Whitby Review, April 2007: Where the Streets have no Shame
Getting to this Whitby was difficult. I'd spent the start
of the year in a coma, not expected to live, let alone party; and for the
months which followed I'd been working like a dog, trying to make up for
lost time and lost earnings, trying to get myself fit again, trying to
please an unreasonable number of frequently unreasonable people an
unreasonable amount of the time. I badly needed my holiday, but even on
the morning on which I was to leave I was busy stuffing envelopes,
placating PRs, trying to arrange interviews with an Indian documentary
director and a US zombie movie festival organiser, and generally
exhausting myself, knowing there was no way I could manage everything. I
ate breakfast as I worked and washed down my sixteen morning pills with a
two day old glass of red wine. My usual fluent organisation was a mess. I
forgot to pack my blood pressure monitor. Without it, I couldn't know if
I might be about to keel over again, perhaps permanently. I was sailing
off into the unknown.
The ship in which I sailed was, once again, Erith's big black SUV, Viktor, the one which I have difficulty climbing in and out of and which inspires him to be hideously mean to other drivers. Our companions were Stuart (Potatojunkie) and Tig; Donald had to stay at home to study and to go and see Einstürzende Neubaten; I envied him the latter, but my heart belongs to Whitby. On the journey down we saw thirty four dead birds, ten dead mammals, eighteen unidentifiable meat smears and one poor deceased shoe. We went charity shopping in Penrith, where I bought a pale green silk top, and ate lunch in the Bewick there, where I enjoyed delicious elderflower juice and Erith regaled the wide-eyed waitresses with facts. We arrived in Whitby early but had to drive around it several times before we could find a suitable parking space, finally coming to a rest underneath the cherry blossom just up the road from the Elsinore. As we passed the door we could already see a number of goths lurking inside (a semi-conscious Preacher among them), but we resisted temptation and walked the remaining seventy eight paces to the door of Haven Cottage.
Haven Cottage turned out to be just about perfect. Tig had booked into a B&B and set off there with her stuff whilst we made ourselves comfortable. I was music monitor, setting up my laptop Violet to keep us in Iggy whilst we unpacked, Erith into a comfortable first floor double bedroom up a spacious staircase which distinctly limited his fond potential for injuries, Stuart into our delightful top floor room with its mirrored wardrobes, balcony rail and welcoming dead flowers, which might have been designed for holidaying goths. Stuart was exhausted and promptly collapsed there to hide in his James Joyce whilst Erith and I went out to do the shopping. For dinner we had another of Erith's mum's tasty lasagnes with a few nice beers, and then it was time to go out to the pub.
It was only the first night, and I'd had a long day, but
I was really feeling like partying. So surprised to be alive and fitter
than I'd felt for the last several events. So I dressed up in a lilac
leopard print slip and matching beads and boa, and settled in to the
Elsinore to get to work on a few pints of Murphy's. Assorted friends
joined me there, some of whom I hadn't seen for months, all excited to see
me so well and full of bounce themselves; there were hugs aplenty. I was
pretty relieved to see them doing okay, too, especially with Giolla having
been stabbed since I last saw hir (by two rather foolish neds who got what
was coming to them). We drank heartily until midnight, then marched down
the hill and across the harbour to hir place, where there were the usual
delicious substances available. There the party went on until fourish, at
which point Stuart and I decided that pacing ourselves was the thing and
walked home to find other ways of being irresponsible, eventually getting
to sleep around dawn. Erith stayed behind...
