Usually I'm very organised for Whitby - I'm the one who organises everybody else. This year was different. The Monday before we left, I had cervical surgery, and I was still losing quite a bit of blood, and having difficulty walking, when Wednesday morning came. Erith arrived with the car and we crammed things into it as best we could. "I think we need to do something about the ever-increasing amount of maths in the world." said Erith, lamenting the constraints of geometry. Donald had decided to take the train with The Emperor Penguin (hereinafter to be referred to as TEP) and Adsevin, rather than argue with Erith all the way as usual, so his place in the car was taken by Stuart (Potato Junkie), who consequently had to develop new skills like navigating obscure Yorkshire roads and counting corpses. During the course of that journey, we saw fourteen dead birds, twenty one dead mammals, five unidentifiable meat smears, a whole bagful of satsumas, two shoes, one very dead engine, and four bottles of wee. That's the first victory for mammals in years, the more surprising because it was quite windy. The south west of England was being lashed by vicious gales, suffering flooding in places, but fortunately we didn't have to deal with any of that. As a bonus, we found hardly any traffic. We had a tasty lunch in Penrith, where the menu advertised 'elderflour cordial' and where the locals seemed almost as disturbed by me walking out of the men's toilet as by Stuart walking into it; and within another two hours we were within sight of Whitby. A belligerent white van then appeared, ducking in and out of our path for ages, prompting Erith to tell the tale of The Tortoise and the Baw. He and Stuart were ready for adventure, describing themselves as 'Stuart the Acute and Drew the Obtuse', which, I pointed out, logically made me 'Jennie the Right', so they could do what I said from then on. Some hope. Anyway, we arrived in Whitby much earlier than usual, sufficiently so that there was time for getting keys cut, and suchlike, right away. The others ran about on errands whilst I made things comfortable in little Jet Cottage. The train party shortly joined us there, and Erith heated up delicious lasagne which his mum had made for us all. TEP provided a bottle of pinot noir which even the non wine drinkers enjoyed, and we had a lovely relaxing evening before heading out to the pub.
The atmosphere in the pub was peculiar that night. Heavy drinking had already commenced. Inebriated Glasgoths cheered and quaffed in the corners. Hirez arrived, trying to flog zines, and we talked for a while. Everyone was feeling somewhat dazed over the death of John Peel. We agreed that we have in general found the fashion of public mourning for strangers - such as that which followed in the wake of Princess Diana - somewhat distasteful; but, as one person put it, "It's different when you spent hours listening to him on your headphones under the covers when you were fifteen." The Peel Show felt like a lifeline for many of us then, and I think it's fair to say that a lot of people would never have made it to Whitby - would never have discovered the goth scene at all - had it not been for John Peel's support for obscure music and subcultural variety. We owe him so much. The least we could do, then, was to raise a few thousand glasses to him and ensure that we spent the week partying like there was no tomorrow, because, well, you never know. I need excitement and I need it fast.
Wednesday night folded fast, all the same, because everyone was tired; I was quite anaemic. Murphys is full of iron, but it takes a while to process. On Thursday morning I woke early, my body still geared to my work schedule, but Adsevin was up ahead of me, so we had breakfast in the basement kitchen, and Erith arose to make the tea. Assorted delegations to charity shops were then organised. In the first place we visited, Donald spent almost his entire shopping budget on a new guitar, but he looked very happy indeed as a result. My own attempts were less successful, though I still enjoyed wandering around the town talking to people. I got a white satin bodice with pale pink roses on it, the kind of thing which could look awful but which I have ideas for; and also a purple sequinned mini-skirt of the sort people always insist is meant to be a top. Stuart found a beautiful purple velvet coat. I did various photo-calls and chatted to old ladies who said they'd had these tendencies in their youth. Then I started to fall over, and Stuart helped me back to the cottage, where I started work on the vital supplies I had obtained from the chocolate shop. As I was clearly too ill to spend all day on my feet, the afternoon was devoted to Scrabble and to leisurely hanging around. Erith gave me a small forlorn owl he'd found whilst shopping, and he gave Donald what the manufacturer might have intended to be a caterpillar, but what looked much more like one of Lovecraft's cthonians. A springy little thing it was, too. "Don't flick cthonians across the table!" I protested, as once again it made a dive for somebody's dinner.
