Whitby Review, April 2005:

A Series of Importunate Events

This Whitby adventure began rather differently from previous ones, as Erith had an exam on the Wednesday that we were due to leave, so couldn't drive us down there. We'd packed lots of our stuff into his car to join us the following day, and I was carrying only essentials - not even a change of clothes - but still struggling a bit, as my knee was in a bad way. Weeble had crashed in Kadath the previous night, and we were joined there by Potato Junkie (henceforth to be referred to by his offline name of Stuart); once Donald had finished sorting out last minute problems and drinking tea, we set off for Central Station to join The Emperor Penguin (whom I shall shorten to TEP) and Adsevin; the latter had the tickets, was in command of the party for the duration of the journey, and was therefore given the rank of commodore. She organised our travel on a succession of gradually diminishing trains, changing in Darlington and Middlesborough. On the first, Stuart and I were isolated from the others; I sat and worked quietly on a writing project whilst he drew a picture of Emperor Popetine standing between two imperial guards, since the name of the new pope had just been released. The second train was more sociable, and as we reached the third we met Marconi; indeed, the platform was covered in goths. Stuart and I produced an mp3 player and the tiny speakers we had purchased to go with it, but sadly discovered that one could only hear music from the speakers by holding them directly against one's ears. Was there to be no entertainment? Thankfully, Weeble saved the day, producing his laptop and plugging the mp3 player into the back; out came No More Heroes, and we had to disagree. We listened happily to Laibach and the Revolting Cocks as we travelled through rolling countryside, across tiny streams and past fields full of bouncy spring lambs. The Newtown Grunts shouted "Oi, you cunt!" whilst the train sat silently in a village station, but neighbouring old ladies didn't seem to mind, and the conductor simply envied our technology. Stuart spent his time gazing out of the windows, occasionally shouting "Gazelle carcass!" to see if he could make me look, which I did twice, and he was very pleased and laughed at me and called me a pudding.

It was approaching four o'clock when we finally arrived in Whitby. I offloaded my bag onto Donald and sent the others directly to April Cottage, where we were to stay, whilst I hastened up to the letting agency to collect the keys. Marconi and Whitby Jo were already there; a quick duck into the pub revealed others; and I was tempted to have a beer, and tempted to shop, but I did my duty and went to provide shelter for the others. The cottage was smaller than we'd expected - there's no way it would have provided for six, as its advertising claimed - but we were fairly happy with it. We also had two outhouses, one with a toilet and one with a freezer, oven, washing machine and supply of coal for the open fire. Donald at once set about cleaning out the fireplace, which previous visitors had apparently had no idea how to look after. We then made a trip to the Co-op to buy supplies of food, starter alcohol, and a Guardian for starting the fire with. Therein I read the new Pope's opinion on rock music - that it naturally corrupts people and encourages them to form communities set apart from the mainstream, therefore anti-Christian. Some people give one a lot to live up to. Of course, he'd consider me damned anyway, being one of those evil homosexuals, so I guess it doesn't matter. He burned well. We watched the news, then left Donald to tend the fire whilst we went up to the Elsinore.

The lack of a crowd in the street outside the pub was our first indication that this was to be a comparatively quiet Whitby, but that wasn't altogether a bad thing - most of our favourite people made it anyway. There were a lot fewer of the hangers-on who were only ever there to do, as Libitina put it, "the stupid things that you do because you think goth's so cool." One didn't have to fight one's way through bits of string and hosepipe to get to the bar. Mine was a Murphy's, of course, much missed whilst I was away, and several of its kin followed soon after. Weeble decided that he'd try the stuff too, wanting to get away from the girl drinks and improve his image, but we had to keep reminding him to wipe bits of foam off his moustache. Anyway, it was not a particularly riotous evening, but there was a good bit of fun to be had. Back at the cottage, huddled around the fire, we stayed up talking for a while, and the notion arose that I should, at the reception I was due to attend later, kick Scotland's first minister Jack McConnell up the arse. Donald claims I promised to do this; with Stuart as my witness, I recall only that I said I'd take an opportunity should it arise. At least it would be one way to liven up an exceedingly tedious election campaign. But Whitby, of course, is in a marginal constituency, so we were to encounter political activisits around the town throughout the week to come. Our home constituency has been gerrymandered such that it really doesn't make a difference who we vote for, but in Whitby, politicians care.

