| Gothic Happenings Any vaguely Gothic things we've been up to, or noticed about the place, lately. |
Gothic Purchases, March 2008
On the Gothic Galleries pages you can find pictures of some mysterious ruins I visited last year. I lately acquired a wonderful print
from 1841 showing various Victorian ladies and gentlemen enjoying the same place, which shows that some of the pillars and
arches have vanished in the intervening hundred and sixty years. It also shows that the artist carried on the great tradition of
exaggerating the scale - the arch under the road is not as gargantuan as that!
The figure I purchased from Church Antiques in Walton on Thames - Our Lady Queen of Sorrows, complete with seven
swords jabbing into the heart, black and gold livery (which of course was simply de rigueur in first-century Palestine) and spiky
halo. Brilliant!
On the Gothic Galleries pages you can find pictures of some mysterious ruins I visited last year. I lately acquired a wonderful print
from 1841 showing various Victorian ladies and gentlemen enjoying the same place, which shows that some of the pillars and
arches have vanished in the intervening hundred and sixty years. It also shows that the artist carried on the great tradition of
exaggerating the scale - the arch under the road is not as gargantuan as that!
The figure I purchased from Church Antiques in Walton on Thames - Our Lady Queen of Sorrows, complete with seven
swords jabbing into the heart, black and gold livery (which of course was simply de rigueur in first-century Palestine) and spiky
halo. Brilliant!
Gothic Sightseeing, 24th March 2008
We stumbled across Burton Dassett church in Warwickshire today, a bare, stark building whose floor rises a good twenty feet from
tower to High Altar - a beautifully dramatic church, and a graveyard full of gloomy monuments, for some of which see here.
Not content with that, we took luncheon at the Castle Inn, Edgehill, a folly built by the mad and overmoneyed Sanderson Miller in
1747 where Good King Charles had raised his standard before the Battle of Edgehill just over a century before. A delightful and
bizarre place to sample the local fare. If you look carefully on the outside photo you can see the Eastertide snow!
We stumbled across Burton Dassett church in Warwickshire today, a bare, stark building whose floor rises a good twenty feet from
tower to High Altar - a beautifully dramatic church, and a graveyard full of gloomy monuments, for some of which see here.
Not content with that, we took luncheon at the Castle Inn, Edgehill, a folly built by the mad and overmoneyed Sanderson Miller in
1747 where Good King Charles had raised his standard before the Battle of Edgehill just over a century before. A delightful and
bizarre place to sample the local fare. If you look carefully on the outside photo you can see the Eastertide snow!
| An Update on the murder of Sophie Lancaster, April 2008 As everyone will be aware, the trial of the boys who killed Sophie Lancaster in Bacup last year recently concluded with their conviction and sentencing. It got reported absolutely everywhere, but the least sensational account was in the local paper, the Rossendale Free Press. The killing of Sophie was only one of a series of attacks on conspicuously different and vulnerable people in various Northern towns around the same time, and it seems clear now that the fact that she and her boyfriend Robert Maltby were Goths was not really the point of their victimisation. The lads who assaulted them so viciously were part of a gang which is still active in Bacup, and still dealing out |
| beatings as though nothing of any significance has happened. But when you reach that level of degredation, perhaps the stamping to death of a young woman does precisely have no significance. Sophie's killing links into so many of our hopes and anxieties that it's no surprise it has provoked such sorrow and sense of wastage - and, cynically speaking, an attractive young girl makes a better victim than the middle-aged men with learning difficulties also killed around then. Her face and memory will have great resonance in the Goth community for a long while, and I will continue to offer her up when I celebrate a Requiem in the hope that God may be able to do something positive and useful through her death. And that, probably, is all there is to say. |
Gothic Gardens 2 - Busbridge Lakes, 5th May 2008. Click here.
Nunhead Cemetery Open Day,
17th May 2008
Nunhead, one of the seven great Victorian
burying-grounds ringing the City of
London, is open every Sunday for tours,
but has only one Open Day a year. I tagged
on to the trip organised by the London
Goth Meetup group, under the splendid
guidance of Minerva and Dex, forming a
collection of some 30 or so generally quite
mature taphophiles and nigrovestarians.
Our tour guide was nice enough to say that
we added an extra attraction to the day.