When I got up the following morning I noted that Erith's door was ajar and that his bed hadn't been slept in. Ah well - par for the course, I guess. After sending a brief text message to enquire as to whether or not he was still breathing, I sorted out breakfast, contacted Tig, and set out with her and Stuart to do the rounds of the charity shops. My own health wasn't great, for non-alcohol-related reasons, and at once point I had to rush home to take more pills, but for the most part I did okay. The loot was first class. Thanks to Tig's keen eyes (and generosity, given she's the same shoe size) I got a much needed new pair of leather ankle boots, nicely broken in and with just the right sized heel. My old ones had died a week previously. Also, an amazing velvet pinstripe jacket, a pink and black lace bodice, and a wee short skirt with buckles up the side. All actual useful stuff, quite unlike what I usually end up with. Tig got a small soft frog, which made her happy, as she's obsessed with such things. Stuart got a beautiful big red and black ballgown for just four pounds fifty, plus a long skinny black dress with holes up the sides, a little black and red dress with buckles across the front, a slender purple velvet skirt and a pink and black ruched velvet top. When we parted from Tig and got home, we still had the house to ourselves, so there was plenty of time for fun without having to worry about the volume. Which was good, as after Erith staggered in it would have seemed cruel even to talk in much more than a whisper. He was looking extremely fragile. Research revealed that he had left the previous evening's party to go to a second one at Fury's place, where he had spent the night trying in vain to fondle Pru's breasts and telling her that he wanted to put his penis in her (a remark with, Fury noted, wasn't helping his cause). Eventually they'd tucked him up in a bed by himself, bringing him tea in the morning, which made him think he must have died and gone to Heaven. Later, he'd just felt like he'd died. He lay around the house moaning vaguely, so, deciding there was nothing we could do to help, Stuart and I went out to Siani's place for Westie's birthday party.
Siani, EdwardS and Jenova had made quite an effort for
the party. There were all sorts of yummy foods: cakes and sweets and
little cocktail sausages. Lots of drink, too, and lots of party toys. Tig
demonstrated impressive balloon-blowing skills, filling the room with
things which had probably been intended to resemble catapillars but which,
in context, just looked like giant cocks. Siani eagerly gripped these
between her thighs to try and have buttsex with various people, whilst
others sailed out of the window. Stuart used some of them, along with a
coat and hat, to make an artificial Preacher in the corner. There was lots
of fighting. Westie was given a big cake and we all sang Happy
Birthday. Then the highlight of the event arrived - a fluffy pink
unicorn piñata. This was suspended from a pole whilst Westie thrashed
at it with a stick. He did manage to knock it to the ground at one point,
but he couldn't defeat it. Squiggle also tried in vain. Then I asked if I
could have a go, and Fuzzygoth agreed that when violence is needed it's
best to employ a Glaswegian. The others just hadn't been hitting it hard
enough. I soon smashed it up, tore off its head and sent it crashing to
the ground, where Squiggle moved in to help me finish it off. It was
extremely resilient, with bouncy flesh, but we nevertheless ripped it open
and scattered its contents on the floor for everyone to enjoy. There wrre
medals inside it and Siani awarded me one for my victory, but then the
others got medals too because everyone is special in their own way. I was
pleased to take home the medal I'd broken from hitting it too hard. We
also got sweets, puzzles and finger frights. There was lots of fun to be
had and we stuck around for a further hour to talk; but it was getting
late then, and we still had things to do.
Stuart and I spent the remainder of that afternoon
constructing a wheel of justice with some coloured cardboard, a paint
roller and a steering wheel cover. Mostly his work, it looked very
impressive when complete, with a rim of black and white hair which we
gently combed. He changed into his new black dress and I into a
controversial yellow one, and we took it out into the street, where it
instantly attracted attention. Passers-by who came up to ask naively "Is
that a wheel of fortune?" were duly invited to join us in the Resolution,
where we planned to hold Goth Court. Ever noticed how the goth scene is
riven with petty arguments, ongoing feuds and bitchiness? Simple,
uncontestable justice has long been needed, and it was our intention to
deliver it.
Unfortunately, once we got to the Resolution, we discovered that their credit card machine wasn't working, so I had to go out again to get some cash. Whilst I was away, Stuart managed to lose half of our table to a couple of lost looking emo kids who were clearly not going to be absorbable. I returned to find him pinioned between the spinning wheel and a tall be-platformed stranger whose Scylla-like hair betokened her trade - she was trying to convince him to model for her. She seemed genuine enough, and he was vaguely interested (though I've warned him to be cautious about losing time to favors when freelancing), but we all struggled to find polite things to say about the tentacle industry itself. Fortunately the rest of our posse arrived not long afterwards, and then it was time for Goth Court to begin.
