Edinburgh Festival - Lauren Booth finds the flower of Scotland in full wilt
It is the busiest weekend of the Edinburgh Festival, and darting between overpriced mini-venues and greasy eateries confirms two of my suspicions. First, all food north of the border is fried in batter; second, TV and radio executives short on ideas and talent for the spring schedules are ligging here en masse, making things expensive for the rest of us.
If you are up before midday, then you witness the procession of long-haul tourists in "traditional" tartan caps taking position along the cobbles of Market Street. They have come in search of Mel Gibson's Scotland, and are not disappointed. Several "lone pipers" (one Korean) line their route and wail "Flower of Scotland" endlessly. While the drunken comedians and manic-depressive actors still snore in garrets above the Royal Mile, men and women in outsize T-shirts search for the tartan of their "ancestors" and go on witchery or torture tours of the Auld City. Having gazed for "wow" minutes at the splendid Heart of Midlothian and whipped around John Knox House ("I think he built a fort, too"), the Visa visitors quickly return to their raison d'etre: shopping for tat. Edinburgh is merciless in its money-grubbing. Two Scottish breakfasts cost £15.70 (the only difference from an English one is, needless to say, added haggis); a pencil with "Bonny Scotland" printed on it will set you back £1.50; and haggis for dinner with a plain soup starter is a stomach-churning £25 a head at the "traditional" Dubb Prais restaurant. With even the grottiest local charging £2.50 for a glass of wine, I am broke before I see a single show.
Post-noon, all hell breaks loose along the Royal Mile, as festival-goers debate the merits of what "should" be seen this afternoon (Chekhov's Circus and the Japanese Macbeth) versus the temptation of easy, recognisable laughs (comedy awards and shows from Radio 4). One dour-faced drama student hands me a leaflet for his play and says: "Don't come to this show, it's crap." Perhaps he is trying a reverse strategy. I throw it away, just in case. This is the time and the place where good intentions disappear. Who wants to rush around when there's a madman juggling knives while balancing on seven office chairs right here? Across the square, a curious crowd gathers to watch the riveting humiliation of a mime artist at the hands of a four-year-old boy. The kid, it must be said, is brilliant. The tall, gangly man in the robot mask does his best to intimidate. He slides backwards, puts his face close to that of the boy and generally gives the adults the creeps. But the lad just crosses his arms, flips stylish shades over his eyes and stands as still as a statue until we can no longer contain our cheers. Only then does the little Vinnie Jones back off towards his parents, well satisfied. It is these impromptu performances that make the wallet-busting trip worthwhile. Why try to enjoy a mediocre comic or a half- finished play in a run-down venue at eight quid a time, when the streets are pouring with this sort of talent?
Still, when in Rome and all that . . . On day two, I make the uphill trek to the poshest comedy venue of them all - the ballroom in the Assembly Rooms. It is as glitzy as Buckingham Palace, and about as suitable for stand-up. Tonight's comic is Jeff Green. I've never heard of him, but judging by the Women's Institute ladies next to me, he must be the next Des O'Connor, and this gig is his warm-up for a winter in Bournemouth. The white heads nod ecstatically as he demonstrates "how not to stroke a cat" and "why DIY equals disaster".
OK, I have gaffed and I know it. Going to a festival and ending up sitting in a ballroom next to your gran is not the way to experience cutting-edge art. Before my train leaves, I have just enough time to see one randomly selected play in a dank, underground venue called, fittingly, the Cave. Papa Was a Bus Conductor stars five unknown Asian actors, and it begins like an extended sketch from the TV show Goodness Gracious Me. The message of the piece is simple: Asians are offered crap, "rent-a-Paki" roles in sitcoms and films, and must demean themselves and their culture for "our" pleasure in order to succeed. A couple of sharp lines force damp splutters from the trendy, all-white audience. The elderly agent explains to his protege: "We need to develop a sense of humour about ourselves. Twenty years ago, white children laughed at us. Now our own children find us funny, too. That's progress."
Sadly, the acting is not so much cardboard as papier-mache, and the action quickly degenerates into desperate farce. It cost £7.
Still, the actors will doubtless be offered token roles in EastEnders, and the audience can now go guilt-free to enjoy Ardal O'Hanlon or Nicholas Parsons's Happy Hour. And that, after all, is showbiz.
Post this article to
We want to encourage people to comment on our content and to exchange views with other readers and hope this will be done on a courteous basis. However, if you encounter posts which are offensive please let us know by emailing comments@newstatesman.co.uk and we will take swift action where necessary.
