No one has ever met Eat & Drink Editor, nor do they receive emails from them; the entire freelance pool experiences telepathic inferences about which bars and restaurants to attend before filing their copy atop the Braid Hills on a pyre that has burned since the dawn of time. It was an honour, then, when Eat & Drink Editor summoned me to Portobello, yet I was surprised to discover that they were a demonic entity who devoured the scabrous phrasings of hospitality journalism for sustenance. Drenched in smoke with eyes of blinding white light, theirs was the face of horrific eternity, a scorched image of existential dread scything its way through our feeble existence. Still, who was I to judge? ‘I CALL YOU HERE ON OFFICIAL BUSINESS,’ they told me. ‘COME. DO WHAT YOU DO, TRIVIAL MAN. REVIEW YOUR LITTLE BARS.’ 

I did as I was told, surveying the Portobello Tap as the amorphous cloud held its smoky claw at my throat. The bar was that rare thing; a busy space more relaxed than hurry-scurry. ‘A ONE-SENTENCE SUMMARY,’ Eat & Drink Editor howled. ‘SO BRIEF YET SO FILLING.’ It yawned my words into its smoky belly and emitted a rat-howl of terror. ‘WHAT A SHAME IT WILL BE ONE OF YOUR LAST.’ My last? We moved on. 

We entered the Portobello Bar, an auld-man haunt where the regulars size you up as you enter. ‘LITTLE BEARDED BOY,’ exclaimed my nebulous pal. ‘SIT.’ We lurked in the corner, observing the Sunday calm of a pub that had no doubt been chaotic the night before, the lighting even, the drinks pleasantly cheap. Scooter played at decibel-breaking volume. Then, a sudden blinding tension, a fiery migraine from the depths of hell. I looked into my selfie camera and saw a target had been etched onto my forehead like some diabolical scrawl. The smoke demon stared back at me with a rictus grin, pointing its index finger at me like the barrel of a gun. ‘This ’un’s a wild card,’ I thought. ‘The crazy pranks people play on a night out.’

‘DRINK UP,’ Eat & Drink Editor salivated, spitting black bile from its gaping maw as we sat in The Espy, a long-standing bar and restaurant on the promenade that's retained its ramshackle charm. ‘ENJOY YOUR FINAL SUP.’ 

My beer finished, the eldritch monstrosity led me to the beach. ‘What a great staff night out,’ I thought, staring towards the lilting sea as smoke enveloped my entire body. ‘I can’t wait to write these articles for another year... ’

This column was found underneath a pentagram-shaped rock on Portobello Beach. Celebrity drinks journalist Kevin Fullerton remains missing, presumed dead.