It was, in actual fact, a thoroughly grim
and drizzly occasion, appropriate to the
mood, perhaps, but not to taking dramatic
cemetery photographs. Nunhead is also
spectacularly overgrown - you can
disappear off the main paths in pursuit of a
tomb or other, but you won't get very far.
I've put some piccies here, but they're not
especially remarkable.
More information on Nunhead here.
17th May 2008
Nunhead, one of the seven great Victorian
burying-grounds ringing the City of
London, is open every Sunday for tours,
but has only one Open Day a year. I tagged
on to the trip organised by the London
Goth Meetup group, under the splendid
guidance of Minerva and Dex, forming a
collection of some 30 or so generally quite
mature taphophiles and nigrovestarians.
Our tour guide was nice enough to say that
we added an extra attraction to the day.
It was, in actual fact, a thoroughly grim
and drizzly occasion, appropriate to the
mood, perhaps, but not to taking dramatic
cemetery photographs. Nunhead is also
spectacularly overgrown - you can
disappear off the main paths in pursuit of a
tomb or other, but you won't get very far.
I've put some piccies here, but they're not
especially remarkable.
More information on Nunhead here.
| Czech Decadence - 16th June 2008 I have lately moved to a new appointment and my proclivities became known to a member of my current flock who happens to be an academic fluent in Czech. He wondered what I thought of this piece, a remarkably sulphurous extract of vampiric poetry by Karel Hlavacek, who he described as 'the best of the Czech Decadent poets'. To be honest, I didn't know there were any. It's deliciously over-the-top, and the poet's self-portrait looks entirely appropriate. Somehow the information that he died of consumption in 1898 comes as no great surprise. Thank you, Geoff, very generous of you. |
It was in some dark realm
with the moon's golden stain above somewhere behind the
clouds,
in a realm unknown, fearful, indefinite, without shadow,
without light,
where I had never before walked,
that I saw him...
He loomed low and silent above me
in the pallid colours of a delicate and old engraving.
Weary his face, comely and pale,
on his forehead the luminescence of green eyes under
meeting eyebrows,
he poisoned my timid black eyes forever into numbness...
He flew silently on his pair of vampire wings,
metallic black and velvet, stretched out in a gigantic frame,
that cast the whole sky in shadow,
and under their sweep, the stars came down
without turmoil, like a blazing swarm of savage, metallic
bees,
disturbed by a tempest out of a primeval forest...
The last descendant of princely lines, once powerful,
he flew through the unknown realm
returning from his passionate, unconscious lovers,
on his tightly clenched lips
their warm, future mother's milk and the blood of their
breasts.
It was in some dark realm,
fearful, with the moon's golden stain,
where I had never before lurked,
that I saw him...
Him, the last sovereign of a once powerful line,
before whom had trembled in awe townspeople, magnates
and kings,
whose small daughters, in silence and sickness,
had secretly pined for him months, days...
They pined for a tryst with him on silent moonlight nights,
when they waited until his pinions concealed from view
their hot beds,
with the moon's golden stain above somewhere behind the
clouds,
in a realm unknown, fearful, indefinite, without shadow,
without light,
where I had never before walked,
that I saw him...
He loomed low and silent above me
in the pallid colours of a delicate and old engraving.
Weary his face, comely and pale,
on his forehead the luminescence of green eyes under
meeting eyebrows,
he poisoned my timid black eyes forever into numbness...
He flew silently on his pair of vampire wings,
metallic black and velvet, stretched out in a gigantic frame,
that cast the whole sky in shadow,
and under their sweep, the stars came down
without turmoil, like a blazing swarm of savage, metallic
bees,
disturbed by a tempest out of a primeval forest...
The last descendant of princely lines, once powerful,
he flew through the unknown realm
returning from his passionate, unconscious lovers,
on his tightly clenched lips
their warm, future mother's milk and the blood of their
breasts.
It was in some dark realm,
fearful, with the moon's golden stain,
where I had never before lurked,
that I saw him...
Him, the last sovereign of a once powerful line,
before whom had trembled in awe townspeople, magnates
and kings,
whose small daughters, in silence and sickness,
had secretly pined for him months, days...
They pined for a tryst with him on silent moonlight nights,
when they waited until his pinions concealed from view
their hot beds,
until his presence passed through their white flesh,
and until his sticky, rough tongue, sensed painfully in
their bosoms,
sweetly licked off the sick lids of their enraptured eyes.