That evening, I got a text message from Stuart's flatmate back home, saying that Stuart had to phone his dad about some family problem. Naturally, he was very worried, and I wondered if we were going to lose our holiday after all, so many things already having gone wrong to almost stop it starting. It took us a couple of hours to successfully get through to his dad. In the meantime, we visited the pub, found our missing Dag (who was scheduled to be staying with us, but had turned his phone off because he was on holiday, so we couldn't tell him where we were), and discovered that we were supposed to be in the Spa already to watch bands. Oops. Dag took the others up there, relying on me being well enough known that they could pick up the tickets stored in my name. Stuart and I stood on a street corner to find out about a death in his family. Naturally, he was a bit shaken; I said I'd stay in with him if he needed it, or even go back home with him; but his dad had advised him to enjoy the rest of his holiday. So we went back to the cottage to get tarted up.
I felt very odd in all my bandages, unable to wear anything tight or short, denied trousers and thigh boots; but I decided that, rather than moping, I should use the opportunity to do something different. I really wasn't in the mood for looking girly in a corset, and I'm bored of all that familiar flirty fashion anyway. So I wore a ripped-up old black cotton skirt, a red satin vest and an old ragged grey-green silk shirt, and drew a red star on my face with lipstick. It worked well enough. When we got to the Spa, I was thrilled to see my old friend and fellow netgoth Bob on the desk, not having known that he was able to return to the UK; unfortunately, it was the only time I was to see him that week, as I wasn't up to wandering around much. I got my ticket, and one was obtained for Stuart, without much difficulty; and then we went to find our people in the back room, where Erith had set up a chair for me. Alcohol was quickly obtained, but we didn't stay there for long. It turned out that headline act James Ray's Gangwar had dropped out at the last minute - which was fine by me, as I've seen them countless times anyway, and I find them quite boring - and that they'd been replaced by Manuskript (throw a stick at Whitby and the chances are you'll hit a member of either Manuskript or Nosferatu, so this was no surprise). Now, granted, I've seen Manuskript countless times too, but they remain fun, and Stuart hadn't seen them at all; I knew they'd be his kind of thing. So I limped through to the band room with him, and we had enormous fun. He got into it right away. I danced, strictly against doctor's orders, but damn it, it was good, at least up until I started to faint. Stuart half-carried me back to my chair, past assorted concerned friends, as I tried to communicate the fact that all I needed was rest and cold drink and then I really would be fine. Anyway, I must now remember to harrass Manuskript into playing Glasgow soon, as I hated to take Stuart away from their set like that.
After I had been blessed with the revivifying qualities of alcohol, I was at least able to enjoy conversation where I was, and various people came to visit me. I particularly enjoyed catching up with Edvamp, whom I never see often enough; and I spent some time talking with Laura Waspish, before she and Donald got into an obscure but amusing rant about teachers at their old school (one of whom was her mum). We saw dear Paul C, and Stuart attempted to apologise to him for being so insulting about London last time they met, but insulted it again so much in the process of his apology that he was quite undone; still, they agreed that Kensington is quite nice, and there were no hard feelings. By one o'clock, I was really exhausted, and so was Dag, who'd had very little sleep the previous night due to problems with his hotel, so the two of us wandered back to the cottage. "I'm far less drunk than Jennie thinks I am." insisted Stuart, noting that he could stay out on his own and wouldn't need to be looked after. Well, not that night, maybe. As it turned out, he and the rest of our posse went to Tal's cottage for a few drinks, and then Tal lay down on the floor and went into a sleep-like state, speaking again only to admonish them for being a bunch of wusses and girls when they left. Erith had previously given him some beer, so figured this entitled him to make a pass at his woman, especially whilst he was conveniently incapacitated. Fury reciprocated long enough for a snog, and the following day Erith developed Fury's cold.
