Whitby Review, October 2007: Down with the Sickness

Not a Hallowe'en review this time, as this year's second Whitby Gothic Weekend was just a little too early for that, which made it feel odd - getting together with lots of my favourite people and then saying goodbye to them again just prior to the occasion when we'd feel the most need for each other. Still, at least I would be with my Stuart (Potatojunkie) and my best friend Erith, for the whole distance. I'd been depending on Stuart a lot for support over the previous week, during which I'd been writing at least nine articles a day, desperately trying to get things finished. I'd spent all of the day before at a conference on the future of the NHS in Scotland, at which there had been a considerable focus on the national alcohol problem. We both needed to get away and drink. We met up with Jezebel on the morning of the 24th and piled into Erith's big black car, Viktor, to begin the journey south. I was quite ill (after nearly a year on the 'acute list', waiting to see a gastroenterologist), so I ate crystallised ginger to suppress the urge to vomit, and diligently counted dead wildlife: thirty six birds, thirty six mammals, seventeen unidentifiable meat smears. Stuart ate Slovenian Ewok pez, a gift from Erith. We listened to Lars Frederickson and the Bastards. "Never mind Crackenthorpe," said Erith, as we drove past another peculiar little Yorkshire village; "Let's go to Misanthorpe." He was already in a cruel mood, which was to last him for the rest of the week, but he saved the worst of it, as goths are inclined to, for our supposed musical idols, commenting "If I were Wayne Hussey, I'd want to be Bono... That'll probably be the meanest thing I say today."

The trip down took in a visit to Penrith, where we scoured a charity shop and bought a DVD of Toho movie King Kong Escapes. The staff in the local restaurant recognised us and were curious about our plans. It was about half past four when we finally reached Whitby, tumbling into the familiar cottage with some relief. Jez sorted out her stuff and headed off to the pub in search of somewhere to sleep, leaving behind her Czech army helmet, which I got to try on. Stuart efficiently heaved bags up the stairs whilst I got the computer and music set-up organised.

Erith's mum had made us another of her delicious lasagnes, so we put that in the oven and set out to buy groceries from Somerfield. The streets were already filling up with goths, though most looked tired and somewhat harrassed. Later, however, the atmosphere in the Elsinore was celebratory, and it was great to see everyone again. I still wasn't too well, but managed a Murphy's. Siani was already distinctly inebriated and soon made herself comfortable on Chewy, whom we were all commiserating after his break-up with longtime partner Rose. "What happened?" he was asked. "I found out she was ginger." In the circumstances, he seemed in good spirits, and he was also well supplied with beer.

It being the first night, and Stuart being sleepy, we didn't stay right till the end, but we did get the chance to catch up with a lot of our pople. I also met Fury's parents for the first time; they were enjoying their second visit. "It's great being Fury's mum," said Fury's mum. "There are so many naked young men around." Siani assured us that there would be nakedness later in the inflatable jaccuzzi at her place, but we needed to sleep. After a long and interesting conversation with Arachne about the technical aspects of shooting pornography, I allowed Stuart to take me home. There, he was kept awake by a sudden urge to know whether or not Bob Holness was still alive. It's wierd being away from the internet. Fortunately a text correspondence with his flatmate Brian was able to set his mind at ease. Sometimes I find myself unable to remember how we lived before the advent of these technologies.

Sleep wasn't easy in an overheated house; I woke repeatedly, and gave up fairly early in the morning. Still, it was good to get some time with Stuart. Shortly after I got downstairs, Jez arrived. She'd managed to find a bed for the night in Preacher's room, but still didn't have the rest of her accommodation sorted out, so she needed to keep her stuff at our place. Once she was sorted out, Stuart and I began our day's shopping. The haul wasn't amazing - I got a plain black velvet top and long black cotton skirt with silver embroidery, both just replacement things, but I also picked up some handy bits of chain at a good price and found a cute little pinstripe bodice. I might have searched more thoroughly, but bending and stretching to look at clothes made my morning nausea much worse than usual, and I kept having to take breaks to stand in the cold air and breathe deeply, to ward off fainting. I felt bad about Stuart having to look after me, but he didn't seem to mind. His day was made when he obtained a pair of Friesian cow-print trousers, regarding which he promptly texted friends to inspire jealousy. He was in a buoyant mood as we surged back up the hill, stopping only to buy a whole roast chicken for our lunch. Erith, meanwhile, had been to the farmers' market across the harbour, and proudly showed off his collecton of cheeses as we ate.

