to the arcades, and Donald and I wandered round some shops and talked and got lunch, eventually catching up with them. I was feeling somewhat tired and ill at that point, especially after Erith had exploited my talents to make money off a roulette wheel, so we didn't stay for long, but I did watch Stuart attempt a new dancing game, and I was pleased to see that he'd managed not to get beaten up wearing a top in which it wasn't polite to raise his arms and a kilt which kept falling open across his stocking tops. Anyhow, we went into the pub for a quick drink and met Bob, who showed us his new portrait from Victorian Image, who had made him look like a railroad tycoon; and then it was time to go home and get dinner. I'd promised Stuart I'd take him to 'Eighties Night, as he'd heard lots about it, and I managed to get myself feeling healthier in time. I dressed for the heat, knowing what it's always like in there, with high humidity and endless smoke besides; a red and black tiger-striped PVC bikini top wasn't perfectly 'eighties, but, with a wee velvet skirt and fishnets, it worked, and certainly better than the off-the-shelf PVC nurses' outfits and glowsticks of those who'd made no effort at all. Stuart was young enough to be excited about wearing a skirt actually from the 'eighties, an old one of mine, along with black and white striped tights and a translucent black and white pinstriped shirt, open to reveal the further decoration he soon acquired: a long, vicious scratch across his right nipple, probably from somebody's spiked bracelet. Still, nobody could hold a candle to EdwardS 'eighties look, with the cream suit, the shirt and tie, and the ancient, clunky mobile phone. Of course, he was so boiled he could hardly move. By the time Stuart and I arrived, our people had already acquired the large corner table downstairs, so we made that our base camp, though I ran about quite a bit to talk to other people, collecting another two pints of water on every trip. I danced to a few things, but most fun, of course, was watching Stuart do Nellie the Elephant, which he'd been looking forward to for months. Sadly, it wasn't quite as violent as usual, though I think he still had fun. Fuzzy Dave and Preacher, heads locked in the middle of the circle of dancers, did their best to make up for it. Some of the crowd's frustrations spilled over into Ninety Nine Red Balloons, and I went flying, though I landed safely and managed to protect Stuart's camera as I did so. There wasn't anything worth dancing to after that anyway, so we staggered outside to find Erith and Bob sitting opposite the doorway in folding chairs, drinking beer. Apparently some passer-by had cautioned them "You're not allowed to drink in the street," but had failed to respond to Erith's rejoinder "We're on the pavement!" and all had been well. Donald was beside them, though he hadn't been there long. He'd enjoyed a lock-in at the Elsinore, where he'd been busy trying to get Matt into a fit state to go home. Still, he was in a good mood. We'd been planning to go up to the Abbey, where a party was arranged, but were sidetracked into going to another party instead. Since it turned out to be about ten metres away from our cottage, we could hardly complain. Donald popped home to collect supplies of the alcoholic variety. Other substances were already available, having been carried around in a manner perhaps somewhat foolhardy when combined with menstruation, but I wasn't really in the mood to partake. Though we didn't know our hosts, they were very friendly, and gave us tea and biscuits. However, most people there were on stimulants of one sort or another, and I didn't feel terribly inclined to participate in their conversation. Stuart and I sat there feeling vaguely embarrassed whilst other people explained, in turn, why they were famous. I actually enjoyed listening to others' stories, but don't like sitting there showing off with my own. Donald undercut the conversation by saying "I've had stars of Take the High Road pass out on my floor." and went on to explain that he's also taken over twenty times the safe dose of heroin (in hospital, naturally), which restored a little balance and humour. Then people started making statements like "I don't believe in a concept of gender." and I felt myself just a little too close to standing up and screaming "I bet you think you don't have an accent, too, right? And I bet you're strongly of the opinion that you're not interested in politics!"; and then the conversation turned to LiveJournal; so, all in all, it seemed wisest to leave. Stuart was almost unconscious by then anyway. Donald stayed for a few more hours, and had great fun, but ended up leaving after people quietly protested that they didn't like Erith (who was shouting obscenities again) and Erith stormed out.

The cottage was somewhat subdued in the morning. I was woken by the sound of Siani popping round to return a suspender belt she'd borrowed, but by the time I could get downstairs without waking Donald, she was gone. Stuart and I had breakfast and then set out to wander round some of the local shops, in search of presents for friends back home. It was pouring with rain, which was great, because it washed all the scum off the streets; where previously there had been wall-to-wall idiot tourists, now there were only a few damp goths. We took the opportunity to go up to the graveyard, which we'd wanted to do at night, but we hadn't had chance. It was beautiful nonetheless, even if we couldn't, um, get away with quite as much there. I was pleased to see that a fence has been erected along the cliff edge; I've spent one too many nervous evenings there in the past, trying to hold on to whirling women in big skirts near borne aloft by high winds. We wandered for a while amongst the gravestones, then went to see the Abbey, but access was denied because the grass was being cut.