O demon of mysterious nights, of nights with the moon's
golden stain,
of fearful, indefinite nights,
of nights without shadow, without light,
with faint gleams on the horizon of primal, lascivious
urges:
Thou proud, white barbarian, lover of all that is sick and
pale,
without feeling and yet fearful, thou sublime madman,
who art nourished with the remnant of the vital strength
of virginal fluids,
with the inheritance of received atrophies,
thou symbol of decadence!
Is there a lair where you creep away before me,
perhaps somewhere in the black realms of my
Princedom?
I do not know -
but it seems to me, in lonely, strange nights,
that my spirit is separated from my body,
and all at once it gains vampire's pinions,
under whose sweep the stars come down without turmoil,
and in a fearful, indefinite realm, without shadow,
without light,
with the moon's golden stain somewhere behind the
clouds,
in silence it takes flight.
... And then late, towards morning, when it returns,
intoxicated
with mystic orgies -
in the everyday it awakens its parasite,
which again drags out a day in misery, in the profane
noise of the street,
as it was in its accursed yesterday
and will be in its nauseating tomorrow...
and until his sticky, rough tongue, sensed painfully in
their bosoms,
sweetly licked off the sick lids of their enraptured eyes.
O demon of mysterious nights, of nights with the moon's
golden stain,
of fearful, indefinite nights,
of nights without shadow, without light,
with faint gleams on the horizon of primal, lascivious
urges:
Thou proud, white barbarian, lover of all that is sick and
pale,
without feeling and yet fearful, thou sublime madman,
who art nourished with the remnant of the vital strength
of virginal fluids,
with the inheritance of received atrophies,
thou symbol of decadence!
Is there a lair where you creep away before me,
perhaps somewhere in the black realms of my
Princedom?
I do not know -
but it seems to me, in lonely, strange nights,
that my spirit is separated from my body,
and all at once it gains vampire's pinions,
under whose sweep the stars come down without turmoil,
and in a fearful, indefinite realm, without shadow,
without light,
with the moon's golden stain somewhere behind the
clouds,
in silence it takes flight.
... And then late, towards morning, when it returns,
intoxicated
with mystic orgies -
in the everyday it awakens its parasite,
which again drags out a day in misery, in the profane
noise of the street,
as it was in its accursed yesterday
and will be in its nauseating tomorrow...
The Lightbox's Funereal Displays, June 2008
We recently made it to The Lightbox, Woking's award-winning new art gallery and museum, and were generally delighted by the
beauty of the building (at least inside) and the imagination of the displays. Now, one of the key items in Woking's history, as well is
its present, is the great necropolis of Brookwood Cemetery, and the museum acknowledges this by a lovely display of Victorian
mourning paraphernalia, jewellery, clothes and paperwork. 'City of Corpses', indeed! Marvellous stuff.
We recently made it to The Lightbox, Woking's award-winning new art gallery and museum, and were generally delighted by the
beauty of the building (at least inside) and the imagination of the displays. Now, one of the key items in Woking's history, as well is
its present, is the great necropolis of Brookwood Cemetery, and the museum acknowledges this by a lovely display of Victorian
mourning paraphernalia, jewellery, clothes and paperwork. 'City of Corpses', indeed! Marvellous stuff.
A Reprehensible Sartorial
Expedition, 26th June 2008
After long intending to do so, I finally made it to
the premises of Messrs Jeffery-West in Piccadilly,
to buy a new pair of shoes. I discovered Mr
Jeffery and Mr West via The Chap in an interesting
feature on bespoke shoemakers. They have
managed to combine a commitment to traditional
English shoemaking - and in fact hail from two
Northampton cobbling families of long standing -
with a disturbing fondness for Decadent and
Gothic paraphernalia; sadly they've removed the
two zombie figures from their shopfront, but
selling a good portion of shoes to Marks &
Spencer does not
Expedition, 26th June 2008
After long intending to do so, I finally made it to
the premises of Messrs Jeffery-West in Piccadilly,
to buy a new pair of shoes. I discovered Mr
Jeffery and Mr West via The Chap in an interesting
feature on bespoke shoemakers. They have
managed to combine a commitment to traditional
English shoemaking - and in fact hail from two
Northampton cobbling families of long standing -
with a disturbing fondness for Decadent and
Gothic paraphernalia; sadly they've removed the
two zombie figures from their shopfront, but
selling a good portion of shoes to Marks &
Spencer does not
seem otherwise to have dulled their edge. The store has a slight midlife-crisis feel to it with its louche décor of
black and red - how irritating that once you have the money to pay for this kind of thing you're rather too old for it
- but the shoes are nevertheless splendid.
black and red - how irritating that once you have the money to pay for this kind of thing you're rather too old for it
- but the shoes are nevertheless splendid.
