I've just been to my first Whitby, by which of course I mean the Whitby Goth Weekend - a by-annual gathering of the Goths by the seaside in Northern England for much drunkenness, some music and a lot of behaving like complete tarts.
In other words, I went to my spiritual home
I travelled down on the Friday, accompanied by Morph who knew the way, and arrived at the B&B about 2.30 rather tired and hungry. We wondered around some stalls, talked to many, many goths and eventually made it to the pub for food. And beer. The beer is important.
The official WGW programme consists of two nights of goth bands playing and the presence of a large number of market traders hawking Gothic clothing and oversized stompy boots. In practice the simple presence of many, many goths is more of the draw and the pub scene is about as meaningful as the actual main event.
Yes, so there was beer and the eight or so of us that Morph had booked into his usual B&B had gathered. Plus I acquired new goth gear to go out in. We returned to the B&B, got changed, and wondered down to the venue for the evening's gig where I switched to drinking cider. Lots of cider. To be honest my recollection becomes a little vague at this point, but at some point I seemed to acquire an attractively busty Irish lass much to the fear of Dave, my new roomie, who has had an amazing ability to end up sleeping in the bath whenever he's been sharing a room at Whitby. But I was not so cruel and we managed to arrange a room we could retire to without making anyone sleep in a bath (although apparently, Dave didn't come home 'til gone five 'cos he was scared of what he might find).
I shall skip a bit here out of respect for taste and decency
At about four in the morning I woke up rather drunk and confused and realising I needed the toilet and got out of bed but rather than going into the en suite I wondered out into the B&B. At this point I woke up a bit more and realised several things:
I was in a strange B&B
I didn't know where a toilet was
I didn't have my glasses on or my contacts in and thus couldn't see terribly much
I couldn't remember which room I'd come out of
And I was naked.
Completely stark naked. So I wondered up and down the stairs a bit. Still unable to remember where I'd come from I did find a toilet. Which was good. I came out of the toilet and stood on the landing. Some more things occurred to me:
I didn't know where the B&B I was staying at was
I didn't know what it was called
Even if I could somehow get to it my keys were in my trousers. Which weren't on me.
And I was currently standing in front of a large window.
Fortunately for me, but not so much for the humour value of the anecdote I did then find the room I was supposed to be in without getting caught.
And that was Friday.
On Saturday I (now fully clothed) found the B&B I was staying at, and wondered in just in time for breakfast and met the landlady (Cath) as I wondered in, "Have you been for a walk," she asked. I grinned a little sheepishly.
After breakfast I got some sleep, and the rest of the day was passed with food and shopping. Most of my friends, and many, many of the goths at Whitby knew a guy called Tal Stoneheart (who is also Lembit Opik's brother) who sadly passed away last November, but before he died he'd discussed matter with his wife, Fury (who is lovely, BTW), and asked that when died he be given a Viking send-off in Whitby - a sendoff which was to be that evening. So many of the goths (and a large number of Whitby locals) gathered to watch what was a remarkably moving memorial ceremony and then see a longship (which for obvious reasons was burnt on the beech not the sea) containing Tal's ashes and some of his artwork and possessions - and a hell of a lot of combustables - set aflame by a pair of archers firing flaming arrows.
Most of us then wondered to the main event for more bands. It was quieter that the first night, but there were more spectacular costumes on show. Being still rather worn out I didn't drink much and got an early night.
Sunday, however, was a different matter. We were waiting outside The Elsinor (a pub) by the time it opened just before midday and by the time we went for lunch at 1.30 I'd already put away four pints of free beer. Lunch was at a very nice restaurant (The Vintner) and washed down with a rather nice Shiraz. Tradition has it that Sunday night at Whitby is taken at a local nightclub for the 80's night but that wasn't for a while so we went for a walk on the pier before getting changed and joining the queue - in which I made some new friends and drank some more booze. Then there was much bouncing, moshing and dancing, the wonderful site of a few hundred goths doing the Conga to Do the Locomotion - and some interesting interpretations of the best way to dance to The Irish Rover.
And, then, as I said to Dave, I went to an after party but a scary girl was trying to have sex with me so I left.
