[storyville] Storyville Weekend account
Date: 13/10/2001 16:55:19 GMT Daylight Time
From: DF Lewis
Reply-to: firstname.lastname@example.org (Storyville)
To: email@example.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.
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