That evening I buckled myself into PVC and Stuart put on his new grey velvet bodice to go round the corner to the pub; but, despite it being only Thursday, the pub was already full, and was operating aone in one out policy useless to those of us in larger social groups (never mind the fact that I couldn't have stayed on my feet in there without someone to assist me). There was officially room in the Resolution, but it was packed to the gills and not at all pleasant. Our posse was outside in the street. Someone said that we'd been offered space in the Station Inn down the hill, so we marched down there, but there was a pub quiz on and it would have been difficult to talk; the locals were friendly but looked distinctly uncomfortable and it didn't seem like a wise place to stay. Fortunately we then discovered that coffee bar Beez was almost empty. It was serving alcohol (not the shite you'd expect, either - Aidan was given a respectable malt when asking simply for 'whisky') and it would stay open, its staff claimed, as long as we kept drinking. Now that's the kind of place I like! It also had a vending machine serving tiny cans of anchovy flavoured gherkins, so I had Donald's present sorted out with no further effort. We spent a pleasant evening there, if not quite the party we'd been hoping for.

Friday was Erith's 27th birthday, so I went downstairs early to give him his present from Donald - a box of small trucks. As he struggled blearily to assemble them, Stuart paid a visit to The Greedy Pig to get pork sandwiches for breakfast. He also popped into the t-shirt shop we'd visited theday before and got Erith his other present - a black t-shirt sporting the words '74% Wood Fibre' (those of you who've read my previous Whitby reviews may recall what this alludes to). Erith was delighted and put it on at once. He would spend the rest of the day cheerfully saying the wrong thing to wide-eyed women who asked him what the other 26% was made of.

I got a big extra piece of crackling in my breakfast sandwich, which was delicious, but it probably didn't help when the nausea began. This was particularly annoying because in other ways I was doing considerably better than usual. I could walk fairly well; it was just my insides which wouldn't co-operate. Still, I made my way round the bazaar in the Spa, picking up some replacement tights and despairing at how slow many of the retailers were to keep up with what's happening in fashion. Whitby is always interesting because I get to bounce my own observations and conclusions off other people at the cutting edge of the business, and we almost always find we've been thinking the same things. Vagabonds had some of it down already, and I resolved as always to keep an eye on their stock, but we found nothing to tempt us, so I quietly slipped aside to throw up and then go and look at the sea.

After a good rest, it was time for the Metropole. I could scarcely manage to balance on the stage where the second hand stall lives, but held on long enough to find what I'd been looking for - warm beach clothing. This in the form of a synthetic (and therefore non-allergenic) fleece which isn't quite pink and isn't quite purple, but is the exact colour of Custard the cat out of TV's Rhubarb and Custard; plus it has spiderwebs and bats on it, and a pointy little hood. The stall organiser said he'd have grabbed it for himself if he'd seen it first. Erith said it made me look "fourteen, but in a good way." (I felt it best not to press him on that.) As I hugged it and waited in a corner, Stuart found a candy apple red PVC waist cincher in our size - something I've been looking for for years. He promised to share it; he has to, really, as he's always borrowing my black one. He also found himself a nice black satin corset, so he was very pleased.

Out at the leisure centre there was yet more shopping to be done, but by this time I was struggling to walk or see, with the pain getting really bad. I stayed slumped in a chair in the lobby whilst Stuart looked at jewellery. A quick perusal of the main stalls assured me that there are at least some designers still producing interesting work, and I sawsome lovely antique clothes, too, but nothing I was ready to spend money on. So we walked home, and Stuart deposited me in the cottage in time to run back to the second hand stall with a helpful supply of carrier bags. Erith fed me gaviscon, then lay on the couch and moped about how ill he felt (for rather different reasons) before cooking us a delicious evening meal. I always feel that someone else should be doing the cooking on his birthday, but he enjoys it. To accompany it, he started on the birthday beer.