Which brings us to Monday when goodbyes were said and home was returned to.
In other words, I went to my spiritual home
I travelled down on the Friday, accompanied by Morph who knew the way, and arrived at the B&B about 2.30 rather tired and hungry. We wondered around some stalls, talked to many, many goths and eventually made it to the pub for food. And beer. The beer is important.
The official WGW programme consists of two nights of goth bands playing and the presence of a large number of market traders hawking Gothic clothing and oversized stompy boots. In practice the simple presence of many, many goths is more of the draw and the pub scene is about as meaningful as the actual main event.
Yes, so there was beer and the eight or so of us that Morph had booked into his usual B&B had gathered. Plus I acquired new goth gear to go out in. We returned to the B&B, got changed, and wondered down to the venue for the evening's gig where I switched to drinking cider. Lots of cider. To be honest my recollection becomes a little vague at this point, but at some point I seemed to acquire an attractively busty Irish lass
much to the fear of Dave, my new roomie, who has had an amazing ability to end up sleeping in the bath whenever he's been sharing a room at Whitby. But I was not so cruel and we managed to arrange a room we could retire to without making anyone sleep in a bath (although apparently, Dave didn't come home 'til gone five 'cos he was scared of what he might find).I shall skip a bit here out of respect for taste and decency
At about four in the morning I woke up rather drunk and confused and realising I needed the toilet and got out of bed but rather than going into the en suite I wondered out into the B&B. At this point I woke up a bit more and realised several things:
I was in a strange B&B
I didn't know where a toilet was
I didn't have my glasses on or my contacts in and thus couldn't see terribly much
I couldn't remember which room I'd come out of
And I was naked.
Completely stark naked. So I wondered up and down the stairs a bit. Still unable to remember where I'd come from I did find a toilet. Which was good. I came out of the toilet and stood on the landing. Some more things occurred to me:
I didn't know where the B&B I was staying at was
I didn't know what it was called
Even if I could somehow get to it my keys were in my trousers. Which weren't on me.
And I was currently standing in front of a large window.
Fortunately for me, but not so much for the humour value of the anecdote I did then find the room I was supposed to be in without getting caught.
And that was Friday.
On Saturday I (now fully clothed) found the B&B I was staying at, and wondered in just in time for breakfast and met the landlady (Cath) as I wondered in, "Have you been for a walk," she asked. I grinned a little sheepishly.
After breakfast I got some sleep, and the rest of the day was passed with food and shopping. Most of my friends, and many, many of the goths at Whitby knew a guy called Tal Stoneheart (who is also Lembit Opik's brother) who sadly passed away last November, but before he died he'd discussed matter with his wife, Fury (who is lovely, BTW), and asked that when died he be given a Viking send-off in Whitby - a sendoff which was to be that evening. So many of the goths (and a large number of Whitby locals) gathered to watch what was a remarkably moving memorial ceremony and then see a longship (which for obvious reasons was burnt on the beech not the sea) containing Tal's ashes and some of his artwork and possessions - and a hell of a lot of combustables - set aflame by a pair of archers firing flaming arrows.
Most of us then wondered to the main event for more bands. It was quieter that the first night, but there were more spectacular costumes on show. Being still rather worn out I didn't drink much and got an early night.
Sunday, however, was a different matter. We were waiting outside The Elsinor (a pub) by the time it opened just before midday and by the time we went for lunch at 1.30 I'd already put away four pints of free beer. Lunch was at a very nice restaurant (The Vintner) and washed down with a rather nice Shiraz. Tradition has it that Sunday night at Whitby is taken at a local nightclub for the 80's night but that wasn't for a while so we went for a walk on the pier before getting changed and joining the queue - in which I made some new friends and drank some more booze. Then there was much bouncing, moshing and dancing, the wonderful site of a few hundred goths doing the Conga to Do the Locomotion - and some interesting interpretations of the best way to dance to The Irish Rover.
And, then, as I said to Dave, I went to an after party but a scary girl was trying to have sex with me so I left.
Which brings us to Monday when goodbyes were said and home was returned to.
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