Thursday in Whitby is, of course, charity shopping day. I awoke to discover that my recently purchased tiered skirt had torn along a seam, leaving a gaping hole over my damaged knees; and although I had needles and scissors with me, my black thread was nowhere to be found. Well, packing in Kadath had been somewhat difficult, as our furniture was all displaced whilst work was being done on our bedroom (its ceiling needed to be taken down after damage from February's heavy rains). After a long search, I found some white thread in a drawer and made the best job I could of it. We ate a big fried breakfast and then set out. Our principal mission was to try and find a new wardrobe for Weeble, but in this, alas, we were quite unsuccessful. I managed to find a small, fairly plain black skirt, which I'd needed to replace dying old ones; and in Pandemonium I bought new a stunning purple and black flared and beribboned dress by New York's Funhouse, not at all badly priced considering the amount of work in it. It was Stuart, however, who was the most successful in his search. Despite having too many jackets already, he obtained a new one, fuzzy and purple, very warm. He also got stripey bee gloves, tight grey snakeprint jeans and a shiny blue and black top. Weeble got stripey blue and black gloves. He then had internet cravings, so we drank smoothies and milkshakes whilst waiting for him in Java. Stuart got a huge sandwich from the Greedy Pig and I collected my first set of supplies from the chocolate shop; then it was time to go home, and I got to enjoy seeing Stuart try on his new things. Throughout this time, I received messages from Erith telling me that Dag's plane was arriving later than he'd expected, so, as he was to drive Dag down, he was unable to leave until late. Stuart was particularly distressed as Erith had in his possession the DVD of the previous week's Doctor Who? episode which we were all anxious to see, having been at a friend's birthday dinner when it was originally screened. Erith assured us that the Doctor was on his way. Of course he'd arrive soon. Is the pope a fascist? I felt icky still in my torn travelling clothes, but there wasn't much to be done; I knew Donald wouldn't let me go out in just my new skirt. After a dinner of assorted quiches, we set out for the pub as we were.

By this time, the familiar street crowd had gathered, pretty much bridging the gap between the Elsinore and the Little Angel. Nevertheless, I found a seat inside, at a table which Adsevin had colonised some time ago. This was more comfortable for me, but the smoky atmosphere made Stuart feel ill, so we drifted between seat and doorway. In the process, we caught up with lots of old friends. Everyone was trying to get information about a supposed event to be DJed by Lucifer, but, although it was widely believed to be real, no-one knew where it was located, so parties were arranged instead. Eventually Erith arrived and very kindly drove straight to my cottage so that my stuff could be unloaded and I could change into clean clothes, after which I felt much better. He did some impressive manouvering, driving Horus through an alleyway with a three inch gap on either side of him, then turning round in an unevenly square cobbled courtyard only half as long again as the car.

Upon returning to the pub, we found Siani and EdwardS lurking in the street and formed a small colony there, haphazardly drifting around to talk to others. The police arrived after a while and addressed us through their van's megaphone: "We'd like to welcome the goths to Whitby, and we're glad to see you here, but please will you move back onto the pavement?" We did our best to oblige. I went back inside where a very drunken Fury was trying to remove Rose's top, and hung out with Donald, trying to warm up, but I'd left it too long and was starting to feel ill again, my stomach cramping. Donald said he was hanging around in the hope of a lock-in, so Weeble, who was tired and ready for his bed, walked me home. We sat talking for a while as I recovered, and then Stuart joined us, all breathless, having decided to skip all the way back. Fortunately he recovered his energy when we got upstairs.