We had been intending to go out for a while before his party began, but once again the pubs were full. People going out of the Resolution for a smoke had been told they weren't allowed back in, even though all their stuff was there. So we stood around in the street talking to friends and being photographed by strangers - me in my nice boots and Stuart dressed as Jareth from Labyrinth, in very tight trousers with a distint 'replicarea' ("It's not Bowie's area, so it's a replicarea," said Erith) - until we had assembled enough of a posse to return home and start celebrating. There, Erith had carefully arranged his cheeses with biscuits, expensive Madeira, good red wine and port, all terribly civilised.

Stuart and I drank our rum and irn bru and welcomed an assortment of guests which included no less than fourteen netgoths (real ones too - none of that IRC bollocks). Most excellently, these included Cavalorn and Lucy, doing their very first proper Whitby thing. I hadn't seen them since Convergence in 2004, so it was really good to get the chance to catch up, and they seemed to be having a great time. Six months pregnant, Lucy was sticking to the fruit juice, but she'd lost none of her bounce. It was a good opportunity to introduce friends old and new. Unfortunately, I was so busy talking that I failed to monitor the drinking habits of my Stuart, who was fast getting out of control. When he started trying to stick my riding crop up the skirts and into the ears of new arrivals, as well as whipping me every time I walked past, I decided it was time to have words. Of course, he protested that he was just fine. Shortly afterwards he bolted past me at high speed. Running up the stairs, he hurled himself face forward onto the bed and promptly passed out. I managed to peel off his boots and coat, made sure he could breathe properly, then returned to the fray.

Downstairs, people were getting excitable. Deathboy had made a pass at Erith (exact intent uncertain, as he was quite drunk) and Erith had bitten his ear hard enough to draw blood. "I just found it in my mouth," he protested later. Siani announced that she and Deathboy would take new teenage associate Alex home instead, renewing Aidan's hopes that Alex would get back to their cottage and then change his mind about where he wanted to sleep, though Alex assured him that his optimism was ill-founded. I found a space on the couch by Adsevin and Edvamp and hung out there for a while longer before eventually making my way up to bed, there to doze for two hours in uncomfortable corsetry until my Goblin King woke up to help me out of it.

Unsurprisingly, Saturday started slowly in our house. Belying the natural laws of hangovers, Stuart was the first downstairs, but we agreed that it would be good to have a lazy day. It was well into the afternoon when we eventually dragged ourselves out for a walk down to the harbour and the Oxfam beside it, where he found useful cheap camera accessories. We visited the second hand bookshop on Grape Lane and I picked up a copy of Simon Winchester's acclaimed Krakatoa: The Day the World Exploded whilst he found a gift for his ex, a 1930s electronics manual which speculated on future technologies like computers. For dinner we got fish and chips - he's gradually learning to eat fish - with imported sustainable Vietnamese panga, which was creamy and delicious. Erith seemed a little confused at not being able to feed us, but was scarcely capable of feeding himself, intermittently dozing off on the couch.

Saturday's other project, by popular demand, was the creation of a new Wheel of Justice. This time it was more gothic than ever, having purple tinsel hair with spiders in it. As soon as we carried ot out into the street we were stopped by strangers who wanted to know how it worked. The Wheel always demonstrates how quickly friends and lovers are willing to turn on one another when Justice is at stake. Crimes were declared and sentences despatched forthwith, even though there was no room for us in the pubs. Upon receiving a message from Aidan, we headed down the hill to the Wellington to find a group of our people there. The beer was expensive, but at least we had seats, and we enjoyed hanging out there for a while, chatting politely to locals who took an interest in the Wheel. However, when they started to take an interest in Stuart, getting their photographs taken with him and commenting repeatedly on his tight trousers and rather skimpy corset, we decided that it might be the better part of valour just to leave. I feared I would end up starting a fight otherwise, and that just wouldn't be polite in a town which is generally so good to us. Outside, we saw that Beez had filled up with a Saturday night crowd quite unlike the Thursday one, and they didn't seem like perfect company either, so we retreated back to our cottage. Aidan hung around and we watched King Kong Escapes, which turned out to be great fun. Afterwards, however, Iwas feeling too ill to go out again. I assured Stuart that I didn't mind if he did. This turned out to be a good thing, as, by that time, Erith had put away a lot of drink, and was somewhat the worse for wear. After they'd been partying for a couple of hours at Giolla's place he was found unconscious on the floor. Stuart half-carried him home. During the walk, Erith slumped onto a car in which two strangers were trying to shag, declaring cheerfully "Sex car!" before he was told to piss off; he was quite proud of this later. Stuart put him to bed on the couch with a glass ofwater beside him. The next morning we found an upside-down glass, a wet couch, and no Erith, though it subsequently emerged that he had somehow teleported to his room.