"Spin, spin, spin the wheel of justice! See how fast the
bastard turns!" Soon the song (courtesy of the lovely Reeves and Mortimer,
though long forgotten by most) was echoing through the crowded room, and
Siani's efficient search for cases brught more and more prosecutions our
way. A remarkable number of strangers were amongst those tried, often
accused by their so-called friends. Dave out of Vendemmian was convicted
of being in a shit band during the 'nineties; Preacher was convicted of
having permaskank; a dramatically corsetted woman was convicted of being
too scary (though I argued for her innocence) whilst another was convicted
of drinking shit beer. With the aid of the wheel, due punishment was meted
out in each case, and almost all of the criminals accepted it with good
grace. Granted, the one who was required to fellate an owl looked rather
confused, but Siani drew her a helpful picture of an owl to solve the
problem and she promised to take it home with her and accomplish the deed
there. Outside in the street, a young stranger who stopped us and received
the same punishment looked still more confused, asking "What does fellate
mean?" I had to double check to make sure she was old enough to have been
in the pub from which she had just emerged.
I was fairly tired that night and keen to be alert the
next day, so I went on home to my bed whilst Stuart went out to party. It
was still dark when he eventually got home, struggling to move quietly in
his drunken state. He recovered well the next day, when we enjoyed a big
breakfast of bacon and eggs with the delicious stuffs that Erith had
obtained from the farmers' market. Then it was time to shop. I put on my
new boots, my new jacket and my stripey trousers, whilst he wore his new
purple velvet with his camera hanging loose about his neck, making a
secret video of the bizarre bazaar. We want to help new people to
understand what Whitby's all about, but it's difficult when some people
are convinced that any form of advertising is going to result in their
designs being stolen - as if there was much in the way of innovative
design there to begin with! A few bits of interesting crossover between
the cyber scene (which tends to be where the technically skilled creative
artists are) and the trad scene (where things are more suitable for
actually wearing), but nothing that really stood out. The most notable
thing about the whole event was how quiet it was compared to usual. Still,
I picked up a couple of useful bits of make-up in the Spa, and also a cat
toy for Lamarr, whom we'd left back home. Red and vaguely mouse-shaped
with little black bats on it, it has since proven a favourite. But the
best thing about the Spa was the surprise presence of longtime alt.gothic
regular Ashbet! I'd had no idea she planned to visit and it was delightful
to meet her, along with her daughter. I only wish we could've had more
opportunity to hang out. Likewise Siani, who was determined to seduce
her.
Later that day, in the Metropole, I got a useful little black skirt with side lacing and also a black and purple PVC bra (which I was unsure about, but Stuart said I needed it). He got a long black lace-up skirt and managed to resist spending my money on a sword. I needed quite a bit of support from him to make it to the Leisure Centre where the final section of the bazaar was held, as I had foolishly gone without my hat for the sake of fashion and the sun was very bright, aggravating my lupus. I get very dizzy like that. We got orange juice when we arrived and that revived me somewhat, also meaning that we were in the lobby long enough to catch my dear friend James E and his new woman and do some catching up. Inside proper, there were many gorgeous things. I bought a black and white striped dress by Mercy, whose stuff I really like - like the pinstripe one in an identical style which Stuart persuaded me to buy him from a charity shop some months ago, despite my wanting it for myself. I also got a couple of cute bracelets in pink and purple leopard print suede. Stuart got a Chinese-style black and red satin top which he was utterly smitten with. We were quite worn out afterwards, and hastened home, where I curled up with my Harlan Ellison book whilst Erith attempted to get a barbecue going in our tiny yard, filling the house with smoke. Eventually there were delicious venison sausages, pleasant mash and gorgeous big mushrooms filled with blue stilton, though all agreed that the wild boar and apple sausages tasted funny, so they were abandoned.
After such a big dinner, I was unsure I'd fit into my long leather dress, but I managed okay, and we headed out to the Resolution. On the way there, Fury stopped us to caution us that it was "full of cunts". Upon arrival, we understood what she meant. The upper floor was doing some kind of club night and might well have been okay, but it cost money to get in and wasn't really practical when we wanted to move around to see various friends (as well as wanting to be able to talk to them). Downstairs featured an okay DJ whose efforts were ruined by a misjudged sound system turned up so loud that the music was distorted almost to the point of being unrecognisable. The crowd there just stood gazing at him, gormless and glaikit like so many prozac-poppers, unamenable to any kind of social contact. Tig and I found seats on the mezzanine, but Stuart was just too distressed by the whole thing and promptly fled into the street. After Adsevin joined us, and after a brief interlude during which Tig was chatted up by a fiftysomething guy later found spewing into the gutter, we did likewise. It was clear that there was to be no justice that night.