Stuart and I were woken at about two a.m. when Donald arrived home; we heard other voices downstairs, American netgoths amongst them. Donald banged on the door; Stuart said "Aye?", and then Donald asked him if he was in. Well, yes. Was I in? Yes, I was in too. Was Erith in? Um, what..? Things don't quite work that way... In that case, he demanded, where was Erith? How should we know? We were bloody well asleep! After musing on this for a while, he disappeared, and we heard the clank of bottles downstairs, and sank back into slumber.

The following morning, when I checked on him, I found Donald blissfully sleeping off most of the contents of a bottle of whisky. It transpired that he had been round to Siani's place, where he'd stayed until six in the morning, as she put away a bottle of gin. EdwardS was reportedly both amused and not amused. At any rate, Donald was in no state to shop, so Stuart, Weeble and I fixed ourselves some breakfast and then headed up to the Metropole to begin the business of the day. I put some of my old clothes on the second hand stall, where I also found myself a very nice hat: a soft black velvet bowler with silver stars on it and a starry ribbon round it. Stuart, possessed of the same good fortune as on the previous day, found a good pair of biker boots for a fiver - we can rarely find anything in his size - and also a tailcoat for just eight pounds, and a red and black lacy corset, and a beautiful black Lip Service top. Poor Weeble found nothing, and wandered off in search of food. Struggling with all Stuart's bags, we proceeded to the Spa, where we caught up with our people and looked through lots more stalls. He found a beautiful lilac PVC snakeprint jacket, adorned with spiderwebs, but all I got was a replacement pair of blue and black striped tights. There was some interesting new design work around - finally, another burst of imagination with skirts - but most of it was stuff I'd been wearing for a year or two, even if I had to obtain it obscurely. Ah well - hopefully it'll result in an increased number of pretty strangers for me to look at. Stuart lamented that the only really cute ones are very married or from Edinburgh anyway, which means we'll see them at home; we agreed that there are a few aesthetically pleasing younger ones, but that their appeal often diminishes when they open their mouths. Mind, there weren't nearly so many giggly bimbos around this time. I rejoice that goth is becoming properly uncool again.

Our immediate shopping completed, Stuart and I went round to Adsevin's cottage, where we found Weeble again. We were hungry, so we'd acquired a whole roast chicken on the way, which we promptly ate. Then everyone settled back to watch, at long last, the recorded fourth episode of Doctor Who? that we'd been waiting for. Thankfully, despite some dodgy casting and a lot of unnecessary pre-pubescent 'humour', it didn't let us down.

