Taunton Racecourse is Decadent and Depraved


This is a short story about a drug-fueled, paranoid weekend; being part of a small crew volunteering at a festival. This story is for fictional purposes only. All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

You can download the PDF here. I have also included the transcript below.


Taunton. A sleepy town host to around 55 thousand individuals; church-going retired folk who’s height of excitement is a wander in the countryside and tea and scones at Bumbles Coffee Lounge. I sat in the corner of Bumbles scanning the creased faces trying to piece together how this place came to the misfortune of hosting a 72-hour fuck-fest on its prize racecourse. Did they have any idea that in a matter of days this town would be taken over by hordes of unhinged, drug-addled dope-fiends?

How would the locals welcome their morning dog-walks being interrupted by a cage full of stumbling ketamine freaks? Smiling inanely and timidly pawing at the fences while dribbling over their filthy, hippie clothes. They would assume this was some kind of brewing zombie apocalypse. That this docile town was birth to a neurological flesh-eating virus? No, this couldn’t get out in the open; pen the buggers in. Rule number one, protect the straights. Or the fuckers would gas the field right where we stood.

I arrived with the crew on the Monday and already felt preying eyes. The ground still stank of the decadence and depravity from equestrian parties and trouble hung heavily in the air. A scream raged overhead as military jet-fighters passed over the racecourse. I broke out. Too soon. We hadn’t even done anything yet and they were already twitching at the fingers.

No time for that. There was much work to be done, but not before slugs of whisky and marijuana pipes. Nothing like stoking the paranoia before a few days of daunting manual labour in the afternoon heat.

For several days we fortified the site and prepared to engage in diplomatic war with the council over common sense. We were raising the barracks for a multi-coloured army and the screws were getting hot under their collars. Daily there were visits from the Council and last-minute remissions to the original plan, which had already been hammered out and paid for months ago. But the bastards wanted us to know exactly who was in charge.

“So, this marquee you’ve got for the main stage, it’s going here right? Well I’m afraid you’re going to have to move it 3 feet to the left, it’s blocking fire lines. Violation of Health and Safety. And is this a fire pit? Well I’m sorry but this is going to need to be fenced off and you’ll need a sign declaring it’s a fire pit and it needs to be supervised constantly by a nominated person wearing a high-vis jacket. All your staff are appropriately fire safety trained I assume?”

“Well of course officer, we’ll get that marquee moved right away, and yes all of our marshals are fire trained to industry standards. The fire pit will be safe as burning houses” The officer leered over his glasses before readdressing his clipboard.

“Oh and one more thing” he squinted. “You have to turn the music off for the Queen’s Jubilee on Sunday. Make sure the music is off between 6 and 8pm so we can ring the church bells.” The Council Officer grunted, tapped his clipboard and marched off to scrutinise the rest of the site.

Luckily the council couldn’t find enough evidence to shut us down. Disappointed, the screws left us with the final green light for the festival. We had won this round. But it was late Thursday and there was a partially naked festival to dress before midday on Friday.