We set off on Thursday, intending to leave at eleven, and doing pretty well, by the usual standards, in getting out of Glasgow by two; the journey went well, with only one emergency stop required, though that did result in me getting hit in the back of the head by several apples, which I suppose I could blame for any failure on my part to remember people whom I met over the weekend and should otherwise have recognised; but you know how it is with these things; often one is catching up with delightful people whom one literally hasn't seen in years, and one can remember that they're lovely, but names disappear. Anyway, we arrived in Whitby about half past six, transferred our belongings to the cottage we were renting over on Horner's Terrace, and had time for some food before heading off to the pub to look for everyone else.
We had been planning to go first to the Buck Inn, but we met Iona on the bridge and she told us that most of our friends were in the Elsinore, so off we went up Flowergate, ducking past an argument which I suspect was the first break-up of the weekend - Whitby gets into swing quickly these days. Iona was handing out safety pins to everyone she snogged. Donald decided (wisely, as it turned out) to collect his early, though I avoided getting one altogether. Later in the evening, I was awarded one by Tal, who drew me aside and snogged me in a game of Pass the Safety Pin - I disposed of it onto Fuzzygoth Dave, who was excelling even his usual standards of drunkenness on that occasion, having been drinking since his train reached Newcastle sometime around lunchtime. Eventually I fought my way across the crowded room to a place where I could talk to Mandy and Hatchet and catch up on their news, and see Mandy's new tattoo. I even got a seat. Considering how hard it was to get to the bar, I didn't drink much that night, but Giolla did have a rather delicious new homebrewed substance with him which was more than adequate, and we passed a pleasant evening before fighting our way back home through gales which ripped the scarves right out of my hair (something I frequently have trouble doing myself) and almost succeeded in flinging them into the sea.
The following day, the gales had doubled in ferocity, and scarcely anyone was out on the streets; but dammit, we needed to shop. Donald and I both woke up unreasonably early, and by lunchtime we had done the rounds of the charity shops, where I bought some nice red velvet 'underwear' and a little 'ages seven to eight' zebra-pattern velvet top which Donald claimed wouldn't fit me but which I'm wearing quite comfortably as I write this. I'm a sucker for zebra stuff.
We had lunch in the usual cafe (Chattaways, opposite the Elsinore), then fought our way up to the Spa, grateful for waterproof mascara. There we caught up with more old friends among the tumult of the bizarre bazaar. We succeeded in finding a new top for Donald, which is always difficult; I got a cute wee purple dress from the second hand stall (always a dangerous money magnet) and was thrilled to find a brand new two-tone blue velvet waspie for only sixteen pounds, as I'd been wanting one for ages but they usually cost three times that much. I picked up tights and other bits and pieces too, then went upstairs to have coffee with Giolla, and met the delightful Lapis. Donald and I struggled home through an even fiercer storm, delayed this time only by toy shops in which I think he would have purchased every last one of the glowing insects available, had I not been there to dissuade him.
Shortly after we arrived back at the cottage, our friend Monique arrived, having travelled over from Luxembourg. It was really great to see her, especially as she's ill and was then awaiting surgery, so she'd been incommunicado quite a bit over the preceding months. We sat and talked through the latter part of the afternoon, ate dinner and tarted up (me in my new waspie), then caught a cab to the Spa.
Due to the cancellation of Gitane Demone (turned away by customs) and one of the other bands, the atmosphere in the band room was a little subdued. Manuskript were playing, and I quite like them, but I see them fairly often. The music between bands was of too technoey a variety to appeal much to me, so all in all I didn't spend a lot of time in there, which was a shame, because I'm quite certain that's where all the pretty strangers whom I'd been making eyes at on Thursday must have disappeared to. Still, we got a good table in the big room, got the beer in, stashed our stuff and proceeded to wander. I spent most of the night catching up with old friends and dodging certain drunkenly amorous netgoths' advances, while trying to explain to another netgoth, without success, that his 'nice boots' line had not necessarily 'failed' because I didn't pin him to the floor there and then, and that I actually think his footwear is rather pleasant too - but there's no getting through to some people. I managed to freeze myself while searching for Hatchet and Al Golagnia, who had gone outside to play in the storm after watching the big forked lightning ("nasty... scary...pretty...fun!") crashing down over the sea; and then by searching for the husband of a dear Brummy friend, since he had ventured into the storm half an hour ago and not returned. Fortunately, all three adventurers turned up later, safe and sound. I just got slagged off by the Geordie goths who said I was a wuss for shivering in such weather when I live in Scotland.
I met lots of cool new people, drank more of Giolla's slightly illicit substances, got into a couple of one-sided consensual fights, snogged even more people than I had intended to (despite attempting to preserve my lipstick) and lost the people I'd been trying to pull. Then, suddenly, it was closing time, and we got a ride home in the biggest taxi I've ever seen. It was pretty scary walking along the terrace to get to our door. Monique said she felt vulnerable, being small and light - I was just relieved, for that brief time, that we didn't have Aidan with us, as I think that being tall and light would've been much worse, and he would've sailed away into the night.
