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PROSE IN POOR TASTE VOL. 2 Arranged by Arthur Graham Copyright © 2019 by Horror Sleaze Trash ISBN-13: 9781074416089 This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, business organizations, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the authors’ imagination or are used fictitiously. The use of names of actual persons (living or dead), places, and characters is incidental to the purposes of the plot, and is not intended to change the entirely fictional character of the work. No part of this work may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the authors or publisher, with the exception of short excerpts used in articles and critical reviews. Cover photo courtesy of Alex Tsander and Sophia Disgrace PROSE IN POOR TASTE The Edinburgh Festival is Decadent and Depraved Joseph Ridgwell Each August — peak summer time — the peaceful tranquility enjoyed by Dunediners is ripped asunder by what can only be described as a mass invasion of undesirables, perverts, megalomaniacs, criminal elements, religious cranks, ego-trippers and just ordinary weirdos. Having proudly never attended such a festival in my four decades on the planet, it was to my initial horror that I had relocated to a beautiful city that fostered and indeed actively promoted such a ghastly abomination. For natives of Scotland’s capital the Festival is a major inconvenience — a stress ball of such magnitude that it inflicts great trauma — and has even been rumoured to be the cause of premature death. Understandably, as well as the mass invasion there is a simultaneous mass exodus — with most native sons and daughters fleeing the city for the entire duration. It was late afternoon when we tumbled out of an Edinburgh tram and hit the streets of Auld Reekie running. Collectively known as the International Lit Fiends, we were in town to check out the world- famous Edinburgh Festival. 1 HORROR SLEAZE TRASH Having abandoned our taxis in North Bridge due to gridlock — something that never happened the rest of the year, we — the Lit Fiends — hotfooted it to Edina’s legendary book shop People Power on West North Street. On the way masses of tourists and lost looking fruits wandered around as if — in the words of Chuck Berry — they had no particular place to go. And really they didn’t. This was Fringe territory — the world’s largest arts festival — spanning 25 days, featuring upwards of 4,000 acts and 400 venues. Frankly it was chaos. The only ones profiting from the shambles were the founding fathers and any number of convenience stores. During the Festival prices sky-rocket — from a tin of mushy peas to a night in a luxury hotel — everything shoots up by at least 400%. As for the hapless performers they are ripped off via preposterous registration fees, venue hire, accommodation, and travel costs. And yet each year they return, undeterred, and ever more desperate. At People Power all was not well. A best-selling author from New York City had just left the shop in tears after her event was cancelled due to lack of interest. Not a single person had walked through the door. This, despite the fact the streets were crammed with thousands of tourists and festival -goers. “This type of author and publisher just don’t get it,” said the erudite owner of PP. “Get what?” I said. “You can’t just turn up at the Festival and expect 2 PROSE IN POOR TASTE people to walk through the door.” “Too much competition.” “There are more than 1,500 acts performing at any one time.” “1,500... isn’t that a little kinky?” “It gets bigger every year. It’s out of control!” Outside on the streets the Festival was in full effect. Everywhere you looked desperate performers harangued tourists to attend their shows, shouting at them, pawing at their touristy garb, pleading, entreating, and in some cases becoming violent. Word on the Festival vine was that one female comedian had even offered free blow-jobs and cunnilingus to anyone who would attend her show. Amazingly, no one had taken up the demented offer and afterwards it was dismissed as nothing more than a publicity stunt. After relocating to the Peach Tree pub, we — the Lit Fiends — ordered drinks and waited for something to happen. As I swigged over-priced lager I recalled my stint at the Edinburgh International Book Festival the year before. I’d been handed a free pass for the EIBF by one of Europe’s top Lit Fiends. The pass accessed all areas. I could come and go as I pleased — attend any show — but the only reason I wanted the pass was for the