Friday was the first day of the Bizarre Bazaar, this time split between three locations - the Metropole, the Spa, and the Resolution (handily just across the road from us). We went to the Metropole first, in search of second hand loot, but the only vaguely tempting things were distinctly overpriced. Traffic in the Spa was held up by two wee girls being interviewed for The Richard and Judy Show. We saw a few interesting bits of design work there, but not in anything we'd wear. I determined that if the week went by without me purchasing any new clothes, I was going to take the money I'd set aside and buy a violin, whether or not I could ever hope to play it. I did find a pretty silver and green glass necklace on an Australian stall in the Resolution. Stuart, to his great delight, found an awful frilly lilac shirt with costume potential.
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I was pleased, at this point, to discover that my bleeding had mostly subsided - in just four days, rather than the promised four weeks. Erith continued to feed me rocket to restore my iron levels. Stuart, changing into his little kilt and fishnet stockings, reassured me that other bits of my anatomy, unnaturally quiet since the surgery, were indeed still functional, which was something of a relief. My sexual instincts had previously been diverting themselves into aggression, but I felt much more relaxed as I pulled on my pirate gloves and fluffed up my ostrich feathers for a night I had really been looking forward to. Unfortunately, I was not to remain in a good mood for long after arriving at the Spa. There I discovered that the back room had been taken over by a team from some website (much vaunted, as if every other goth doesn't administer one) who were using it for filming and for what threatened to become a sort of hideous goth karaoke. Such an event might have worked in the daytime, for those who enjoy that kind of thing, but that space really is needed for other things at night, especially for the various goths whose illnesses and disabilities make it hard for them to cope out in the thick of things. I tried to explain this to the woman organising things, but she was dismissive and rude. Adsevin seemed more successful in communicating with her, but asked if it was okay to still use the room, something I felt was inappropriate - the website people should have been asking us. Outside, I found lots of people sulking about them (but, naturally, too meek to say anything - sometimes I despair of goths). Donald's attitude was that there was no point in making a fuss, as the project wouldn't survive long anyway; and he was right. The room was soon full of cheerful drunken goths who scarcely noticed that the film equipment was there, accidentally knocking over the lights and sitting down in front of the bluescreen. So that was that, and I really hope that it'll discourage those people from doing the same thing next year.
Annoyed at having my good mood spoiled, I was at least well enough to wander about a bit more than previously, so I spent some time in the main room catching up with friends and flirting with strange women. Returning to my seat, past hoop skirts and suits of armour and busy beatings against impermeable PVC, I thought I'd steal a mouthful of Stuart's vodka and irn bru whilst my drink proceeded from the bar; it was only then that I discovered the bottle was empty. Oops. We hadn't been there very long. No-one knew where Stuart was. I went looking for him in the wee adjoining room, only to get stuck in a toilet queue behind three giddy bimbos who must have had an IQ of about four between them, giggling and squeaking at each other, waving their tits around as if they didn't understand that, at such a goth night, there is hardly a shortage of people with well-presented breasts, and most of them have brains besides. The woman behind me started bitching about them, but they were too dim to notice, though drink made her unsubtle. She was much more interesting, bleached and fortyish, clad in post-punk pink, the sort of creature I might have taken home had I not had more pressing matters to deal with. Hester came to say hello whilst I waited, asking me how things were going. I assured her that I was alright, with some amusement. Later, Donald went looking for Stuart, and found him in the toilets, where he'd taken off his corset to facilitate vomiting and was having difficulty doing it up again. I announced that I'd had enough of this sort of thing, and that, if I was going to have to carry him home, I was damned well going to see a bit of Zodiac Mindwarp first. After all, it's not every day that one has such an opportunity. So off I went. The set was alright, musically competent, professional, but it lacked that edge I'd hoped for. Mr. Mindwarp simply didn't seem to engage with the audience as previous Whitby headliners have done. He was going through the motions, and it was only marginally more interesting than listening to a record. Still, I stayed for as long as I thought I could get away with. When I returned to the others, Stuart was lurching around cheerfully, fully laced up, trying to extract the last drop of vodka from his bottle. He was delighted to hear that Zodiac was still on, and returned with me just in time for Prime Mover, to which we both leapt around vigorously, throwing our hair everywhere (a good three feet of it in my case, with five feet of ribbons - an efficient way to create a space for dancing), having immense fun. Everyone around us seemed amused, which was just fine. Stuart collapsed against the bar afterwards; the young barman looked relieved when he asked for water. I took him back to base camp and he passed out in a chair. So the latter part of my evening was spent guarding him, assuaging the concerns of passers-by and adjusting his skirt when necessary. At one o'clock, we were asked to clear out of that room, and it became apparent that he was not fit to be propped up again elsewhere, so I said my goodbyes and half-carried him home - a returned favour, I guess. He kept telling me he was sorry. "Don't be." I said. "Just promise me one thing - that you'll try not to do it again too soon." "Of course." he said. So I bought him pizza, and he fell asleep still holding a slice.