I wanted a pair of Dashwoods, because of the High Wycombe connection, but they had such
exaggeratedly pointed toes I felt I could not carry them off at my advanced age nor was I prepared to
let my feet suffer quite so much even for the sake of art. So I went for these, which are appropriately
titled Oldman. And they were in the sale, too. I haven't worn them yet, and fully expect them to punish
me to within an inch of my life.
exaggeratedly pointed toes I felt I could not carry them off at my advanced age nor was I prepared to
let my feet suffer quite so much even for the sake of art. So I went for these, which are appropriately
titled Oldman. And they were in the sale, too. I haven't worn them yet, and fully expect them to punish
me to within an inch of my life.
| Further down the Piccadilly Arcade can be found the more orthodox gentleman's |
| outfitters New & Lingwood. N&L have also apparently decided to cater to the fool with too much money, and market a range of skull-related gear including this rather splendid dressing gown. |
I decided to pay a visit to Bunhill Fields Cemetery north of the City, resting place of the famous madman, sorry, visionary William
Blake, John Bunyan, and an unfortunate lady who died after being drained of some 1100 litres of excess fluid over a few months. It
gives an idea of what the old cemeteries of London must have been like, fantastically crowded and convoluted. The ranked stones
have the worrying air, contemplated en masse, of waiting for something - of course they're waiting for the Resurrection, but one
feels they have something more imminent in mind.
Blake, John Bunyan, and an unfortunate lady who died after being drained of some 1100 litres of excess fluid over a few months. It
gives an idea of what the old cemeteries of London must have been like, fantastically crowded and convoluted. The ranked stones
have the worrying air, contemplated en masse, of waiting for something - of course they're waiting for the Resurrection, but one
feels they have something more imminent in mind.
| The Goth's Dining Table - July 2008 I've long been seeking suitable salt and pepper pots for the table, and I'm glad to have found these little silver-plate examples (both for pepper, strictly, but we can live with that). They so resemble 18th-century funerary urns that one might expect ash to come dribbling out of the holes rather than salt. The milk jug I couldn't resist either - it has a lovely ruined abbey design. |
Goth Walk 7 - Duelling in Hyde Park,
9th July 2008
I know this is a dreadful photograph, but it's very apposite. We gathered in the
pouring rain at Hyde Park to be regaled by the estimable Dex on the history of duelling
before repairing to the rather Gothically-inclined Marlborough Head in North Audley
Street for a swift half or two. My favourite story was the reception one Lord
Hamilton got from his wife on his body being brought home from a sadly fatal duel in
the Park: that it was bound to happen at some point, and that he was as great a
nuisance dead as alive, in consequence of the servants laying him on Her Ladyship's
best bed, and him insisting on bleeding all over it.
9th July 2008
I know this is a dreadful photograph, but it's very apposite. We gathered in the
pouring rain at Hyde Park to be regaled by the estimable Dex on the history of duelling
before repairing to the rather Gothically-inclined Marlborough Head in North Audley
Street for a swift half or two. My favourite story was the reception one Lord
Hamilton got from his wife on his body being brought home from a sadly fatal duel in
the Park: that it was bound to happen at some point, and that he was as great a
nuisance dead as alive, in consequence of the servants laying him on Her Ladyship's
best bed, and him insisting on bleeding all over it.
Touring Chislehurst Caves,
26th July 2008
On one of the hottest days of the year so far, the ideal way of cooling down was to
disappear underground with the London Goth Meetup and explore the astonishing
Chislehurst Caves - which I never knew existed. This huge network of flint mineworkings
whose origins stretch back eight millennia open out of an unassuming suburban cul-de-sac
and the charmingly oldfashioned gift shop and café give no hint of what is to come. In
fact, at first the fact that the caves are artificial is deceptive: the sheer scale of the place
(15,000 people were sheltered down here in World War Two and formed a sort of town
with canteens, hairdressers, a medical station and so on) and the twists and turns - as well
as the ghost stories, convincing and dubious - win you over. Silence and dark down here
are really silent and dark. Plus in one bit you can dress up as an Orc and beat up somebody
else dressed up as an Orc with a foam rubber club. Who'd want more?