There was still more shopping in the leisure centre that day, and I was feeling a bit better, so we decided to go and take a look. We each bought a pair of Mercy trousers (I can finally wear trousers again after a decade of my knees being too fragile, so this was quite exciting), with a view to swapping them from time to time, and he got silver PVC trousers for a fiver, too. I picked up a couple of bits of underwear for a pound each, so it was a pretty good haul. Afterwards we walked over to the football ground, from which we could hear excited cries. Imagine our surprise when we got there to be told that the goths were winning! 4:3, no less. Stuart stood close by the railing, hoping that the sun reflecting off his gold trousers would dazzle the opposing team, but I don't think our boys needed his help. It was quite something to be there to witness only the second ever gothic victory over the Whitby Gazette team. And yea, there was much rejoicing. We immediately bore the news to the Elsinore, where Jez and Clive were ready to pass it on, before stumbling home to collapse for a while.

There wasn't a whole lot of time. Stuart had to get glammed up for 'Eighties Night, which is always tricky, as make-up melts off in there in seconds. I had been really hoping to accompany him this time, but thought better of it, given how ill I'd been. Instead, after we'd sent him on his way, I went to the Resolution with Erith, there to join a big group of our friends. I enjoyed chatting to Cav and Lucy again but otherwise the conversation wasn't quite at its most sophisticated ("It's as if you don't find repetition funny!" declared Aidan) and I found myself feeling rather like an anthropologist sent out with the wrong set of notes. The, um, climax of this was when Deathboy - who had failed to get the attention he wanted by commenting, licking, and inserting tongue in ear - actually spat on Erith's head. To his credit, Erith sat there very calmly. Deathboy, looking increasingly nervous, made his excuses and left. He would spend the next few days anxiously trying to anticipate the expected revenge.

With many of the others off dancing, Erith and I retreated to the Elsinore for a quiet beer. We were joined there by Edvamp, and it was great to hang out and talk for a while. I'd been feeling rather rough and Edvamp always cheers me up. He came with us down to Laughtons at midnight where we had our chairs and a bottle of irn bru. The seat was particularly welcomed by Lucy, who, despite being careful to be careful in there, had hurt her leg when inadvertently landed on by David Gerard. He had left his mind elsewhere, being able to think of nothing but fatherhood (showing me video of little Freda on his camera), though it hadn't stopped him tarting ("at everything that moved", several people reported) whilst there. He urged me to visit Freda and Liz, who were confined to the cottage with 'flu, but I really couldn't risk it. Sure, I've been vaccinated, but that's not a hundred percent effective, and 'flu could kill me; it could also kill Donald if I managed to take it home. Too much of a risk to take, in the end.

Several old friends appeared whilst I waited there under the flickering neon, and I had lots of fun catching up. Eventually my exhausted and very sticky Stuart collapsed into my arms. He was being followed by a very drunk but otherwise not unattractive woman who claimed she was stalking him on behalf of a friend. "Oh," she said, "Are you his lady?" "Something like that," I explained. We fed her irn bru and then Ed got chatting to her, but she disappeared into the night before he had any success. Some people were going back to the Resolution and I was tempted to join them but Stuart needed tea so we returned to the cottage.