Saturday was the Bazaar again, but we didn't get going until late, as Erith promised to make bacon and eggs for breakfast, then took hours about it. This wasn't entirely his fault. The grill took about forty minutes to cook bacon at all, though after that it was crunchy and crumbly and especially delicious. When we got to the Bazaar, it was mostly as dull as it had been the previous day, but I did find one pair of trousers on the second hand stall which instantly proclaimed that they had to belong to Stuart. Tight, shiny and purplish-pink, they were to become the stuff of legend. And they were only a fiver. After that part of the shopping, Stuart and I went down to the beach, where we filled our pockets with free loot in the form of cool pebbles and fossils. We spent some time by the edge of the sea, which, despite their alleged truce, chased Stuart and sneaked into his shoes. Later, in the Resolution, we found a stall covered in goth plants, the sort of thing Donald would just swoon over, so we hurried back to the cottage to alert him. He ended up getting two tangly corkscrew things, one for himself and one for his mum. I thought he was very restrained, though we still wondered about how we were going to fit those and a guitar and all our original stuff into the car on the way home. I was in a good mood, anyway, because, in the Spa, I had discovered a flier which announced that Laibach are playing Bedlam - my home club - in December. I would have travelled quite some distance to see them, and can hardly believe my luck.
On Saturday afternoon there was more Scrabble, including a game so hideous that Stuart felt obliged to wipe the scores from the record by eating them. By that time we had already sadly concluded that the apparent absence of Scary Lady Sarah meant there would be no official netgoth tournament this year. We determined to find some means of running that tournament online. There was, indeed, a significant shortage of North American netgoths, allegedly because the Canadians were impoverished and the Americans were getting ready to vote in their presidential election.
After the Scrabble, Stuart and I went off round more shops to find the last bits of his Willy Wonka Hallowe'en costume (since it would become Hallowe'en whilst we were out). We had afternoon tea in a cafe on the seafront, marvelling at local radio with played the J. Geils Band, then went to procure sweets in Woolworths, where an assistant kept turning all the lights out and claimed she was running a Hallowe'en disco. Back home, I got changed into the shiny pink and black lace dress I recently got from New Orleans, with a little bat to sit in my hair. As I did my make-up, watching a television programme about the religious heritage of George W Bush, I got a text message from Siani to say that she and EdwardS (for one night only!) were at the Elsinore; so, as soon as I was able to, I went down there to meet them. It was quite a party. EdwardS had succeeded in parking his excellent little car, with the DeLorean doors which made passing neds swoon, right outside the pub, where speakers in its open boot were blasting out 'eighties music. Apparently I'd just missed the They Might be Giants CD which sent the ubers scurrying inside whilst maths geeks rushed closer. I stood with my pint listening to Frankie Goes to Hollywood and Belois Some, talking to a myriad strangers, watching a very drunken Siani swinging about on Donald. EdwardS, continually asked to pose beside his car, must have been the most photographed goth in Whitby in just the few hours he was there.
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Unfortunately, I couldn't stay indefinitely, as I was determined to see Alien Sex Fiend play at the Spa. I zoomed up there with Dag, and we arrived just in time, dumping our stuff in the back room. Stuart had been going about handing out sweets, which he'd found surprisingly difficult, as people were too polite, tried to give him money for them, apologised for taking 'just one', or shyly protested that they'd been told never to accept sweets from strange men. Anyway, we all went in to dance, and this time I had a lot more fun, having forsaken my bandages and being able to move freely. I'm not good at being an invalid. I was especially pleased with the stompy early songs, amongst my favourite goth music; but then they mutated into something all strung-out and ethereal like they were when I last saw them, in Nottingham, six years ago; and they became dull. Dudes, if you're going to do a two hour set, you need two hours' worth of material, not ten songs with every riff stretched like a computerised Nigel Tufnel guitar solo.
