Golly Goth – it’s a great weekend

11:03am Saturday 3rd May 2008

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AT THE top of the West Cliff in Whitby, next to the whalebone arch, is a new wooden bench put there in memory of Sophie Lancaster by those who knew her.

Sophie was murdered for being a Goth.

The bench was unveiled at a service during the first Whitby Goth Weekend of the year - a weekend where all manner of weird and wonderfully dressed people descend on the small town without fear or apprehension about how they will be treated.

A liberty which, sadly, was denied to Sophie and her boyfriend.

However, the sheer number of people attending the weekend (or the whole week for some) proved that, regardless of the nonsensical abuse people of such persuasion are subjected to, Goth is indeed alive and well - if a little pale.

It was my first trip in a few years, my first overnight, and it seems the weekend is as popular as ever - probably as much for the normal' tourists on a trip to the seaside. They can often be seen asking the Goth weekend goers in all their finery to pose for a quick picture, creating a bizarre mix of holiday snaps to show off back at home.

Sitting people-watching, as you do, it was fascinating to observe the inevitable reactions to the various outfits and creations promenading along the sea front. Everything from double takes to bemused smiles but what was noticeable by its absence was the lack of abuse.

The whole time I was there, I heard only one remark, shouted from the window of a black Corsa as it sped up the cliff. I think it was something about being dressed in black. So clearly a well thought-out insult.

I'm a part-timer when it comes to Gothing it up, unlike many of my friends who readily admit to belonging to the dark side and, what's more, are proud of the fact.

Goth has become a bit of an umbrella term encompassing all lifestyles that are seen as alternative and, to be fair, it does attract life's eccentrics. Which isn't surprising given that the lifestyle is known for its tolerance towards anything a little bit different.

However, that isn't to say that the culture is without a mean side. A girl may be dressed in a corset tighter than Gordon Brown's purse strings, but if she's wearing the wrong shoes then she may be at the mercy of the whispered derogatory comments of other girls.

Ditto for the guy with a shaved head in stilettos and stockings, a pair of hot-pants one size too small and a smile. Each to their own and all that, but there's a difference between dressing out the norm and looking good, and just looking like you're trying too hard to fit with the alternative crowd.

Most of the time, though, the opposite is true. Having rested our weary legs from trekking up and down and over the hills and cobbles of Whitby's streets, and stopping for a cup of tea, we put on our best clobber. Which, for me, consisted of abundant locks of fake red hair, a fascinator with veil and lashings of red lippy. Thankfully, being a naturally translucent shade helps the overall effect.

The pubs were busy with corseted women squeezing past each other trying not to get their lacing entangled. Experience of general nights out has taught me that when someone bumps into you or you catch someone while being jostled by someone else, it usually results in a dirty look.

Not so here, instead a quick smile and a positive comment about your outfit is far more likely, as are random people telling you they like your hair, hat or cane.

Even in the bathroom, the conversation between strangers flowed (pardon the pun) about lack of space to manoeuvre in multi-petticoat skirts and the unfortunate lack of non-smudging eyeliner (a discussion which may also interest some men).

That sums up why I enjoy such events - the attitude or perhaps, more accurately, the lack of one makes such a huge difference. Not once did I see any trouble because it's just not in the mentality of most people who attend.

Well if that's the approach of an underground' culture I'd happily relinquish life above ground. Now, where's my coffin?