Back in the cottage later, I read a newly acquired collection of James Tiptree Junior short stories whilst Donald had a bath. Stuart was busy in the arcades, from which he returned triumphant, having righteously crushed the pretender who had threated his supremacy at Star Wars Trilogy Arcade. Weeble cooked us a delicious meal of sweet and sour chicken, and then it was time to go out, as Stuart, being a reviewer now for the Alternative Nation forum, wanted to see all of the bands. I knew we'd be unfashionably early, but didn't care enough to make a fuss. I put on the black-trimmed and beribboned white silk slip I'd recently made, having finally become comfortable with my sewing machine again a year and a half after disbanding my business, and we headed up to the Spa. As I'd expected, it was very quiet. Consequently, I spent a fair bit of time trapped in the pink room, being the only person available to guard our stuff. This meant I had nowhere to sit (getting up and down off the floor is difficult and painful) and my legs became more and more sore. I leaned against a window for support and contemplated picking away the paint which held it shut so that I could make a short cut by which friends might enter the building; this was a mission I was later to regret declining. Gradually, my people arrived, and from that point onwards I was stuck in the pink room by way of continually being involved in conversation. Thankfully, when Erith arrived, he brought with him the usual folding chairs, which made it much easier for me to manage. Giolla contributed some of a fiery ginger liqueur which killed most of my awareness of anything except my throbbing tongue, though it had a lovely warm aftertaste. I was glad to see Panurge and Kest again, over from the 'States as they were, and also assorted people from around the UK whom I rarely get the chance to spend time with; but, as the pain in my legs subsided, I really did want to dance. I missed Screaming Banshee Aircrew entirely, which sucked, as they'd been recommended to me; the general opnion was that I was firtunate to miss Psychophile, who were on next. When I finally made it through to the band room the performer was Voltaire, which was bizarre - he would've been the star turn at an open mic night in some backwater bar, but what the Hell was he doing in a goth line-up? Just a mildly entertaining average guy getting by on geek jokes and the crowd's goodwill. Certainly nothing to dance to. I lurked at the back talking to Stuart and the lovely Laura Waspish, both of whom were drinking heavily. I tried to apologise for screwing up in the past when Laura and I were closer, and she explained obscurely that she's always been scared of me, and we hugged and kissed but I wasn't at all sure she'd remember it in the morning. The plan to exchange phone numbers was screwed up when I became ill not long afterwards. I saw a little of Gene Loves Jezebel's act - okay, but nothing special, though it wasn't their fault they were so lost on the string-haired glowstick-wavers in the audience - but then I had to admit defeat. Stuart came to say goodbye - I knew that if we didn't do it in person he'd forget and panic later, wondering where I was - and then Donald took me home. I went up to my bed with a cup of tea whilst, in the Spa, the party went on. Stuart made the mistake of trying to match Laura drink for drink. She may be smaller than him, but she's got a damn fine liver, and put away a lot of Jack Daniels and coke. He became so thoroughly inebriated that, to his frustration, he was to lose completely the memory of snogging her. Meanwhile, in the pink room, Erith, who was widely perceived to have been throwing himself at everybody, proudly announced that he had 'pullz0red', then grabbed Kest and snogged her. It wasn't her he'd been talking about, however, and he promptly left with some woman whom no-one there knew, telling Dag, on the way, that he'd be sleeping on the living room couch, excluded from their shared room.

After the Spa closed, a number of people went back to Adsevin's place for further drinks. They met Erith's new friend when she was on her way home, two hours later, announcing that he had passed out (to his recollection, before he got a shag), and that "you could march a brass band through there and it wouldn't wake him." The others, whilst sympathetic to her plight, were much amused. Likewise by Stuart, who stumbled in there obscurely, looking for a coat he was convinced he ought to have with him, though he hadn't been wearing one when he went out. What he actually wanted was his bag, which Donald had retrieved after it was left in the pink room, but which no-one then thought to mention. After unsuccessful attempts to take other people's coats, Stuart wandered back out into the streets, managing to get himself quite lost before he eventually found his way home. We know it was about half past two then because he saw fire engines in Church Street - they were there to respond to an arson attack on the bin sheds of the Shambles pub. I saw him at eight when I woke up, my body still on a work schedule, bright and alert. He looked sufficiently ashen that he might have been a relic of Pompei. I checked his vital signs and left him to sleep it off; he staggered up to my room a couple of hours later, still drunk, to recount what he recalled of his adventures. The hangover set in later in the day.

If that makes him sound like the worst pirate you've ever heard of, you haven't heard the half of it. That same night, two other goths got sufficiently drunk and excitable on certain substances that they decided it would be a good idea to steal The Grand Turk, the most famous ship in Whitby's harbour. Discovering that this was too difficult with an inebriated, inexperienced crew of just two, they then decided to settle for stealing just its flag - but they were doing so under the watchful eye of Whitby's only two police officers, sitting there comfortably in their marked police car under the glare of the harbour lights. Naturally, an arrest was made, though one of those involved successfully scarpered. Upon making the arrest, the police found their man to be in possession of illegal substances, and they found that he also had a note saying where he was staying in Whitby - so they raided the place, and found what they considered to be a dealer's stash. Sending him off to Scarborough station for a cavity search, they arranged for his home to be raided too, and still more incriminating evidence was found there. So now he looks likely to be kicked out of his university, and he'll almost certainly do time. Remember, kids: real pirates only do drugs when they're securely on shore leave.