On Monday Stuart and I took a walk over to the far side of the harbour to order our copies of the Whitby Gazette. "We're really just here because of the football result," he told the woman at the front desk, grinning. "Oh," she said, "What was it?" And then "No wonder the boys upstairs have been quiet!" A news office, and they try to keep the news secret from their own staff! Afterwards we went around the small shops in the old town, where we bought presents for the people back home and two squirty plastic goldfish for ourselves.

That afternoon we found our way to a small bookshop cafe called Beckett's where Cav, Lucy and Ashbet had gathered to eat cake and make their goodbyes to everyone, having to leave all too soon. No-one could finish their cake so Stuart got to eat heaps of it, whilst I made do with almond and Irish Cream milkshakes. The cafe staff were very friendly and let us move tables together as more and more people happened by. I was very pleased to hear that the others all intend to return again next year.

Monday evening was, of course, the night of the beach party. Unfortunately this had been compromised somewhat by a well-meaning but dim individual who had put flyers all around the goth pubs advertising a photography event he intended to run at it, along with an advert for the firework display. Um, the firework display is not official. Giolla organises it all by himself and, despite the collections which have sometimes been held, he pays for most of it out of his own pocket. If it were an official thing it would need to be licensed, so those flyers put him in a very tricky position indeed, and it was touch and go as to whether or not there'd be any fireworks, as a result. We were also worried that the beach would be over-run by random people who expected free stuff and weren't willing to contribute nor to follow safety rules, as once happened before.

Fortunately, in the end, everything worked out okay. To our surprise there were only forty or so people on the beach when we arrived. Chewy had built a good fire. The flyering man (whom I shall politely refrain from naming) was trying to set up a house tent as his 'Nosferatu's Grotto', sideways on to the wind, anchored in sand, and of course it was ripped up by said wind and blew toward the fire, but fortunately it was stopped before it could become a sheet of flame slamming into the folk at the other side. Hasty intervention assured that it was re-established at a more sensible angle, in the shelter of the wall, and with two big logs inside to weigh it down. Nevertheless, no-one used it all night (not out of spite; we simply had better things to do) and the flyering man had only Demon to help him when it came time to take it down again in the morning.

The firework display went ahead, in two separate sections, but to keep it incidental no planning could be made around it, so there was no warning and Stuart spent most of each display rapidly searching for lenses, unable to get the photographs he'd hoped for. Still, it was impressive to watch. I was warmer than usual in my new fleece, though the wind was fierce and cold. Wesley kindly lent me an army blanket to help keep mewarm, since I couldn't run about to get warm like other people. Stuart had been tempted to run about and get really warm, playing maffball, but changed his mind after Fury advised him to wet his hair first (so it wouldn't get burnt off). Being on fire was one thing but he didn't fancy being cold and damp. Despite this, he took a few risks getting in close to the game with his camera, extreme sports photography taken to the limit.

As always, the maffball was great fun to watch. Wesley's dad, a production engineer, had built a new launching system for the maffballs, so there was interesting experimental stuff going on. There were also a variety of fire performers, including a rather inexperienced one who managed to set his own ponytail alight. No-one was seriously injured. I sat around talking to various friends and drank a lot of rum. Retreating from the maffball pitch, Wesley collapsed in the chair next to me, struggling to roll a cigarette. I offered to do it for him but he was determined to manage (and eventually did so); drunkenness had come upon him abruptly and, he felt, rather unfairly, but he wouldn't give it the satisfaction of being in control. I gave him back his blanket and he was soon dozing off. "Poor Wesley," said Erith. "He's had a busy day."

Stuart and I went home just before midnight, kicking sand from our boots on the harbour bridge, but Erith remained on the beach till dawn, getting in the way of other people's attempts to fix up Aidan with Pru and looking after latecomers who said, puzzled, "We were told there was a beach party but it just seems to be you and your friends..."