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It was an odd sort of Saturday night, being a largely sober one, as we had no drink with us and there's no way to get to the bar fast enough in there to get drunk that way. But still, there was fun, hanging out in the back room. Adsevin's stunning last-minute pirate costume certainly seemed to help her make new friends. When it came time to leave there, we were invited back to Tal and Fury's place, where Fury served us vodka. Much better. I was tired, but enjoyed hanging out and talking, even if it was a bit disconcerting being asked "So you're the Jennie?!?" yet again - fortunately, his time it was on account of a mutual (absent) friend. "Still, I wouldn't mind having your reputation." the questioner continued, leaving me wondering exactly what I'm famous for in those circles. Stuart was much amused. He and I left not much later, as it became apparent that the others were all waiting to have sex with each other, and we didn't feel so inclined. I guess things didn't work out for them anyway - Whitby isn't a good place for people dealing with nicotine withdrawal - but there were no problems resulting. I tucked Stuart in on the couch, and Donald crawled into bed at about six in the morning. Every little thing was still waking me up; I just couldn't manage a whole night's sleep. Increasingly, I found myself dependent on liqueur chocolates for energy.
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Sunday was a relatively quiet day, as Whitby is the sort of town where everything shuts on Sundays. For the most part, we stayed in the cottage, completely forgetting to attend the football match, in which our goth team finally defeated the Whitby Gazette's team, four two, thanks to a mysterious blond Scotsman. A trip to the nearby off-license provided all necessary supplies for our day. Long games of Pirates of the Spanish Main were played. I read Theodore Sturgeon stories and Stuart carved our pumpkin, Trevor, with a skull and crossbones on one side and Pacman eating on the other. He and TEP and Adsevin then got ready for 'Eighties Night. I really wanted to go, but, with my anaemia, the heat in there would have knocked me out, so I had to decline. I did Stuart's make-up and asked again for people to look after him, but Adsevin and Fury said that if I'd really meant that then I'd never have let him go outside in those trousers. Erith called them "ethernet trousers, because of how they facilitate packet transfer." Ahem. He was wearing a top when I parted from him, even if that didn't last long. He promised me he'd be good, and then Fury started feeding him vodka.
Erith had made dinner, in the form of what he claimed were "experimental mini-pies" of pumpkin, though they looked like quiche to the rest of us. "They were flans!" he finally protested, infuriated at the implication of his middle-classness. They were too much for me, at any rate, so I got by on snacks - better than nothing. With luck, I'd be able to make up the rest of my calorie count with alcohol. After dinner, Dag and I went down the Elsinore for a nice quiet pint, and others joined us there later. It was a lot quieter than is usual for a Sunday, perhaps due to the new, third club night running in the Resolution next door, though no-one seemed quite sure what that was about. At any rate, we spent a pleasant evening drinking and talking, and it was some time before we realised that closing time had passed with no sign of anyone asking us to leave. Donald went home to acquire more drink, and the rest of us wandered down to 'Eighties Night to acquire potential party people as they came out. Erith set up his chairs in the street as usual to provide a recuperation point for exhausted semi-clad women. Stuart was one of the last to emerge, wearing only his trousers and backpack, covered in scratches he claimed were from the pit, his nose still slightly bloody from California Uber Alles. Several people were close to tears because the last part of the night had been dedicated to John Peel (with Teenage Kicks, his favourite song, of course). Stuart had misplaced the teenager he'd been snogging, and collapsed happily onto me, ready to be taken home. We managed to get a bit of (relatively) discreet time together in the living room, and then he curled up to sleep and I went downstairs to procure drink and opiates. A few people had come by to hang out, and we had a fun evening, though I was too tired to last long. I left the others plotting some kind of vampire hunting to collect and swap hobby, and fell asleep listening to the seagulls, tasting semen and laudanum and Theakston's Old Peculier, dreaming Whitby dreams.