Thanks to hangovers and failure to sleep, nobody else was much fit for anything on Saturday morning. Donald dragged himself out to the stalls he'd missed the previous day, whilst I read and tended the fire, getting it glowing nicely with a little help from a badly written election leaflet by the UK Independence Party. All the election material we were sent was in dire need of proof reading. Worst was the Labour Party leaflet, which contained four major grammatical errors in the section on education alone. I'm not convinced that any of these people are fit to govern. Anyway, when Stuart felt well enough we wandered up to the Metropole to revisit the second hand stall. I retrieved my catsuit, which hadn't sold, to Rose's surprise - I guess it was just hard for people to see at the back when the stall is always overcrowded. The dress I'd left there had sold, so I put my share of the proceeds towards the purchase of a lovely new long black velvet corset skirt. We then proceeded to the Resolution, where I was delighted to find a stall selling unusual patterned tights for a fiver a time. I got green cobwebs, pink tartan and black and white giraffe pattern. I also got myself a much needed new handbag (the last one had fallen apart when trodden on at a party the previous weekend) by Sinister fron the Netherlands, one of my favourite designers. Stuart forced himself to keep clear of further jackets, but found instead a cute little strappy leopard print mini-dress which he was very pleased with.

After finishing our shopping, we swung by Adsevin's place so that Stuart could apologise to people for his behaviour the previous night; everyone seemed more amused and concerned than offended. Donald was there, lurking in a corner, and he returned to April Cottage with us to make another yummy pasta dinner. We were in no rush to go out again, so we sat around watching Doctor Who? and talking. I needed passive entertainment to calm me down, as I was feeling very stressed after re-dressing my knee, which looked worse than ever. The state of it damaged my physical confidence generally, and I found it hard to get myself ready for a night out, though Stuart insisted I looked good in my spiderweb catsuit. Because I was struggling to walk, we took a taxi up to the Spa, and that was when we discovered what everybody else was struggling with.

Outside the doors of the Spa, a long queue had formed. This can't be right, I thought. It shouldn't take this long to get people inside. So I asked around, and was informed that the bouncers were operating a one in, one out policy. What?!? I'd bloody paid for my ticket, I shouldn't have to deal with this! Well, neither should anybody else. Poor Bob Rosenberg had the thankless job of walking along the line with a clipboard taking the details of those who wished to be compensated. The problem was with a new security company foisted on the event by Scarborough Council at the last minute. Poor Whitby Jo had scarcely any notice of it herself. It had been decided that, despite the whole of the Spa being booked for the event, only the legal capacity of the band room was to count as far as admission was concerned. To make matters worse, the inexperienced security team counted members of staff, bands, and those on the guest list towards capacity. They failed to guard important places like the stage and DJ booth, and Sexbat had a case of CDs stolen. About the one thing which was secure was the fire doors - they'd been locked and then bound together with plastic ties (quite impossible for many disabled people to undo), so that if there had been a fire most of those inside would have been unable to escape. The whole thing was a disaster.

I suppose we could have waited in the queue, but my knee was already causing me considerable pain, and some of those at the back of the line said they'd been there half an hour; it really wasn't worth it. Besides, friends inside reported that they were bored and frustrated because the other people they'd wanted to hang out with couldn't get there; the whole social thing was broken. So I abandoned my hopes of watching Queen Adrena. Stuart offered to break in through the kitchens, as he was sure he could charm any staff who caught him - I didn't doubt his ability, but wasn't quite sure he understood the price he might have to pay for it, pretty as he was in his famous ethernet trousers. So we gave up and went to the pub. By the time I'd limped there, Siani already had a beer waiting for me. Donald joined us sometimes later, having gone off to find a place to urinate - he was advised that he should have chosen the Spa because it smelled of wee anyway. The whole street was full of annoyed goths looking for something to do. I was optimistic. In my experience, such situations often inspire interesting events. But I couldn't stand for long, so Stuart took me home. We curled up on the couch and he battled his still-present hangover with vodka.