26th July 2008
On one of the hottest days of the year so far, the ideal way of cooling down was to
disappear underground with the London Goth Meetup and explore the astonishing
Chislehurst Caves - which I never knew existed. This huge network of flint mineworkings
whose origins stretch back eight millennia open out of an unassuming suburban cul-de-sac
and the charmingly oldfashioned gift shop and café give no hint of what is to come. In
fact, at first the fact that the caves are artificial is deceptive: the sheer scale of the place
(15,000 people were sheltered down here in World War Two and formed a sort of town
with canteens, hairdressers, a medical station and so on) and the twists and turns - as well
as the ghost stories, convincing and dubious - win you over. Silence and dark down here
are really silent and dark. Plus in one bit you can dress up as an Orc and beat up somebody
else dressed up as an Orc with a foam rubber club. Who'd want more?
'Between the Devil & the Deep
Blue Sea', Northwall Arts Centre,
Oxford, 20th September 2008
Blue Sea', Northwall Arts Centre,
Oxford, 20th September 2008
They call themselves '1927', and that is where they come from, a theatrical troupe
whose visual sensibility is rooted in the uncanny aesthetics of silent film. What you get
in "Between the Devil & the Deep Blue Sea" is that sensibility mixed with mime and
surreal animation. You get a lady playing the pianoforte and two ashen-faced
performer-narrators who act against projected graphics with quartz-precise timing and
exquisitely-judged delicacy that never quite allows them to lick their lips at the ten
macabre vignettes that make up this neat little hour-long show. We begin with 'The 9
Deaths of Choo-Choo le Chat' and proceed through stories of cross-dressing devils,
marauding gingerbread men, and 'the chief of the goat-men who looked like Tony Hart
and was sketching a vision of Hell, in charcoal'. The two Sinister Sisters get the best
lines: 'Grandmama was as old as the hills, and twice as green', or 'My sister and I
invited The Lodger to accompany us to the family cemetery, in the back bedroom'.
Cut-glass accents and jaunty piano tunes etch in little narratives of death and mayhem,
and while the visuals evoke an era of innocence and fairytale, there are horrible, horrible
things going on - or just weird ones. It is hugely funny. It is, perhaps, the best hour I've
spent in ages. It could even be the case that I enjoyed it more than Shockheaded
Peter, which is saying something.
I can't recommend enough you, and everyone with the taste for it, seeing this
show. And there's plenty of opportunity, as 1927's website reveals. You can even get
a preview on Youtube. Not that that shows you much.
whose visual sensibility is rooted in the uncanny aesthetics of silent film. What you get
in "Between the Devil & the Deep Blue Sea" is that sensibility mixed with mime and
surreal animation. You get a lady playing the pianoforte and two ashen-faced
performer-narrators who act against projected graphics with quartz-precise timing and
exquisitely-judged delicacy that never quite allows them to lick their lips at the ten
macabre vignettes that make up this neat little hour-long show. We begin with 'The 9
Deaths of Choo-Choo le Chat' and proceed through stories of cross-dressing devils,
marauding gingerbread men, and 'the chief of the goat-men who looked like Tony Hart
and was sketching a vision of Hell, in charcoal'. The two Sinister Sisters get the best
lines: 'Grandmama was as old as the hills, and twice as green', or 'My sister and I
invited The Lodger to accompany us to the family cemetery, in the back bedroom'.
Cut-glass accents and jaunty piano tunes etch in little narratives of death and mayhem,
and while the visuals evoke an era of innocence and fairytale, there are horrible, horrible
things going on - or just weird ones. It is hugely funny. It is, perhaps, the best hour I've
spent in ages. It could even be the case that I enjoyed it more than Shockheaded
Peter, which is saying something.
I can't recommend enough you, and everyone with the taste for it, seeing this
show. And there's plenty of opportunity, as 1927's website reveals. You can even get
a preview on Youtube. Not that that shows you much.