Strangely enough, the Little Angel was much quieter. We
found Malcolm and Ivy there, along with Fuzzygoth Dave and some new
people. Although it was late, the place was still serving, and I enjoyed a
guinness before going to look for my boy. Found him in the Elsinore, where
he was one of three people to insist to me that it was still open and that
it would be open much later than the Little Angel, despite the fact that
stools were being stacked atop tables as he spoke. I gently guided him
into the other pub, but he didn't stay there long, his beloved wheel
attracting disapproval from a staff member who suspected it was biased. I
stayed for another drink and talked to various friends there, then joined
him in the cottage to help prepare for our party. He'd already changed
into PVC jacket and trousers and was dancing around the living room with
my riding crop as I did the last of the tidying-up and got the party food
in place. He and I had celebrated our third anniversary in March, which is
the leather anniversary, so we'd wanted to have a leather party -
extending the theme to rubber and PVC to be kind to our vegan friends
(though there was no accounting for the likes of Westie, who claimed he
was in costume because the soles of his shoes were rubber). We'd both been
overwhelmed by work at that time, so had decided that a Whitby party would
be the best way to go.
Most of our friends arrived about half past one, after the pubs shut. Our tiny living room, kitchenette and staircase were soon full, but everyone was comfortable, and there was room to spin the wheel for those who still wanted justice, something which Stuart was all the more keen on whilst in possession of the crop. A dim Irish girl tried to impress people by turning her nose up at the Goth Court, but didn't quite understand why no-one much wanted to talk to her. Various people complained that she was stupid. "She was smart enough to leave," Siani pointed out. And no-one was really at their smartest as the drink flowed, but we all had a great time. Siani and Arachne argued over who had the best breasts and needed my help to compare them (I argued, quite sincerely, that they were good in different ways), then got their bums out for everyone else to compare. There was some dancing and lots of general silliness. Several people were flirting with Rowan, despite her peculiar ears, but she just sat in a corner breaking things, including poor Jim's glasses - she gave him one contact lens to go home with.
By half past four most people had gone home and I was
pretty tired. Taking off my heels and letting down my hair, I persuaded a
reluctant Stuart to retire upstairs, where he sulked that he had lots of
party left in him and then spectacularly failed to be able to get out of
his trousers by himself. He was angry at me because I had apparently been
trying to drag him away all night - something I hadn't noticed myself
doing, having been quite happy talking to other people, but which it seems
translated as him having wanted to go upstairs when he looked at me. It
was difficult to argue about this in any sensible fashion, however, with
Erith interjecting his own opinions from downstairs, so we gave up and
settled for violence instead.
I awoke at ten the next morning in the bright pale room, as the bells of St Mary's Church rang out across the harbour. I'm no good at this sleeping in thing. The bed was covered in bloodstains and I was covered in bruises which rather startled Stuart when he woke, short on memory, though he still wasn't entirely sober. Probably a good thing - I was able to get suitable medication into him before the hangover got a proper grip. I peeled on floaty romantic goth clothing of the sort which is wonderful for covering up general damage, powdered my face, ate some breakfast, and got us both out en route to the shops again by mid afternoon, though we had to give Fury's planned picnic a miss. We were hoping to get Stuart some green and black striped trousers he'd seen in the bazaar, but they no longer had them in his size. I made arrangements to purchase them later online. We went back to the bring and buy stall at the Metropole, where I bought a skirt which really is too short to be workable, and which I'll probably add an extra layer to. We also saw a cute little t-shirt bearing the legend 'I heart cock', and immediately texted Siani, who was very excited and rushed to purchase it. Afterwards we collapsed in the cottage for a while to read and to eat a whole roast chicken, one of our Whitby traditions.
That evening, the plan had been to go to the Little
Angel, but nobody was very organised. Due to the beligerence of
Scarborough council, who want to squish the goth weekend out of Whitby in
the foolish belief that it will relocate there, there were police
patrolling the pubs trying to limit the numbers of people there as well as
preventing drinking in the streets. I actually didn't care about the drink
and just wanted to hang out in the street to talk to my friends, but in
the circumstances it wasn't going to work. The Resolution was clearly
useless, so instead we went to Siani's place to hang out and drink. We had
good fun there, and after Siani (proudly dressed as 'emo boy' and calling
herself Sean) took the bouncier people off to collect folk from the pubs
Stuart and I hung around for quieter conversations with EdwardS and
Jenova, who fed us yummy mushroom garlic bread. We talked about politics
until about half past one, when it was clearly time for more serious
partying. Thanking our hosts, we left for Giolla's place.