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Monday morning didn't really happen, though I was up a wee while before noon. My throat really hurt, so Erith made me tea with honey, and I sat on the couch trying not to talk too much until Donald had fetched me listerine from the shops. That made it feel quite a bit better. After another afternoon breakfast made by Erith, I went across the harbour, with Donald and Stuart, to look at the shops there. I bought a small blanched silver bell bracelet and Stuart got a card featuring 'penguins of death' for TEP's birthday. On the way home, the first of several meat pizzas with barbecue sauce was obtained. The sauce seemed to help my throat a little, and I had lemsip and a good rest before we set out for the party on South Beach, with the bonfire which Erith had been building all afternoon. It was a good fire, much better constructed than usual, and there was a chair waiting there for me. I sat and drank Murphy's whilst people ran about. Erith was having fun with the fireproof gloves he'd borrowed from Giolla, but he showed off a little too much, sticking his hands into the hottest part of the fire; then he dropped them on top of some bags and went to attend to other things. Shortly, they burst into flame. We yelled at him for putting hot things on an unsafe surface, and he kicked them to the sand and stamped the flames out, but, of course, the fabric was still burning; Giolla quickly brought them to where I could poor beer on them to stop the reaction. "They weren't on fire when I put them down!" Erith kept protesting lamely. Giolla admirably kept hir temper, despite being very annoyed. "You managed to set the inflammable gloves on fire?" queried some London woman, causing much hilarity. Erith didn't bother to correct her. "Look, you," he said "I spent all day digging holes, building fires, and having sex with your mum." If this was true, however, it can't have been very satisfying, because he became more amorous the more he drank, eventually suggesting to Fury "I will get drunk, and then you and I will go somewhere, and there will be a sex happening." As far as anyone could tell, he was going nowhere.
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Mid-way through the night, Trevor the pumpkin was filled up with tissue paper and sacrificed on the fire, this being considered a better fate than going mouldy. Erith advertised this event as 'the Death of Hallowe'en', at which a great cheer went up. "He had a name." I protested in my wrecked voice. "His name was Trevor the pumpkin." But only a handful of people got it, and they all thought the name was a reference to Nightbreed anyway (sometimes a cigar is just a cigar). Trevor glowed green and hung on for a long time, then combusted beautifully.
Giolla's firework display commenced at ten. It had been eagerly anticipated, being the last really big display sie could do, without insurance, on account of forthcoming changes in English Law. His recent training course really seemed to pay off. It may not have been quite as dramatic as some previous ones, but personally I enjoyed it more because I wasn't thinking that at any moment I might have to hurl myself into the sea to keep from being exploded. A delivery guy from Bits n' Pizzas arrived during the display, handed over cases of meat and barbecue sauce provisions, and shyly asked if it would be okay for him to stick around and take photographs, as if it had quite bypassed his awareness that he was on a public beach. Naturally, anyone is welcome to join in.
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After the fireworks, there wasn't much for me to do. It was difficult for me to walk about, and my damaged throat meant I couldn't have conversations with anyone except those who chose to come and sit beside me. Naturally, this was somewhat depressing. I decided there was no point in me sitting there and getting depressed further. Donald walked me home, and Stuart promised to come and keep me company a little later. Once Donald had collected more drink and gone out to have more fun, I relaxed in a hot bath with a cold beer, then settled on the couch upstairs to read Kornbluth stories. I was quite comfortable and happy when, about one in the morning, I heard a sound of stumbling and crashing around outside. I opened the front door and Stuart fell forward into my arms, dropping his bag beside him, half-clothed and half-cut, with his fly undone and only one sock. The missing sock, he told me as he pulled off his shoes, had been exchanged for drunkenness. I closed the door and tidied up his things as he danced down the stairs singing a little song about vomit, which he believed would be the cure for all his ills. On returning, he spent about twenty minutes balancing on one leg at a time trying to push his PVC trousers off over his feet, all the time talking cheerfully; then he collapsed on the couch and turned green. What remained of that part of the evening consisted of me running around with the washing up bowl collecting vomit which smelled of barbecue sauce, cleaning the bowl and running back for the next lot. Eventually Stuart climbed into his sleeping bag and closed his eyes, and I kissed him goodnight, and settled for going back every half hour or so to check his pulse, and made myself comfortable downstairs in the kitchen with another beer.