Staying in The Ruin, October 2008
Last year it was St Winifred's Well; this time round, I selected
a thoroughly Gothic holiday location in the form of an
18th-century banqueting house perched on the edge of a
precipice in windswept Yorkshire, part of the great garden
landscape of Hackfall. Part of the fun of The Ruin is that of
course it is only pretending to be ruined - from one side, a
cavernous pseudo-Roman sham, and from the other a nice little
Gothick pavilion.
a thoroughly Gothic holiday location in the form of an
18th-century banqueting house perched on the edge of a
precipice in windswept Yorkshire, part of the great garden
landscape of Hackfall. Part of the fun of The Ruin is that of
course it is only pretending to be ruined - from one side, a
cavernous pseudo-Roman sham, and from the other a nice little
Gothick pavilion.
Outside, on one side, is a field full
of sheep. On the other is a little
terrace overlooking the precipitous
drop down to the follies and ruins
of Hackfall itself. Sheep and sheer
drops don't mix well, so you are
warned to keep the gates shut on
pain of death.
of sheep. On the other is a little
terrace overlooking the precipitous
drop down to the follies and ruins
of Hackfall itself. Sheep and sheer
drops don't mix well, so you are
warned to keep the gates shut on
pain of death.
Inside we find a very well-appointed sitting room-cum-kitchen (the kitchen
equipment is hidden in the two teak chest units) which, if not exactly cozy like St
Winifred's Well, is definitely on the elegant side. There was very little of it left
when the Landmark Trust began rebuilding - a bit of the ogee arch cornice
remained to suggest what the room had originally looked like. You don't just get
this, of course. The sitting room comes with a bedroom and bathroom to either
side. You will notice in these photos that the doors all seem to lead to the exterior.
The rooms never did communicate with one another, and so they still don't: to go
to bed or have a wee you have to go outside, and brave the howling winds.
However, there is underfloor heating (broken in the bedroom when I was there,
admittedly), so it's not too much of a hardship.
I had to share this with someone who might appreciate it. Happily Professor
PurplePen was able to come to dinner with a friend. They got lost on the way out
of Leeds and I haven't heard from her since, so they may still be driving around
Meanwood for all I know.
equipment is hidden in the two teak chest units) which, if not exactly cozy like St
Winifred's Well, is definitely on the elegant side. There was very little of it left
when the Landmark Trust began rebuilding - a bit of the ogee arch cornice
remained to suggest what the room had originally looked like. You don't just get
this, of course. The sitting room comes with a bedroom and bathroom to either
side. You will notice in these photos that the doors all seem to lead to the exterior.
The rooms never did communicate with one another, and so they still don't: to go
to bed or have a wee you have to go outside, and brave the howling winds.
However, there is underfloor heating (broken in the bedroom when I was there,
admittedly), so it's not too much of a hardship.
I had to share this with someone who might appreciate it. Happily Professor
PurplePen was able to come to dinner with a friend. They got lost on the way out
of Leeds and I haven't heard from her since, so they may still be driving around
Meanwood for all I know.
More Splendid Accessories, March 2009
I bought these from Rose Paradise. Maria makes her jewellery from a clay that hardens like
resin, and calls this line Gothic Dysrhythmia.
I bought these from Rose Paradise. Maria makes her jewellery from a clay that hardens like
resin, and calls this line Gothic Dysrhythmia.
London Goth Meetup Group Goth Walk XII: 'Crypts and Clerics', 21st March 2009
I've achieved a small ambition. For a while I
thought about a way of contributing to the
London Goth Meetup Group, which has
become such an important escape route from
ordinary life for me over the last year, and
eventually settled on leading one of our local
history walks around the capital. It made sense
to visit some of the City churches and talk
about their history; and, at some stage, the idea
of me marching ahead of them all in a cassock
and biretta also tickled me. So I did it.
We spent a merry couple of hours exploring
the nooks and crannies of the City. Before I
went around to research the route myself, I
knew nothing about the area at all, so it was a
journey of discovery for me as well, and as
most of our routes take us round the West End
it provided a contrast. No more than ten days
before I'd discovered the fairytale ruins of St
Dunstan-in-the-East, bombed in World War
Two and now open as a garden, so I tweaked
the route to take that site in. We faced the
problem that nowhere in the City is open on a
Saturday, but found a pub that was (the Black
Friar), and one church prepared to lend a key
and allow us access (St Mary Woolnoth).