The party at Giolla's was in full swing and we took
advantage of it to make the drunken videos of Siani and Erith which
various netgoths had requested, even though Arachne interupted these by
dragging Siani off to snog her. Westie was snogging Aidan (who had
arrived late and exhausted after a job interview the previous day and a
night out at Glasgow's National Pop League with Donald) but ended up
happily slumped against a wall with Tig. Stuart was in a photo-taking
mood and hung out of a window spying on the people smoking in the street
below, until they noticed him and showed him their bums. I had fun
talking to various people, but it was a quieter night than the previous
one. We left at about four o'clock, drifting happily home through the
quiet streets. A group of local neds hanging out by the station tried to
give Stuart tranny hassle, but they'd chosen the wrong day. "It's not a
skirt, it's a kilt, you English cunts!" I shouted back at them. (I have
nothing against the English, but have observed that addressing people
this way in their own country tends to instill a useful level of
confusion.) They made some lame attempt to follow up, but were
clearly just jealous. Feeling healthier than usual, I might have quite
enjoyed a fight, but I wasn't going to get my girl in trouble, so we went
home. He slipped into something more practical and went out again to
photograph the sunrise whilst I crawled sleepily into bed.
Sunday morning was the first lie in of our holiday - the first chance I'd really had to enjoy my sleep for weeks. Of course I woke up after five hours anyway, being in that kind of habit, but it was nice not to have to go anywhere. When we eventually got downstairs we had a lazy breakfast and then set out on a walk down to the seamen's mission, which we've kept managing to miss on recent trips. There was nothing there worth buying, but we had fun looking around, then wandered along the seafront so Stuart could get some scampi. I would've liked to go on the beach, too, but he wussed out because of the cold. We did manage a visit to the chocolate shop to get in our supplies for the next six months. When we got home, Erith cooked a variety of mushrooms for an early dinner - more of those delicious blue stilton ones, plus chestnut mushrooms cooked in garlic and button mushrooms cooked in wasabi.
That night was, of course, 'Eighties night. I had
wondered whether I'd be well enough to go but, in the end, I didn't want
to risk it, not having my blood pressure monitor to check with. Stuart was
disappointed but still excited about his favourite night out. He dressed up
in his favourite little white t-shirt with red hearts on it and I braided
his hair; then he went off to join the queue, where he bought wine so bad
that even Fuzzygoth refused to help him drink it and he was forced to
down it in one before going in. Still, it's not as if one can stay
properly drunk in that heat. Meanwhile I went out to the pub with Tig and
Erith, but it was a quiet night and there wasn't a lot to do.
Meanwhile, the fog came down.
It wasn't the foggiest I've seen Whitby. I could still see my feet. It was, however, hard to see more than a few metres along any given street. Whitby looks fantastic in those conditions - a classic example of Victorian gothic, where one can imagine all sorts of supernatural horrors lurking. It's also bloody cold. When we walked down to Laughton's to collect our people it was too cold for me to sit in the chairs as usual and I was doubly glad that I no longer needed to so badly. Instead Tig and I danced in the street to the faint strains of Nellie the Elephant and The Irish Rover. The police drove past, unencumbered by Scarborough councillors, and gave us a friendly wave. Erith sheltered under his new Blade Runner style light-up umbrella, which made the sky glow around him. When Stuart eventually emerged he was half naked as usual and dripping with sweat, quite oblivious to the chill in the air. We fed him irn bru and I supported him on one arm whilst catching up with other friends. It was good to see Red Countess in great shape on her new medication, really enjoying herself and looking forward to becoming a parent (with Arkady about to drop at any time). I was also delighted to hear about the success of Hirez's career as a science fiction writer, though I tried not to talk shop for too long as my boy looked increasingly sleepy. Eventually I took him off to the Resolution, which was big and empty and comfortable. I got served quickly and we sat talking to Ivy, but he wasn't doing too well, so in the end I abandoned our drinks with friends and simply took him home. There he lamented that he was making my life boring. Silly thing.
