I really didn’t want to post The Addiction to Disturbed Literature, definitely not without a reflection. It’s a terribly-written style and voice experiment, with an attempt at irony, and I haven’t looked twice at it. Another cringy type up I’m afraid, though I have no interest in rewriting it.
I wrote it once on a bus to a festival, many years ago. I remember the moment specifically. The road was packed for miles on end on the Isle of Wight. Whilst scribbling my words stuck in traffic, there was a funny moment of irony. A local police car pulled up, then proceeded to escort our bus to the festival, bypassing all the traffic, all the while a group of lads sat at the back, rolling a joint. It was only when I re-read this awful piece of literature a couple of weeks ago, I remembered the ironic moment.
So that’s why I have chosen not to ditch this story, this memory. In years to come, when I look back on Disturbed Literature and read The Addiction, that comedic moment will spring back to mind. The time a bus-load of recreational weed-smokers had a VIP police escort. Only at a festival do you get moments like that.