"I could wait a long, long time,
Before I hear another love song."
Slap bang at the mid-point of the Great Goth Wars (1985-1989), I found myself in the cold, dank trenches. Well, in a cold, dank hole. In some forgotten valley in Devon. Way behind enemy lines, on a school geography trip (yep, the same trip where I’d been made to sleep on a fire escape for three days).
This had been my friend Scott’s idea. Not the trip. He didn’t have that kind of influence over the educational board. No, the whole sleeping-in-a-hole thing. Our teachers were taking us camping on the wild and windy moors for the night. So we could sleep under a tree by a stream. Still not sure to this day why that was so essential to passing my geography O-Level. But, as was quickly becoming the theme of the week, the school hadn’t brought enough tents. So two people would have to make their own shelters. You can see where this is going.
The upside was that Scott and I didn’t have to lug a rucksack of poles, tarpaulin and other gubbins over hills and across dales. The rather major downside was that we spent an April night shivering in an insect-infested hole, covered by a plastic sheet weighed down with bricks, as condensation slowly dripped on to our faces. So it kind of was a learning experience I suppose, in that I’d never do it again.
|Inner sleeve gothic brooding.|