Ach, there's always some excuse. Stuart climbed a wall to take photos, then we went back down the hundred and ninety nine steps to the street. Beside these steps runs a slope which I'd scarcely paid attention to before; of course Stuart then had to climb up it, and run back down again, which rather wore him out. We returned to the cottage for tea and biscuits and tried to determine what was happening about Giolla's barbecue. Between one complication and another, we didn't make it there until nearly six o'clock. Donald didn't stay for long, deciding that he was just too tired and would be better off taking a nap so that he could do fire stuff later. As he and Erith had organised all the food, and Erith was inside cooking, Stuart and I didn't know what we could eat, and sat in a corner getting increasingly hungry until Fury took pity on us. "They're wasting away!" she cried. "Of course they're wasting away." someone else said. "They're goths. That's what they do." Happily, it then transpired that Bob had brought along enough sausages "to feed Ethiopia twice over", so we were given free meat and we felt much better. We were also supplied with fake pez. There was much entertainment. On the wee scrap of beach at the bottom of the alley, Giolla, Preacher and others twirled staffs and fought with staffs and swords. After a while, they were moved on, because "the children want to use the beach", according to some guy overseeing a troupe of eight year olds. The children, who had been watching avidly, looked momentarily disappointed, then ran forth to grab sticks and start playing the same game themselves. Whilst they stabbed each other behind his back, their supervisor complained that we bad goths had uttered the words 'cunt' and 'bastards' in front of them. Apologies were made, though many people thought this was a bit silly.

Back in the courtyard where the barbecue was held, Preacher was biting a straw from a cybergoth's hair so that someone else could use it to drink his beer through. Stuart bounced up onto the wall to eat barbecued chicken, and from there observed a game of frog baseball. A poor innocent frog toy had been chosen as a sacrifice, wherein it was to represent the ex girlfriend of one of those present. At this stage in its destruction, it was hurled back and forth along the alley to be hit with sticks.

Around dusk, Stuart and I went back to the cottage to wake Donald, though we found him already quite alert. We had a cup of tea and watched some of the snooker, than proceeded to the beach, where the fire was building up nicely. Having the folding chairs to sit in made a huge difference to me, as I wasn't in remotely as much pain as I usually am there, so I could relax and enjoy myself. I enjoyed catching up with people, especially Paul, whom I haven't seen nearly enough of over the past few years. And there was more entertainment. The fire staffs were lit, and battles ensued, also involving flaming swords. Fury, using a fire staff for the first time, accidentally hit Giolla full in the chin with it, extinguishing the flame, though on Giolla nothing ever seems to leave a mark. Preacher did some of his famous fire eating and blew blasts of fire across the flames. The frog was finally prepared to meet its doom. Here is a cautionary tale. If you should ever wish to destroy the spirit or influence of an ex by transferring it to a vulnerable object, choose an object which is vulnerable, not one which has been designed to meet strict EU safety standards and which will sit in the heart of the fire grinning back at you through the flames for a half an hour or more before it finally gives up. Or you may feel a wee bit foolish.

I had intended, that night, to wade in the sea, but then I got comfortable and pretty much forgot about it. I was reminded when I observed a procession of four people carrying torches dragging a shrieking girl down to the water's edge. Stuart was relieved. He had recently defeated the elements of air (by stabbing it fiercely) and fire (by stealing its dinner, as the barbecue would have finished that chicken otherwise); not to mention the fifth element of wet sand (which he had stomped all over); he was expecting to face revenge attacks, and was glad that someone else might suffer in his stead. The girl, however, didn't see it that way, and struggled to escape. Fuzzy Dave then stepped in, bravely took off his clothes and ran about in the sea instead. Another goth accompanied him, and they ran about on the beach eliciting much squealing from those gathered by the fire. At this, the girl stripped down to her underwear and went into the sea anyway. Of course, having been so modest, she was later to regret it, spending the rest of the night with her underwear full of wet sand. And so the elements were avenged on goths, and Stuart was saved.

We didn't stay out too late that night, as Stuart had to catch a train home the following day, having already missed quite a bit of college. Erith hung around until six to tidy up after the fire, but the rest of us slept. In the morning, I sat around eating cheese biscuits and reading about early eighteenth century Dutch sodomy trials whilst Stuart made a last unsuccessful attempt at present shopping. We then collected his stuff and went to the offices of the Whitby Gazette to read their most recent articles on our presence in their town. Naturally, the football match in which their team had beaten ours three-nil (though this was much better than last year's seventeen-one) was covered in some detail, and it was only at this point that I discovered we'd had a former professional, a Newcastle defender, on our side. Goths really do get everywhere. Further coverage was given to some woman who'd worn a very expensive dress, which naturally, in their eyes, made it the most important dress; it was a nice piece of work, but I saw much more interesting stuff around over the course of the week. They'd also managed to photograph quite a few cybergoths, despite the fact there were far less around than usual (which was generally considered to be a good thing; those with a genuine interest are welcome; those for whom it was only ever a fad can fuck off). Anyhow, it took us less than five minutes to read the whole thing. Then I took Stuart to the train station and we held one another and said our goodbyes, and I sent him off to Middlesborough with lipstick all over his face.

That afternoon, Donald was finally feeling alert enough to want to do a bit of shopping, so we made a further search for gifts, and were delighted, in the very last shop we came to, to be successful in finding a walrus for our dear friend Raj. Thereafter we had afternoon tea in the Whitby Tea Rooms, and went home to find that Erith had just dragged himself out of his bed. Fish and chips were obtained for dinner; then we went up to the pub, which was surprisingly busy. It was a really pleasant last night. We met several new people, and had a good chance to talk with old friends without everybody having to rush around all the time. Erith provided four polystyrene aeroplanes which were the source of much entertainment until they were eventually grounded by the landlord for breaking an ashtray. Then Erith went off to have a bath and sleep. Fury enthused at me further about Stuart and offered to take care of him for me at her place anytime. "Where do you find all these cute people?" she asked. Well, I guess I'm not sure, but looking around, no-one could do too badly at such a goth weekend. Donald and I stayed until the pub closed, arranging visits and exchanging phone numbers, then sloped off back to our beds.