After a comparatively early night it was easy to get up
bright and early on Monday. I put on my new orange silk dress and stood in
the living room cutting it to size with a pair of garden scissors whilst
Stuart fried our breakfast. Erith had gone off on a day trip to York with
Tig, Giolla and Arachne, so we were left to our own devices. We began
with a trip to Somerfield, where we bought a fiver's worth of reduced
price bread products. We then carried these across the harbour, where we
did a bit of browsing in the shops of the old town and stopped for lunch
in Arnie's. There were yummy milkshakes and Stuart saved some of his
toast. At the appointed time, we made our way up the famous hundred and
ninety nine steps to the graveyard.
Malcolm was the first person to join us there, bearing a similar amount of bread. He and Stuart set about doing photography stuff as the others arrived, and several passers-by were co-opted, including complete strangers who joined in with great vigour. I talked to a couple of New Zealand tourists who were particularly interested in the filming side of it, being related to film directors, and I had to force myself not to get drawn back into work. But the main point was not the film - it was the bread war itself.
Bread wars are a longstanding alt.gothic tradition but, so far as I know,
this was the first time one had crossed over into the physical world on a
large scale, and it was passionately enacted by all involved. There were
duelling baguettes, bagel bombs, clubs made from crusty rolls and a
scary-looking axe made with that piece of Arnie's toast. A lot of the
bread hurt more than we'd expected and several people received injuries.
Malcolm twisted his ankle, Stuart got a nasty cut on his chin and I grazed
my cheek and hand, but it was well worth it. It was a hot sunny day and we
were already weak from partying, so we quite wore ourselves out. Jenova
sat on the sidelines with refreshments, diligently combing fondant fancy
out of Malcolm's hair. "You've got bread on you." said EdwardS, assisting
Tim With One Eye (so called because, as you may have noted, there is only
one 'I' in 'Tim'), who had been savaged by Stuart's terrifying bagelcam.
Squiggle collapsed in a heap beside the ammunition pile and was soon
covered entirely in bread, looking like some sort of mutant sheep. He was
then recruited to help Siani recreate Abu Ghraib torture photos, standing
on a gravestone with a Pandemonium bag over his head. When we'd done, we
picked up all the leftover bread and took it down to the harbour, where
we fed the seagulls until they could eat no more. They flocked around us
crazily, like a scene out of Hitchcock, whilst a small girl stood on a
nearby bench shouting plaintively "Seagulls! Don't fight!"
Having had an exhausting time at 'Eighties Night followed
by all that violence, poor Stuart was a bit broken, and as the evening
wore on it became apparent that he would not be up for further adventures.
I was reluctant to leave him but he assured me that he'd be okay with his
Ulysses. Erith had returned from York and buggered off to the
Shafiq curry house with Giolla and Arachne, there to stuff himself like a
pig. Tig came round to the cottage and lent me a big warm fleece to wear
under my coat, so I was proof against the weather; I packed up some vodka
and irn bru and we headed off down to the beach. This was the fire which
Erith and Giolla had refused to have anything to do with after how they've
been treated in recent years, and we were concerned that it might go
horribly wrong as a result, given some of the idiots who'd been eager to
get involved - also because there was the danger that Scarborough council
would take the opportunity to try something obnoxious - so I was
determined to be there as a member of the press, for all that I expected I
might have to dig myself a trench to hide in. But as it was, everything
worked out splendidly.
Chewy had stepped in to build a proper fire, neatly
banked and well supplied, and there was no-one messing around wth
fireworks. The maffball happened as always, supervised by Fury, with only
one ball going astray and landing close to the fire where people were
sitting. There was fire poi and juggling. There was also a highly
efficient toasted marshmallow production line which struggled only to find
a sufficient number of consumers. Due to the absence of any wind it was
possible to sit much closer to the fire than usual, making it very
comfortable. I talked for a long time with Westie, who is considering
moving to Glasgow, which would be excellent. Various people lamented that
they had to go home the next day, and we said our goodbyes. Giolla and
Arachne enjoyed a Beltane kiss across the fire before sie and Preacher
recreated their Princess Bride duel over it. Later, Giolla
managed to fall amongst the flames, but sie was recovered with minimal
damage. Fortunately, the keg of parafin in the backpack sie was wearing
had failed to ignite.