Later that evening, Donald returned to the cottage, lighting a good warm fire and bringing out the beer. We were shortly joined by EdwardS, Siani, Dag, Erith, Kest, Laura J and her new man, Chris. Stuart then fell asleep in my arms, but I was still able to reach the bottle of cheap but just-about-drinkable courvoisier I'd purchased for consumption in the Spa, so that was okay. We talked and listened to mp3s and had what was, all in all, quite an enjoyable wee party, Stuart waking up again towards the end to make an attempt at sociability and try to ignore Erith's comments about his clothing. Donald persistently called Kest cute so that she would punch him, and then told her she was cute when she was angry. Eventually there was a noise outside which Donald went to investigate; he told us no-one was there, and that what we'd heard was the crack of dawn. No-one believed him, but as morning light began to seep in through the windows, the seagulls making their familiar racket, it dawned upon us all that it was probably time to go to bed.

Sleeping in is not something I'm good at these days, especially when it's not necessary to get up for work and the option is there to get up for sex instead. I didn't get enough sleep them, and I suffered for it, especially as my unhappy stomach would permit me only a yoghurt and some chocolate for breakfast. It was afternoon before anyone else was willing to go anywhere, and Donald was still too tired for that, though he joined us later. We went to the chocolate shop to obtain Adsevin's birthday present; its owners knew at once who we were buying for, sent her their greetings, and made sure to pack in extra marzipan. Buying some tasty picnic foods for ourselves from Somerfield, we went round to her place for her birthday party. TEP had made her a cake with its candles arranged to announce her age in binary, but she still didn't manage to blow them all out in one go. Everybody was overtired and distracted, but it was still a pleasant wee party, and she seemed to have fun.

When we got home I was very tired, and Stuart insisted that I have a nap before we even think about getting ready for 'eighties night. As it was, with my cramps and everything, I still wasn't fit to go. That upset me quite a bit, as it might have been my last chance - I can't do it whilst I'm pregnant, and I have to accept that my health is only likely to get worse in the long term. Stuart looked so pretty in his little leopard dress (which Donald protested would have been unreasonably short on me) and his red fishnet tights; I wanted to be able to go places with him, to enjoy him the way I knew other people would. But sometimes there's nothing anybody can do. He hugged me and promised to party enough for both of us. I sat on the couch in my new dress and tried to feel okay.

Going out somewhere else wasn't really an option for me; with my knee as bad as it was, I knew I couldn't spend another night on my feet, and I expected the Elsinore to be packed out. As it turned out, that wasn't the case, but I wasn't to learn as much until after the fact. Even Erith's planned game of All Flesh Must be Eaten didn't happen, as he and Dag were accidentally delayed in their cottage by several cases of good real ale from York. But Weeble was tired and said he'd be happy just to hang out in the cottage anyway, and Donald did the same for most of the night, also making us delicious food. Meanwhile Stuart had lots of fun dancing, was molested by the usual suspects, and caused several local men to panic and question their sexuality after they somehow failed to notice his flat chest and trace of stubble. But he did as he had promised and came running home at midnight to fall into my arms. Sweaty as he was, post-Nellie the Elephant, he might very easily have stuck there. He soon fell asleep. An hour or so later, Erith and Dag, very drunk, and Kest, who seemed keen on being drunker, joined us. All remaining alcohol in the cottage was drafted into service and partying once again went on into the wee small hours. Weeble expressed reluctance to sit on the floor, closer to the warm fire, in case he got kicked - there was, it seemed, a danger he might call Kest cute by accident. It was pointed out that there was another space to sit in, but still he hesitated - I defended him, saying it was always possible he might say Dag was cute by accident, too. "Only when [Dag]'s drunk." said Donald, and everyone laughed whilst poor Dag just sat there, admitting his complete inability to come up with a response.