The storm of Friday night had abated not one bit when Saturday morning came around, so we spent several hours huddled up in front of the fireplace in the cottage, watching awful children's television programmes (bring back Multi Coloured Swap Shop you bastards!) and trying to ignore the wailing of the wind. I spent most of this time sewing frantically, finishing off the silver/black violet sequinned dress thing which I'd been working on for three days. In the afternoon, The Emperor Penguin drove us all up to the Spa, as we felt the need to do more shopping, and we stood for a while pressed against the clifftop wall beside it watching huge waves crash down against the beach. In all my years of visiting Whitby, I have never seen it like that. The waves were breaking two hundred metres from the shore, and were ripping up half the sea bed. It was stunningly beautiful, in a wild, thrilling way, but awfully fucking cold.
In the bazaar, we found another top for Donald and I picked up a second hand halter top and bodice. We hung around for a while, admiring the courage of those who had walked there, then drove away home to get tarted up for the evening. I was relieved that my new dress worked, although Lee later complained that I was spoiling the usual atmosphere of Whitby by wearing too many clothes - mind you, he was looking at my back when he said that. ;) In the Spa, many people were wearing science fiction costumes to welcome the (pretend) new millennium (mine was accidental, though everyone assumed otherwise). Mercy the Gothbunny, Fluffy Dave and Coeur were all being those Centauri or whatever they are from Babylon 5 - they made a cool looking set. Dave, in particular, was just perfect as Vir. He was hit on the head with a wand by a sparkly fairy who blessed him with the power of pulling. Within an hour of that, he had a woman on his lap, and by all accounts the fairy's blessing worked brilliantly.
For a while now I've been working on bubble wrap dress designs, but I don't think I could have equalled the splendid gown Iona was wearing. Her voice, however, was as rough as it usually is by Monday morning - she could scarcely speak at all. This was when I found out that she had snogged at least three people who had first warned her that they had tonsillitis. I predict an epidemic among the UK goth population. Donald was then smug, explaining that the very reason he had snogged her so early in the weekend was to reduce his chances of contracting an infection. ;) Had he simply resisted, she probably would have thrown herself on him later.
The costume I liked best, however, belonged to Augeus, who was carrying a whisk in one hand and a sink plunger in the other, and was going round saying "Exterminate!" to people, being a dalek. :) He eventually abandoned the whisk after Donald attempted to swallow it - it's now lying somewhere in our flat. He says he never wants to even see the plunger again, after where it's been - it is now in the possession of a certain avowedly heterosexual Glasgoth, who excelled himself that night by snogging at least three different men (and not just Donald), then stood for hours gripping the railings above the stairs where he had been dropping things on bands while numerous different people spanked him (for his birthday) with the assorted objects they had to hand. I am wondering if he's even going to try to explain that one away as an accident caused by alcohol. He looked like he was having fun, anyway. :)
Hatchet told me that some evil Glasgoths had gotten him pissed in the pub in the afternoon by feeding him four bloody marys. I was most disappointed to have missed out on such entertainment, and requested that he do it again so I could watch, but he protested that it was impossible in a corset and a long PVC skirt which prevented him going to the toilet. Giolla said he had substances which could get around that problem. Then Hatchet ran away.
There were several really impressive costumes on display, including a cute female in a bra made out of wire, and a timelord whom Augeus felt it was his duty to exterminate. The music was more to my tastes that night, so I hung out in the band room and danced awhile before being shot by a gang of space pirates, collapsing onto the floor under the power of their ray gun, luckily managing to finish my pint first.
At various points during the evening, I encountered Karl, who was, with witnesses, attempting an alcohol consumption record; by the end of the evening he had consumed something approximating 200 units [1], and he was still walking and talking coherently. None of us have yet been able to figure out how.
Being a bit more organised that evening, I found it easier to stock up on drink from the bar, so I had a good five or six pints as well as all the things other people fed me, though it wasn't really enough to get me drunk. Whitby Spa nights are too short, damn it! Augeus invited me to a cocktail soiree at his place later, but I didn't managed to stick by him till the end of the evening because I was too busy trying to locate and hold onto other people. I eventually left with Al Golagnia, Giolla and Lapis in search of the party, while Donald went home to fetch some whisky. We followed Augeus' directions, but the flat I'd thought was his was completely silent. The stairs were covered in assorted pretty goths clutching bottles. The flat next door was open, but the goths there said they had no idea who Augeus was. A charming woman among them invited me in anyway, and I was tempted, but I figured I had better stick with my friends. So we headed off out into the streets with some vague notion of tracking down my friend Maite's party instead. Al Golagnia then announced that we should go and collect Hatchet, since he stayed "just round the corner"; it was only after we had already walked for several blocks that I remembered Hatchet had told me where he stayed, and realised that the Seattle netgoth and I must have quite a different idea of what 'just round the corner' means. Luckily, the rain and wind had gone by this time. We collected Hatchet and also acquired Coeur, who was wandering the streets randomly as he often does. Thus equipped, and fortified by absinthe, we went in search of parties again, but we were unsuccessful, Maite's description of "you leave the Spa and follow a little path and then there's a street somewhere there - you'll see it - and then there's a hotel..." proving less than useful. By the time we gave up, my feet hurt so much that I could walk no further; Al Golagnia was wonderfully sweet and carried me back to his hotel, where I crashed in the spare bed.