It was a great atmosphere on the beach and I'd have been happy to stay there for hours, but I didn't want to leave poor Stuart miserable all on his own, so eventually I set off back to the cottage, stopping on the bridge at midnight to listen to the bells. I'd left him my phone in case of emergency so I didn't even have that back-up for myself; it was the first time in years I'd been so completely alone. Hard to explain to the average person - how it feels having to be looked after all the time, grateful for the assistance but nevertheless frustrated at not being ble to do one's own thing. Frustrated, almost, at not being exposed to those everyday dangers which other people take for granted. I love the cold air and the empty space, the pungent smell of the sea. Going home not because I had to, because my legs wouldn't hold me up anymore, but because I wanted to. Going back to my boy and kissing him until he squealed because I'd accidentally broken his lip. Sand in the bed and the lingering odour of burning chipboard. This is the life for me.
Tuesday morning was to be our last lie in for quite some
time, so we enjoyed it, but we also had a few things left to do.
Unfortunately my stomach was playing up and I had to stuff myself full of
extra medication, gritting my teeth against the pain, but I made it out
nonetheless, determined not to be a prisoner because of it. We walked down
the hill and along the promenade to the beach - a different bit from the
previous night's. It was low tide and there was a wide expanse of pale
sand to cross before we arrived at the sea. There Stuart clambered around
on rocks to take photos whilst I enjoyed the view. One of the reasons I
wouldn't let myself die, before, is that I was determined to see the sea
again. I climbed on the rocks too, a little, as far as I dared given the
greater danger from falling, and afterwards we walked back to the cliffs
and explored a cave.
Having enjoyed our beach adventure, we crossed the harbour to visit Endeavour books, where I picked up a copy of Tacitus' Germania and a biography of Ivan the Terrible, Stuart grabbing the last bit of James Blish. We got him some scampi from his favourite chippy and then visited the offices of the Whitby Gazette, there to order our copies of the relevant gothy issues for delivery to Glasgow. The receptionist there told us smugly that her team had beaten the goths' seven one in the previous day's football; we noted that that isn't so bad as has often been the case. It's okay, we can handle losing - we're Scottish, we've had practice. Back on the other side of town we checked out the new Oxfam shop and Stuart bought a black lace-up shirt; then we wandered back up to the cottage, stopping off along the way for gingerbread milkshakes in Java. Next time I'm going to phone ahead to make sure they have cherry syrup.
Later that afternoon, Stuart went out to the arcades to
crush Tig at Dance Stage Remix whilst I sat at home playing Angband. I was
getting changed when Erith called to tell me that Fury and Pru were doing
farewells in the Resolution. The others got back just in time to be
hustled along there, though Stuart felt obliged to change into his Mercy
dress first so that the two of us were co-ordinated. Everyone was tired
and we drank fizzy cranberry juice to stay alert. After Fury and Pru left
we continued to socialise for a while, but then Shafiq started calling to
the others, so Stuart and I went home. They were supposed to call us for a
meet-up in the pub later, but by the time they did it was too late. Stuart
was too ill to cope in the pub without lots of distraction and was
ultimately too exhausted to go at all, so I hung out with him at home and
we didn't get the exciting last night we'd been hoping for.
On Wednesday morning we got up at eight and started carrying our stuff back up the road to the car. Stuart went down to the Greedy Pig to get pork and stuffing sandwiches for us to eat on the way home. I was sad to say goodbye to Whitby. On the way back we saw thirty one dead birds, twenty two dead mammals, twelve unidentifiable meat smears and, again, just the one shoe. We returned to the Bewick in Penrith for lunch and were remembered by the waitresses who wanted to hear all about our adventures, though it seemed safest to give them a censored version. They made a damn fine halloumi, pear and avocado salad. The journey was a little slow, with delays on the M6 where a lorry had jacknifed across the central reservation and ambulance people were gently lifting up a dead person from the tarmac. The hot sun made me dizzy and I hugged a carton of cold ribena, trying to keep my pulse steady, but was okay once we crossed the border back into Scotland, where the taller hills threw welcome shade. Got home to find that Donald had bought new guitar pedals and had enjoyed not having me around to mope about the noise. He was rushing out to a Tiger Army gig and I had a steampunk ball to attend, so it was off with the comfortable car clothes and on with the taffeta and lace, a quick stop to check through six hundred odd items of email, then back out the door and back into the hectic pace of everyday life. Lord knows I could do with a holiday. More of the same? Oh yes, I say, yes!
Pictures on this page are courtesy of Stuart and Erith.
They have also recorded some videos, illustrating the activities described
above, which you can access by clicking the external links below. More
will be added over the next few days.
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 17th May, 2007