I was looking forward to the Edinburgh Festival, but now I feel too old
It’s my umpteenth festival and the vibes haven’t kicked in
I’ve lost my festival mojo.
Basically, I’m at the best party in the world, and I am being a surly pooper.
It’s like when you invite everyone round to your house for drinkies, then realise that you would rather be alone and not having to share your pitta chips.
I took my annual August week off, from this coming Monday, so I could get involved. However, I’m a bit discombobulated.
There is a sense of being overwhelmed, which is slightly stronger than it usually is when faced with a million colourful posters and recommendations. I’m dazzled, as if I’d looked directly at the partial eclipse. I’ve become certain that there are a trillion parallel universes where I’m having a lot more fun.
It might be my age. This is my fortysomething-th time at the event, and I feel a bit like I’ve seen everything already. Nude comedy, contortionists, x-rated ventriloquism, erotic dancing in a bath, faux seances, limbo roller-skating, dining in the sky, bango-playing uni-cyclists, tick tick tick.
Circus used to be rare-ish. These days, there are TOO many acrobats. They keep having to raise the bar, since, once you’ve seen one triple axel flip, with a slap-footed land on another troop member’s quaking bonce, you’ve seen them all. Soon robots will be taking over this field, and the humans can spare their tender peachy flesh.
Mind you, I did see a little snippet of Afrique En Cirque, and was pretty impressed. Their blacmange-limbed contortionist reminds me of the Action Men you see in charity shop baskets. You know, the well-loved ones with their heads on backwards.
There are also too many comedians who are doing nothing but crowd work. Leave us alone! We just want to watch and be able to go to the loo, should nature call. If I wanted to be picked on, I’d go back to high school. The only comedian who gets a pass to do that is Jason Byrne, because he makes it very funny. Otherwise, stop asking us our names and where we come from.
And I hate magic. There. I’ve said it. I don’t need someone to guess the name of my first boyfriend, I know who he is already.
I suppose the problem is that I’ve been so spoiled, since I’ve lived in the city almost my whole life. I’ve been to hundreds of shows. Now I feel a bit like a Roman emperor, doing the thumbs up or down bit. Maybe, like in the rubbish Gladiator II, they should fill Bristo Square with water and live sharks, and those involved in shows I don’t rate could become chum.
My throne could be up on the roof of Potterrow. Tickets for that would be sure to sell out, especially when the magicians were chucked in the pool.
Anyway, there have been three intense irritation peaks thus far.
One was when I tried to book tickets to Andrew O’Hagan’s Mayflies, which is taking place at Brown’s of Leith. They were in my basket, but when I got round to asking my other half if he wanted to go, they were all sold out. Same goes for Cathy with Elaine C Smith at The Traverse. Returns only, bah.
I’ve hovered my mouse over various Edinburgh International Festival tickets, but the prices scare me off. Why can’t I be more committed?
The other jab of annoyance was when a flyer-er tried to thrust a leaflet in my hand.
I said, “No thanks, we’re already seeing something tonight”, and he said, “The show will be on on other days, you know”, and MADE me take it. He angrily forced it into my sweaty paw, in the knowledge that I would just stick it straight in the bin.
The pal I was with, kept saying “No thank you” to other flyer purveyors in a crisp and teacherly fashion, and everyone listened to her.
They backed off immediately, but mine won’t take no for an answer.
I wanted to rip the flyer up into tiny pieces, though it did come in useful as a fan, when we were in the Underbelly Bristo Square venue (seeing Steak Out, which was okay).
I know, it’s not normal to be so irritable, but I have the summertime sadness. It always happens at this time of year, when the end of the season is coming into view.
The third of my peak irritations is having to walk everywhere, because it’s too busy to bus and the trams are out-of-order. I currently have Achilles tendonitis, even though I have invested in US-tourist-style hiking sandals that look like the ugly love child of Crocs and the orthopedic shoes I had to wear as a child because I was pigeon-toed.
It hurts to stride up and down hills, and that’s all Edinburgh is.
Anyway, all hope has not yet been abandoned. I’m hoping to get my mojo back by the time next week’s out-of-office is switched on.
At a Graham Norton event for Virgin Radio at Greyfriars Hall, he did mention a show - an interactive comedy-horror about a Tupperware party. THAT I have not seen.
Perhaps I will head there on one of those Voi bikes..
Yes indeed, I’m going to go and book tickets for Jill’s Tupperware Party now, and the thought has already made me feel much cheerier. I am taking control. I’m not going to let the whole of August pass me by, as I remain in party pooper mode. If they’ve sold out already, consider 2026’s festival is cancelled. The emperor of Edinburgh has spoken.
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