/ S     t     o     r     y     v     i     l     l     e Weekend

  t h e   l e g e n d a r y   st o r y v i l l e   w e e k e n d

ast Word
(by Des)

Subj: [storyville] Storyville Weekend account
Date: 13/10/2001 16:55:19 GMT Daylight Time
From: DF Lewis
Reply-to: storyville@dowse.com (Storyville)
To: storyville@dowse.com (Storyville)

The Storyville weekend was too wonderful for mere words to be able to recapture, in many ways. Certainly our names are the only mementoes beyond the mere meme-mories. Mere!? Well, the memories are wonderful and shot through with wonder and afterthought and sheer vibrant re-liveability. But here, in my brief trawling of that barely week-old past, we should remain nameless, nemonymous, to allow that electronic flesh of us truly to re-live…

Two of us converged on Liverpool Street Station from Essex. Ten minutes apart, but ten minutes which made the difference to my recognition of the other. Out of sync, yet we made short shirft of that hairy moment, by renewing our fast friendship, forging on to King’s Cross, via the Circle Line, where we dithered over non-existent trains … and when we did land on one, we found that, with no little serendipity, eight (yes eight!) Storyvillains had ended up catching the same train to York (though three of that eight had pre-arranged the trip-switches with over-easy first-class transit from York to Thorpe Hall).

Let’s gloss over the rest of the trip to Thorpe Hall, ignoring the fact that the remaining five boarded a train for Liverpool Lime Street at York, but luckily escaped their errors by pretending to be other people on the cross-moors express to Scarborough. So, you see, a number of us never actually arrived for the weekend, but managed to muster masqueraders that were worthy of us. I don’t think anyone noticed.

A taxi-driver captured us outside Scarborough station pretending to be the bus we had just missed. He didn’t know the way, of course, but that didn’t matter, because we weren’t us. Some of us, though, did eventually arrive at the magnificent Thorpe Hall; to be met by those of us who had already arrived and by a voluble, friendly tenant-farmer who herded us with helpfulness to our various rooms. Apparently he had a bookshop in the Bay – and yes the holiday *did* suddenly lift its theatrical safety-curtain when the taxi killed the cross-brow with his traction towards the sloping golden blue of this ‘dream archipelago’ known as Robin Hood’s Bay.

The Hall was perfect. Brown wooden walls, paintings, other arty things, a Storyville library of books and magazines already ensconced as if in situ forever, gardens to wander. We were not all staying here and one of us was even coming up the day after to complete the perfect pre-ordained circle. Any larger circle constituted of otherwise stray Storyvillains would have been just as perfect but it was the size here that was pre-ordained, not its quality. It was simply what it was, made up of all the various flesh-corrupted imperfections that were able to be present and that beset us so perfectly on this beautiful weekend.

We transmigrated to a pub, of course, before we could get too embroiled in such arty-fartiness. To the Dolphin -- now world-famous because of all the previous reports made to the Storyville Internet Group. And serenaded by the hardcore barbershop skiffleless folksters called The Monkey’s Fist, now pleased to have attained their goal of world fame *through* our weekend reports. Even more famous than The Monkey’s Paw by www.jacobs.

We returned to that vaguely identical upstairs room at the Dolphin the following day for lunch (well some of us did if you’re not the same some of us who fulfilled that role of aural cleansing) – and, inter alia, B Bumble and the Stingers serenaded us with Nut Rocker. How apt. But before that we made the now legendary Storyville dissection of kite and hike. One previous report got it wrong. We eventually split into *three* groups. Many of us feared that a particular group had perished in quicksand. Luckily none of us could later remember the exact circumstances and whether it was us or not. Not to go over old ground, the rest of the afternoon was lavished on trigressions of book, beer and ball.

The evening was splendiferous. The circle ... well, simply circled ... with magic and magical moments ... warping, bending, willowing, ovalising, pullulating ... with brainstorming ricochet... and there was talk of one of us trying to bounce corks off outside walls and into his mouth … then followed by deeply rich wordage and homage to miraculous companionship, that few of us shall forget… will *you*? I was in my cups, I believe, but I know what I say is true.

The following day was cast with the shadow of parting but a joyful walking trip round Whitby ensued. Few noticed the wicker man sitting at the end of a wooden pier. But I did. Did you? The yellow rubber men that were shared out. The hilarious clamber through the Dracula museum. I shall never forget saying goodbye several times to the same people in different places. I shall never forget the Serendipity of Storyville. Heartfelt thanks to everyone that made it possible and contributed to it with their presence. But was I actually there?


Pure D F Lewis eye view - the Invasion of the Storyville Snatchers - aliens who were cunningly tricked into the quicksand by intrepid Villians. I can see we are all going to have to write an account, just to allow the diversity of our processes and memories to unfold! And yes, the wicker man on the pier was spotted, Des - I think he was following us.



Inimitably Des.



Excellent, Des! The weekend merges further and further with myth and legend.



DF Lewis wrote:
>>... and there was talk of one of us trying to bounce corks off outside walls and into his mouth … >>

I very nearly did it, too. Ask Trevor. The sound of cork on tooth was undeniable.



Absolutely. Mark stood in the dark passageway between the buildings and launched the cork towards the stars. He turned his innocent face upwards with an expectant smile. The cork hit one wall hard, bounced off and hit the other wall, then hurtled downwards towards Mark's mouth. A most unpleasant "crack" ensued and the cork bounced to the ground. This was probably more impressive than it would have been had Mark actually caught it. My immediate thought was of the cartoons where a character's teeth slowly crack and fall out one by one. I was expecting Mark to be on soup for the rest of the weekend. In fact, now I think of it he did follow a mostly liquid diet...


Finally: Last-last word of all: The Clangor Incident

. Storyville  Weekend  Contents Page
. Storyville Inner Sanctum Contents Page
. Storyville Home

. Storyville

. Storyville

. Storyville Home

. Dowse Home

Copyright © 2002 DF Lewis, individual Storyville contributors and dowse.com
all rights reserved