And what of Whitby’s amazing Goth festival, which provides the background for the dark entertainment that is SCRAVIR – while Whitby Sleeps?
Striding across Market Square, a bright late autumn swagger of Goths and Steam Punks deck the dour dark streets like baubles on a Christmas tree. Not even feeling the air is chill.
In a town heaving with three thousand people in costume, where locals push their Saturday shopping home in small coffins; where men strap glass cloches containing a pink pulsating brain to their heads … who will pause to wonder whether the costumed body slumped in the ginnel is festive prop, drunken celebrant, or butchered corpse?
While Whitby dances, drinks, and drums its wild weekend; while lurching streets lark and laugh; while winter batters the harbour jaws, while Whitby sleeps … who is left to shout for help? Who will fight the mingling menace of the Scravir?