It was not an unpleasant evening; I had fun with my friends, and certainly more fun than if I had gone straight home from the Spa; I just wish that a certain netgoth there had had the guts to wait for an answer after his surprisingly daring invitation to me, instead of running off and being too shy to talk about it again. I really am getting to the point where the big stick over the back of the head approach seems like my best option. If you are reading this, dear, you must know who you are. This is a hint.
Sorry, I shall take a deep breath now.
There, that's a little better.
Okay, on with the story... I arrived home at about half past ten the next morning to discover a distinct absence of Donald. This happens from time to time, and I figured that, since he had been carrying whisky when last seen, he may well have been welcomed into pretty much any gothic home. Monique sadly had to leave in the afternoon, so I stayed in and missed the (less organised this year) netgoth meal, wanting to spend some time with her. About half an hour after she left, after three in the afternoon, Donald eventually staggered in, still pissed out of his skull, grinning enthusiastically, with his whisky all gone. Apparently, he had found Augeus after all, in the flat which had been silent at our approach; he was one of only six people who did find it, and they'd been prepared to serve cocktails for twenty; they did the honourable thing, and drank all the alcohol anyway. Though he couldn't remember very much of it, he was sure he'd had a good time. He stuffed his face full of fried food and promptly fell over.
We were unable to wake Donald again in time for 'eighties night, so The Emperor Penguin and I just got tarted up by ourselves and then hurried out, he in a too-warm looking red velvet waistcoat, me in the purple sequinned dress which I felt was essential for the final 'eighties night of 1999. In the queue, Tails gave me free popadums, and Giolla gave me absinthe so strong that I felt quite warm and dizzy immediately after consuming it. This was good, since the cider which was all I could obtain to drink inside really tasted like shit. I regretted having missed the meal, as I had eaten little and therefore lacked the energy necessary to do a night like that properly, dancing to almost every song; still, I got by. There wasn't as much of my favourite stuff as usual, so I didn't feel compelled to dance non-stop anyway, although it was nice watching other people. By this time, Iona had snogged so many people that all of her hundred and sixty safety pins were gone; the whole of the weekend had a tartier atmosphere even that usual. I met a couple of very nice girls and became rather friendly with dear Lapis, though I'll admit I was distracted by that certain other person, though no opportunity existed to flirt on that occasion. I was lucky to find a rare cold-air spot on the dance floor for the extended remix of '1999', which was, after all, the important one of the evening, and all in all I had quite a bit of fun. Lapis and I went upstairs to watch the phenomena that are The Last of the Irish Rover and Nellie the Elephant from above. Afterwards, a few people came back to the cottage with me to drink whisky and absinthe and talk, and to say goodbyes, since, like most of the rest of Whitby's temporary goth population, they were leaving the next day. :(
Monday is always the quiet day, but it is a good day for winding down, and it's a good time for making new friends, since all of the remaining goths in town tend to band together in the Elsinore for moral support. We shopped earlier, and had dinner, but were there by the evening to get in a few pints and a very sticky, string-producing pizza. People came back to ours again afterwards, including several people whom we didn't know but were pleased to make the acquaintance of, and we drank whisky, port and beer and a little more absinthe, and talked into the wee small hours.
On Tuesday, there were only about eight goths left in town, including ourselves. We tidied up the cottage, ate a big roast dinner and then travelled off home along the motorway. In the lake district, we saw one of the most beautiful sunsets I have ever seen (a fine one for riding off into), spreading streaks of golden fire above a valley thick with white mist. The golden glow gradually subsided as we descended into the mist, and we drove through a dark tunnel of fog for a long time before emerging into a bright, clear starry night. Stars to make wishes on.
Six months is a long time to wait, but I am looking forward to the next Whitby already (although I hope that certain things might get sorted out before that). I suggest that, if you are able, the rest of you netgoths out there in the ether come and join me.
[1] For those of you who don't know, a unit is a measure of alcohol approximating to approximately one shot of standard spirits, a glass of standard wine or just over a third of a pint of guinness.
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Last updated 13th May, 2005