On Monday morning Donald wasn't feeling too good, so I spent some time sitting with him, going downstairs only when my dizziness made breakfast a necessity. Stuart fried most welcome bacon and eggs. Later, feeling better, Donald joined us, and Weeble too, and we set out to buy presents for various friends back home. Walking by the old marketplace, we saw a sign in a closed-down Burberry shop window which read "Chavs 0, Goths 4", and there was much amusement. We had lunch in the Dolphin, overlooking the bright blue water in the harbour, and then wandered along the seafront. There I beat some crocodiles furiously with a mallet which once again came close to disintegrating on me. Weeble said that I ought o get extra points for hitting them so hard. I know I don't get the best score that way, but it's therapeutic. Weeble got such a good score that the machine broke. We then watched Stuart get another of the high scores on Star Wars Trilogy Arcade, and afterward I had to leave to make phone calls, never quite able to take a whole week off work.

Monday evening, of course, saw the familiar South Beach bonfire, a little early for Beltane this time but still cause for celebration. Erith and Giolla began to prepare it at three p.m. We didn't bother going along until eightish, by which time it was blazing away happily and very neatly. We had perfect weather for it, the air still and calm, with no rain, so the smoke and embers rarely attacked the crowd. Unusually, the beach was covered in driftwood - the company employed to collect it were late this year. Weeble had hauled big pieces of wood out of the sea and used them to fashion very comfortable benches, though I had my usual chair and Stuart sat on a stone beside it. He and Weeble both had big bags of marshmallows which they toasted on the end of sticks. Kest was delighted to discover flumps for the first time. A woman I'd never met before wandered around handing out packets of crisps, and absinthe and mead were similarly distributed. I was given a free sausage from the barbecue pit. Everyone seemed to have brought more alcohol than they needed. Fury enjoyed playing with her new fire axe, dipping the blade in fuel to set it alight, and others spun around with flaming sticks whilst Preacher did his fire-breathing thing. It was a great atmosphere. For once positioned such that I was able to talk to people, and with a good number of my people around, I had plenty of fun; the only problem was that a group of locals had built another (much inferior) fire at the other end of the beach, so there was nowhere convenient to go for a piss; also, Fuzzy Dave was threatening to take his clothes off again, which had several people covering their eyes.

Stuart got very tired, however, having worn himself out the night before, so, returning favours, I took him home shortly before midnight and put him to bed. He said he wanted me to stay in the stripey black and white clothes he likes, and then he passed out. I got very warm and passed out too, waking up again at half past four when Donald stumbled home to update me on the gossip, though there was more of that which I'd have to wait till the morrow to retrieve. Of most significance was that the escapee from the Endeavour event had been identified, and words had been had with him, whereupon he decided to come on all fight the power - not the smartest idea when on a lonely beach surrounded by goths with entrenching tools and flaming axes. My opinion was that they should have buried him up to his neck in the sand and let him cool off for a couple of hours, no real harm done. At any rate, it seems that things got sorted out.

The following morning, Donald was sleeping very soundly indeed. Stuart put on his new tailcoat, which looked very dashing, but it was drizzly outside and too cold for adventuring that way, so he returned to practical furs. We returned to South Beach to find more debris than usual around the place where the fire had been - it turns out that local youths had been given final charge of it, being cold after their own fire failed. At least they'd had the sense to bury it upon departing, though the warm sand still smouldered there. Not far away was an impressive foxhole, man-deep, carefully banked with stones. Apparently three people had dug it over the course of seven hours. Poor bastards - all that work, and there wasn't even a fireworks display this time.

