Goodbye Molly, sweet ghost child of the Banshee Labyrinth

and Hello Camden Fringe Festival

Outside of the Covid years, this is the first time in 12 years that i won’t be doing a show at the Edinburgh Fringe Festival. I was cancelled two years ago by the PBH Free Fringe for being (in their opinion) “trans exclusionary”. I don’t think that’s true, but come and see my show at the Camden Fringe Festival and decide for yourself.

POEMS ON GENDER
3pm, Sun. August 6 – Etcetera Theatre (press preview)
3pm, Sat. August 12 – Hen & Chickens Theatre
3pm, Sun. August 13 – Hen & Chickens Theatre 
Tickets: https://camdenfringe.com/events/poems-on-gender/

In the meantime, here is the story of Molly, the little girl ghost at the Banshee Labyrinth, where I did all of my Free Fringe shows. I wrote this during my last run at the Banshee. Just to be clear, the Banshee didn’t cancel me. They have always been supportive, even though my audience size has been been modest (to say the least): the venue prides itself on being cutting edge – and also on being the most haunted venue in Edinburgh. So, here’s Molly…

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THE LEGEND OF MOLLY

The Banshee Labyrinth is reputed to be Edinburgh’s most haunted pub. My favourite ghost is Molly, a little girl, six years old, who disappeared in 1841, and has never been seen since... except maybe sometimes, late at night, when you turn your head suddenly, and out of the corner of your eye, you see a flicker of light.

I have a very clear picture of exactly what Molly looks like, but I won’t tell you, because a ghost appears differently to each of us, depending on what’s in our heart. I can tell you with certainty that Molly is a good little girl, because every child of six years old, no matter how naughty, is sweet and good, deep down inside. I can also tell you that Molly is a very lonely girl. Because even though the Banshee is a lively place year round and especially during the Festival, even though it’s full of mostly happy people, laughing, talking, drinking, listening to cool music, watching wonderful shows, none of them are talking to Molly. None of them are laughing with her. None of them are wondering... does she like the music, does she find the shows funny or moving. It’s as if she weren’t even there, and of course in a way she isn’t, because she’s only a ghost, the ghost of a lonely little girl.

But sometimes, even though the Banshee is one of the best and busiest venues in the Fringe, an artist will come to do a show – usually it’s a poet – and find that no one is there. They’ll be looking out at an empty room. And that’s the second part of the legend, the part that very few know: if the artist looks out at that empty room, and does the show anyway, just for Molly and nobody else, for that brief moment in time, Molly is a little less lonely, her heart is a little bit lighter, the long years seem not quite so long, because at last some one is talking to her, just to her... maybe they can even see her.

And, so the legend goes... the next year, when the artist comes back, they’ll have an amazing run. Because Molly remembers – she has a very good memory – and she’ll use her magic... not magic exactly, but ghosts have their little ways, and she’ll make things happen. Critics will come. They’ll ‘get it’. They’ll print up rave reviews, and the audience will be pouring in.

I know this is true, because last year, I did a show just for Molly. My poetry is a little too spikey, my politics a little too extreme, and maybe I’m not quite as good as I’d like to imagine... whatever the reason, I struggle for an audience every year. And one day last year, when it was time to do my show, the room was empty. But because I’m stubborn, because I needed the practice, and because I knew the legend, I did the show anyway. And even though I don’t really believe in ghosts, just before I started, I whispered, “This show is for you, Molly, just for you, nobody else. I hope you like it.”

Now I’m back again this year, and it’s been amazing. Critics have been fighting each other over who could heap the most praise on my show. The room has been packed out every day. For the first time in my life, I’ve had to turn away punters because there wasn’t enough room. And at the end of the show, when I take up a collection... I had to get a bigger bucket, and then I had to get two buckets. Would you believe it?

Well... you shouldn’t. Because the last part – about the critics and the packed room and the overflowing buckets – that was made up.

The rest of the story is true, and ghosts do have their little ways, but they can’t work miracles. I’m still too spikey, too extreme, and maybe not as good as I’d like to think. I still struggle to get an audience, but like Molly – I hope – I’m a little less lonely now. And I know if tomorrow, or the next day, or the next, I find myself in an empty room again, I’ll do the show anyway, because I’m still stubborn, because I still need the practice, and because I’m not so sure the room will be empty. And just before I start, even though I don’t really believe in ghosts, I’ll whisper again, “This show is for you, Molly, just for you, nobody else. I hope you like it.”