free food and drink. I wasn’t working at the time and each morning I rolled up and partook of the Festival breakfast. The EIBF canteen was an astonishing scene. Long lines of famous writers, 3 HORROR SLEAZE TRASH mildly famous writers, writers who had once been famous and untold failed writers queueing like vagrants at an inner-city soup kitchen for repast that could only be described as public-sector primary school fare. It was then I REALISED that there really wasn’t any money in making up shit for a living. Anyway — there remained the free booze, which being no mug I spent each evening wandering from bar to yurt to Spiegeltent, flashing my access all areas pass into the empty visages of the minimum- waged minions. All the usual names were in attendance — the people who like to be seen. Ever since Marlene Dietrich sang Falling in Love Again on the stage of the famous Spiegeltent in the 1930’s — her magic mirrors had reflected thousands of artists, audiences and exotic gatherings. Subsequently it was the place to be and be seen. Nobody minded being stared at — it’s why they were there in the first place. Some even spent most of their time in the tent. They could chill-out on some of the strategically placed cushions and flea- market furniture and check out the revolving door of faces. After a couple of days and nights of that shit, however, I handed back my all access EIBF pass and retreated to my usual Edina haunts. Meanwhile back in Fringe territory everything was going downhill — and fast. The festival-goers were getting drunker and drunker. Acts appeared and disappeared on the stage of the Peach Tree, but nobody was watching or even listening. The people were all there to say that they had been there — 4 PROSE IN POOR TASTE not to watch anything. And maybe they were right. For as an unjuried Festival there is no quality control. This means that anyone with enough bees and honey to pay the extortionate reg fees can get up on stage and play out some weird fantasy masochistic one-day-I’ll-be-famous crappola. It was all gravy. The night wore on and the Lit Fiend crowd grew restless. We had to get out of there. “Man,” I said to Lit Fiend No. 3 standing next to me, “Party back at Ranchlette Ridgwell, spread the word.” With that taxis were summoned and the literary underground got the fuck out of the depraved and degenerate mess that was the Edinburgh Festival. As the convoy headed out of the city we eyeballed the carnage. The pavements were slick with vomit, the air heavy with the scent of cannabis and crack cocaine, with prostitutes from around the globe lining every street corner. Drunks pissed themselves while queuing at ATMs, pregnant women were trampled on, homeless people robbed of their mendicant rewards, people fought at bus stops, kids were sold to peaodophiles to pay for rip- off hotel tariffs, even a few suicides. “It’s sick, sick, sick,” mumbled Lit Fiend No. 5, as she swigged Buckfast. “Will we ever get out of here?” wondered Lit Fiend No. 6 aloud, as he lit up a twenty-skin reefer El Granton Speciale. I raised my can of lager, took a hit, and turned to the driver. “Put the peddle to the metal amigo 5 HORROR SLEAZE TRASH before we get lynched.” It was slow going. The roads were blocked with traffic and festival-goers. Faces loomed up at us into the night, peering inside the car, sitting on the bonnet, tapping and clawing at windows. It was like a scene from The Day Of The Triffids. The driver was by now sweating cobs. “I know a short cut, it could work,” he said desperately. “Do what you have to do,” I said. The driver turned down a cobbled side street where festival-goers were less in evidence, some camped in ragged groups on the pavements, surrounded by backpacks, clutching fistfuls of flyers and other promotional paraphernalia in their grubby mitts. Two more side streets, across a main thoroughfare, and we had made it to the other side. In Granton, we — the Lit Fiends — tumbled out of the taxi and poured into Ranchlette Ridgwell. From here on in, the rest of the night became a vicious drunken nightmare. Everyone began to fall to pieces, even as somebody played I Fall to Pieces by Patsy Cline on the turntable. The convos were heavy. I got chatting to the Editor of the Midnight Gun — Edina’s only free literary publication and one which was banned by the head honcho of the EIBF, who was in turn cursed by the infamous Fairie Boy Of Leith. Not long afterwards Elizabeth Sotheby suffered a series of personal tragedies and then died. Anyway, more trouble was brewing on the horizon.