After our beach adventure, Stuart and I went shopping for the presents we still had to buy. We met Dag and Kest and Panurge on their way to York, the latter to leave thereafter, so goodbyes were made. Then we headed down to the main beach to collect interesting stones. The sea and the saturated sky were almost the same colour, the horizon difficult to distinguish. Stuart stepped in and out of the waves and decided that he and the sea are friends again. It was a strange atmosphere there, quieter than usual. Amongst the usual beach debris were pieces of people's houses; small sections of red roof tiles with bits of whitewashed walls attached, all sea-smoothed. We figured that they must be relics of the floods which parts of England suffered earlier in the year. We puzzled at them and climbed on them and wished we had some way of identifying who they belonged to. All the sorrow they must represent... They looked like remnants of an abandoned civilisation, warnings of a way of life slipping inexorably away.

Beachcombing is hungry work, so lunch soon became our top priority, and we retired to the Whitby Tea Rooms, where Weeble shortly joined us. I was busy sending and receiving messages, organising an afternoon of games in our cottage. It didn't entirely work. Laura J and Chris arrived late, nursing painful hangovers, and we did have a good game of Gloom, but Erith was too tired to join in and Adsevin and TEP didn't even manage to find the place. Donald opened a bottle of wine anyway. In the evening, he sat in the cottage tending the fire whilst the rest of us went up to the pub. Stuart had wanted to look good for the final night, so he'd had me lace him into his wedding dress, and then he refused to wear a coat, saying he was too warm. He was certainly too warm in the Elsinore, which was surprisingly empty. Erith came by briefly, sulky because he'd mysteriously found a t-shirt with tractors on it in his luggage, but he wandered off in search of food, and Adsevin and TEP were very tired. I'd happily have sat about there for longer, enjoying a few pints, but Stuart started finding it hard to breathe, and I wasn't letting him walk home alone like that, nor was I about to abandon Weeble; so we all left, and that was that. We watched a bit of the snooker to keep us awake whilst we waited for our baked apples to be ready for supper. It was introduced by the Sisters of Mercy's Dominion. Some say prayers. I say mine.

The following morning was hectic as one would expect, but nevertheless we were on the road by half past ten, Erith driving Stuart and me, the others scheduled to take the train, which journey went very smoothly for them. We drove back by an unfamiliar route, stopping in Berwick-upon-Tweed, where we stumbled into the first eaterie we could find, very hungry. That happened to be the Queen's Head hotel, and it just happened to serve some of the best food known to man. I had a baked potato with toasted brie and an apple and herb pickle, nested in fresh leaves and vegetables and fruit. We shared a smoked goose, pear and walnut salad, and had big pots of tea to drink. It was utterly gorgeous. Now we're thinking of visiting Berwick for a whole weekend, just to eat. We'll certainly take that route back from Whitby again. We left the best tip we could manage, and Erith gave the barman free tech support, solving an overheard problem with his modem. Then we got back to our journey. With really friendly weather and hardly any traffic to deal with, we were in Edinburgh by four. There we walked up to the Royal Mile, passing the horde of spookies who hang around outside the city's goth shops muttering pointedly about how the likes of us are only poseurs. Heh. We found a nice little cafe which served raspberry iced tea, and the others kept me company there for an hour before setting off to drive back to Glasgow. I wandered up to the castle and sat on a wall reading Le Monde until it was time for me to attend that reception with the first minister. Unfortunately, by that time, my legs were very sore indeed, and in no state for kicking anybody up the arse. Anyway, in person he was perfectly nice, and he had the decency not to get all pre-election party political, so I kept my nice boots to myself. I got some good business done, then limped away down to Waverly Station and caught a train back to Glasgow. There I got an underground train up to the QM Union, where I was supposed to be meeting people, and I caught up with friends and watched some messy games of pool. Finally arrived home shortly before midnight. Donald was just putting his boots on, off to collect a lost Dag and Kest, with further adventures to follow; but that's another story.

This way to go to Stuart's review of the same event.

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