There were about 40-50 of us wandering
around in the lovely Spring sunshine.
thought about a way of contributing to the
London Goth Meetup Group, which has
become such an important escape route from
ordinary life for me over the last year, and
eventually settled on leading one of our local
history walks around the capital. It made sense
to visit some of the City churches and talk
about their history; and, at some stage, the idea
of me marching ahead of them all in a cassock
and biretta also tickled me. So I did it.
We spent a merry couple of hours exploring
the nooks and crannies of the City. Before I
went around to research the route myself, I
knew nothing about the area at all, so it was a
journey of discovery for me as well, and as
most of our routes take us round the West End
it provided a contrast. No more than ten days
before I'd discovered the fairytale ruins of St
Dunstan-in-the-East, bombed in World War
Two and now open as a garden, so I tweaked
the route to take that site in. We faced the
problem that nowhere in the City is open on a
Saturday, but found a pub that was (the Black
Friar), and one church prepared to lend a key
and allow us access (St Mary Woolnoth).
There were about 40-50 of us wandering
around in the lovely Spring sunshine.
Our route took in St Paul's Cathedral; the tower of St Mary
Somerset; the site of St Michael Queenhithe; St Magnus the
Martyr, London Bridge; the ruins of St Dunstan-in-the-East; St
Olave, Hart Street; St Peter, Cornhill; and St Mary Woolnoth.
We donated our customary collection to the Samaritans, because
of their connection with St Stephen Walbrook where Fr Chad
Varah, their founder, was Vicar.
Somerset; the site of St Michael Queenhithe; St Magnus the
Martyr, London Bridge; the ruins of St Dunstan-in-the-East; St
Olave, Hart Street; St Peter, Cornhill; and St Mary Woolnoth.
We donated our customary collection to the Samaritans, because
of their connection with St Stephen Walbrook where Fr Chad
Varah, their founder, was Vicar.
IGA Lancaster, July 2009
A few weeks ago I was delighted to attend the International Gothic
Association biennial conference at Lancaster University, organised on
this occasion by Catherine Spooner and Fred Botting (I know Catherine
and not doing very much else at the moment I thought it was the ideal
occasion to go, if only for a little while – the conference went on
until Friday). Officially the conference banner was 'Monstrous Media
and Spectral Subjects', but as usual the assorted academics somehow
manage to discover that whatever they may have been researching
lately fits into that description. I heard the great Marina Warner talk
about William Beckford, attended a very strange theatrical performance
for which I constituted one-third of the audience, and was treated to
papers about attitudes to killers and victims in late-Victorian Britain, the
dastardly Fu Manchu, Gothic architecture in the 1790s, and Classical
mythology in Buffy, Xena and Charmed. I even got to speak to Paul
Hodkinson who was DJing on Thursday night ('I think I'll stick to '80'),
and smiled as Catherine marshalled her handful of Gothed-up colleagues
for the benefit of press photographs. But the most spectacular event
was Professor Heard's Magic Lantern Show on Wednesday night,
hence the following photograph. Very Steampunk, I thought, whatever
that means.
Association biennial conference at Lancaster University, organised on
this occasion by Catherine Spooner and Fred Botting (I know Catherine
and not doing very much else at the moment I thought it was the ideal
occasion to go, if only for a little while – the conference went on
until Friday). Officially the conference banner was 'Monstrous Media
and Spectral Subjects', but as usual the assorted academics somehow
manage to discover that whatever they may have been researching
lately fits into that description. I heard the great Marina Warner talk
about William Beckford, attended a very strange theatrical performance
for which I constituted one-third of the audience, and was treated to
papers about attitudes to killers and victims in late-Victorian Britain, the
dastardly Fu Manchu, Gothic architecture in the 1790s, and Classical
mythology in Buffy, Xena and Charmed. I even got to speak to Paul
Hodkinson who was DJing on Thursday night ('I think I'll stick to '80'),
and smiled as Catherine marshalled her handful of Gothed-up colleagues
for the benefit of press photographs. But the most spectacular event
was Professor Heard's Magic Lantern Show on Wednesday night,
hence the following photograph. Very Steampunk, I thought, whatever
that means.
NB. This page is no longer being updated. I'm putting Gothic happenings on TheHearthofMopsus, if I can remember.