Dag was the first of the others to arrive home, and he told me that he was the one who had persuaded Stuart to put his shoes back on, despite eloquent protests such as "Shoes are the suck, and you are the suck times three!" Erith arrived shortly thereafter, and then Donald, and we had a nice quiet drink and talked until bedtime.
In the morning, Stuart infuriated Erith by failing to have a hangover, though I got the distinct impression it was because he was still drunk. My throat felt somewhat better, but I could tell I was coming down with a cold. Stuart and I walked to South Beach to retrieve his sock, which was still sitting there all alone beside the smouldering logs and the hot sand which marked the buried fire. I stood looking out at the grey sea whilst he beat the offending sock against a wall to rid it of sand. We then walked around those shops which we'd missed on the previous day, and he ate scampi, and I picked up James Tiptree Jr. and James Blish novels in the wee second hand bookshop. Crossing the harbour again, we went along the promenade and beat up crocodiles in the arcade, though my score was poorer than usual because I inadvertently hit the crocodiles so hard that the mallet came apart.
Adsevin returned from a separate set of adventures shortly after we got back, and, with her assistance, we were able to put together some of the missing pieces of Stuart's Monday night. It seems that Erith and Dag did well to stop him playing with the fire, as he'd never intended to jump over it as others were doing, but had thought it would be cool to walk into the middle of it - in bare feet and PVC jeans. He drank a lot of different people's vodka, and was seen resting his head in several different people's laps, being variously groped and fondled or having mud picked out of his hair (we're unsure as to how that got there in the first place). At one point Fury was holding him up by his arse, but she got sufficiently drunk that she can't remember that either, which she's rather annoyed about. He went in the sea, to take a piss, on the brightest part of the beach and in the direct line of fire of firework boxes which Giolla was burning, Giolla having warned everyone else to keep clear, but fortunately he was uninjured. He did find lots of little bruises which he couldn't account for. Apparently he danced around a lot in a manner which left some other fire attendees unable to believe their luck, as ordinarily they would expect to have to pay money for that sort of thing.
I guess he's a star in his own right now - or at least, as Erith put it, "bits of him are". People congratulate me, but I'm not sure what to say; I understand why he's popular, but I love him for many more reasons; he is somebody I want to spend the rest of my life with, and I intend to make an honest woman of him.
We played more Scrabble on Tuesday evening, and I got my best score ever for a single word, 221 points for 'squander'. Leftover food was eaten, though I couldn't face anything else which smelled of barbecue sauce; and then Adsevin and I went down to the pub for one last night there. Spooky sooned joined us, along with some other folk we didn't know, and their woollen duck, and the place gradually filled up. It was nice to sit about and talk, but, unfortunately, my cold was fast getting worse, and the place was too hot for me, so I had to make my goodbyes fairly early. Stuart took me home, and I sneezed my way to bed.
In the morning I felt pretty rough, but I managed to get necessary things done. Having seen the others off to the pub, from whence they'd later proceed to their train, Stuart and I left Erith struggling to cram the last bits and pieces into the car and went down to the cottage agency to hand in the keys. On our way back up the hill, we saw the Elsinore staff release the bats from where they had been strung beside the sign. Until next time... Driving back, I had to eat lots of chocolate gingers to minimise nausea. It seemed terribly unfair, as I hadn't drunk much, nor had I snogged anyone except my partners (and I got ill before they started snogging other people, too). Still, I survived as far as Penrith, where our usual cafe seemed to have run out of food but was able to provide us with sandwiches; and we found a sweet shop where Stuart bought soor plooms; and we went round second hand shops where I bought a blue satin slip. Later, I felt a little better, my stomach placated. In the course of that journey we saw twenty three dead birds, twenty four dead mammals, eight unidentifiable meat smears, four oranges, two brooms, and a single shoe. The sun was setting as we drove into Scotland, and by the time we reached Glasgow it was dark.
Another Whitby over, but so many things left undone; and many more adventures still to come.
Pictures accompanying this review are courtesy of Stuart, Erith and TEP.
This way to go back to Jennie's Whitby Gothic Weekend reviews page.
This way to go back to Jennie's personal pages.
Last updated 13th May, 2005