Tuesday was a day for finishing off all the bits and pieces we hadn't had time to get round to, but I was ill again, so we had to take it at a gentle pace. It began with elevenses in the Whitby Tea Rooms with EdwardS and Jenova and with Adsevin, who was taking photographs there for a college project. The tea ladies were very excited by this and everyone was lovely to us, including a group of elderly friends who met there regularly to play cards and who also consented to be photographed. We'd considered recovering in the jaccuzzi afterwards but EdwardS warned us that the water in it was now brown and that we did not want to know what Siani and Deathboy had been doing in there, so instead we went for a walk, stopping by the chocolate shop to stock up on supplies. We spent most of the afternoon in the cottage and went out at dusk to visit other old friends. Fortuitously, this meant that we just caught Fury and Wesley as they were preparing to leave, and there was enough light left for us to see the new engagement rings they'd been so excited about. Silver and Whitby jet. Very appropriate. Fury tells me that Tal's family are very happy for her. It's good to see a happy ending to a difficult story.

Tuesday's dinner was comprised of whatever bits and pieces we could find in the fridge to finish off, and then we went out to the Elsinore, which was still pretty crowded. Some sport was had at the expense of poor Eddie, hiding Wesley's jacket which he'd borrowed after losing his own. Most of those remaining were friends we see more often anywa, but it was still good to have a last evening in our sometime local before heading home.

The next morning, despite our natural reluctance, Stuart and I were up bright and early and finishing our packing. We had most things already done when Erith emerged at nine, but it transpired that he'd been up until three talking to Siani, dealing with other people's problems and drinking tea, so I guess that was fair enough. I was little worried about his ability to drive but he assured me he'd be okay. We loaded up the car and then waited for Jez, who'd been delayed by unthinking flatmates who'd left a big pile of dirty dishes in their cottage. Stuart ran across the harbour to do errands and then we were ready to go. I felt sad to leave when I'd missed so much of my long-awaited holiday due to illness, but there was nothing else for it. Back to the grind. Greenhouse catalogues, Arizona property marketing, LGBT issues in international development, film directors with agendas bigger than their budgets. Such is life.

We stopped in Penrith again on the way back, visiting a pet shop to secure a present for our high quality kitten, Lamarr. In the restaurant, the staff had clearly been doing their research. "A couple of my friends visited Whitby recently," a waitress told me, "with their teenage son. He's not a goth but he likes to think he is. He said 'Oh, why couldn't you have taken me next weekend? I'd have had so much fun!' He'd have made a real idiot of himself." It was very sweet of her. I wasn't sure quite how to explain that making an idiot of oneself is, well, part of the fun, for many of those who attend. Leastways, it's a lot harder to get anything out of life if one worries too much about little things like that.

There has been some concern, expressed more loudly on this occasion than most, that Whitby days are nearing their end. We all miss having the Spa to hang out in but there's no point spending (too much) money on a ticket when it's no guarantee of getting in, and when, consequently, most of one's friends won't be there. Granted, this time when there proved to be more attendees than capacity special arrangements were made, involving guest listees being accommodated elsewhere, but it's hardly idea. David is close to taking Whitby Jo to court as he still hasn't had money refunded for Spa tickets from a year ago, when he was turned away due to capacity issues, along with a friend who'd travelled all the way from Australia to see the Damned. Not being able to get into the pubs compounds this problem, especially when those who do get in report that they're comparatively quiet inside. Scarborough council officials going round with clipboards don't exactly create a comfortable atmosphere, and neither does the ever larger police presence (quite unnecessary, as there's practically never any trouble amongst goths - far, far less than on an ordinary weekend, so bar staff tell us). The locals are worried that all this will drive us away. Some solutions have been proposed - for instance, having cheaper Spa tickets which don't allow access to the band room (since many of us don't care about seeing the bands), enabling capacity to be assessed differently; or closing off Flowergate for use as an outdoor festival area. I don't know if anything will come of this, but I'd like to assure any Whitby readers that I, at least, intend to return. My people were there first and, if it comes to it, we'll be there last. It's quite something to be able (most of the time) to walk around a town in the clothes one feels comfortable in without getting verbal abuse, threats, shoving and all the rest of it; without having to constantly watch one's back; and without the feeling that one may be causing offence to others simply by being oneself. Whitby is a little island of civilisation. It's a safe harbour in stormy seas. I look forward to the fair winds which will carry my ship into port there again.

Photos here are courtesy of Potatojunkie.

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Last updated 4th May, 2008