How my Glaswegian cynicism of 'that Edinburgh festival' ended

The Herald Scotland

2 days ago

'Are you from Lisboa,' I ask him, hoping that giving Portugal's capital city its natal name might land well.
'Yes, I am from Lisbon,' he says. This is also his way of saying: 'Please stick to the English pronunciation, if you don't mind.' His English is flawless.
And so I launch into my well-thumbed routine about Celtic and Lisbon and how I've been to his city as a sort of pilgrimage to pay homage at the site of Scotland's greatest ever cultural event in 1967.
'I don't really follow football,' he says. This isn't going well. I've just found the world's only Portuguese person who doesn't like football. I make a pathetic last-ditch attempt at cultural communion. 'Eusebio? Benfica? Cristiano Ronaldo.' It strikes me that Pessoa and Saramago might be more to Miguel's taste. It strikes me too that I'm now straying into the thorny terrain of reductive ethno-cultural labelling and so I tell myself to shut the f**k up.
And then I catch a break. Miguel tells me and Gordon the photographer that he needs a catchy street name. Could we give it some thought? I suggest 'Stan Miguel' and to my delight he grabs it. There's even a website domain with this name and we help him access it. I now feel as though I've paid my cultural entrance fee to the Edinburgh Fringe Festival and I proceed on up the Royal Mile channelling my inner Baudelaire.
The street performers have always provided my favourite Fringe memories. This is where the Edinburgh Festivals transport you to another realm: one that's timeless and beyond the reach of political messaging and identity posturing. In this cultural peregrination amongst Old Edinburgh's fairy-tale dwellings you gain close-up access to jugglers, conjurers, clowns, contortionists and trapeze artists.
They've all got a story to tell and they're all pleased when you stop to chat to them. Your tiresome Glaswegian cynicism about 'That Edinburgh Festival' is stripped away in these streets among these artists and performers, many of whom – like Stan Miguel – have pitched tents in parks and fields for the duration of their jamboree.
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On this spot a few years ago, I'd met big handsome Hans, the boy wonder from Berlin, showcasing his late-night cabaret show in a sinewy, blue-spangled leotard. He'd invited me to stand beside him on a street bollard for a photograph before thrusting a rather well-toned thigh into my arms. In those moments, some old certainties of my west of Scotland existence became a bit blurry and home seemed a long way away. We go on a search for the big charmer, but he's nowhere to be seen and we hope he's still living his best life and giving someone else a wee thrill in some European citadel.
His spirit lives on though, in Freak the Clown, a professional street performer from England who's juggling knives on a plank of wood balancing atop a ball. He looks like Billy Gibbons from ZZ Top and is wearing a kilt below his bare chest. He's built like a butcher's dug, his beard is green and he gives us his full repertoire of gags, cheek and a lot of attitude. There's a hint of jeopardy too and an edge which makes this a bit unpredictable. A crowd which would do justice to a decent Scottish second division football match gathers around him. It's only by seeing this lad close up that you begin to understand how much hard graft and goes into his exhausting routine.
Freak the Clown. (Image: Gordon Terris) 'I've been doing this for 16 years since I was 14,' he tells me. 'I've been all over Europe, but the Fringe is the best place to be.' Later, he'll put the hat round as he reminds everyone that he's a professional. And so, I go looking for a cash machine. Most of these street artists have pocket card machines, but the wi-fi on a busy thoroughfare like this is patchy, meaning that they'll go without some folded appreciation. He says he's got change, but he's worth every penny of the £20 I later hand him.
These performers are the essence of the Edinburgh festivals and their close-up skills are wondrous and teak hard. If you tarry awhile to watch them execute an entire routine then it means you've been entertained. The least you can do is stick a bit of coinage in their hats.
Across the road, a troupe of young men and women are dressed in togas and I get a flashback to detective Frank Drebin arguing with his boss in Naked Gun: 'When I see five weirdos dressed in togas stabbing a guy in the middle of a park in full view of a hundred people I shoot the b*******. That's my policy.'
'That was a Shakespeare in the Park production of Julius Caesar, you moron. You killed five actors. Good ones.'
In The Italian on The Mound, a table of tourists are getting an unsolicited seminar on Bitcoin from the owner and some of my former unkind thoughts about Edinburgh are rising to the surface once more. And then he says: 'It would be great to take the banks out the equation' and calm is restored. Plus, he shaves the price of a coffee from the bill because he's a pal of Gordon, who seems to know most of the traders on this street.
This being The Fringe, I really ought to see some theatrical drama, but I don't want to pre-book anything or choose something that would accord with my prejudices and worldview. There's something liberating about just walking up and walking in and not really knowing what might lie in store.
'Surprise me,' I say to the assistant at the Box Office in Summerhall Arts, up by The Meadows. She kindly gives me a run-down of several shows, complete with an articulate mini-synopsis of each. I choose 'This is Not About Me', which she especially recommends as being 'intense, funny, warm and intelligent'.
Fun on the streets of Edinburgh. (Image: Gordon Terris) I join a small queue of punters on the stairs down to a small basement. It's then that I hear someone behind me say the dread words 'she's having an existential crisis'. It's too late though, for me to back out now. So, I sit at the seat nearest the door so I can make a quick dash for it if it all gets a bit too intimate and emotional.
I needn't have worried. I don't really have the training or experience to provide you with a review of this show and thus do it justice. There are themes here which might well be existential and yes, it does proceed in a non-linear timeline, which is to say it jouks back and forth over several years of a young couple's relationship.
But what I will say is this: when your critical faculties have been lobotomised by Netflix and police procedurals and psychological thrillers which are about as psychological as Sportscene, it's good to be reminded of the actor's craft by getting close to it, so that you're almost part of it.
And yes, this wee jewel might well be about 'a self-destructive writer' who struggles to 'construct a play that unfurls the secrets of her broken friendship' according to the official festival blurb. And yes, her passion does indeed 'blur into obsession,' so that she 'loses grip on the narrative'.
But what I also saw was two young actors, Hannah Caplan and Douglas Clarke-Wood, giving every ounce of themselves in a 70-minute performance of raw emotional and physical intensity that really was quite breath-taking to behold from two feet away. There was a capacity audience of 20 and each of them was utterly invested in the performance. And, despite my pre-conceived prejudices, so was I. What an unexpected delight.
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This year too, I've been invited to play a bit part in The Herald at the Fringe, a week of live, on-stage interviews conducted by the paper's political writers. John Swinney, Anas Sarwar and Kate Forbes will all appear and I find myself sharing a stage with Professor Sir John Curtice.
The thought occurs to me that I'm merely there to make the others look good and when I see the Prof's notes I get that feeling once more of being a long way from home. 'Just get in and out without making a horse's arse of it,' is what I tell myself on these types of occasions. A few days after the event, all seems calm: there are no lawyer's missives and no frosty looks from my colleagues.
Mr Sarwar's interview was unexpectedly profound and quite moving. We'd exchanged greetings at the door and he seemed a little pre-occupied and subdued, when he's normally effervescent. This was the first time I'd seen another side to him or at least it was the most human I'd ever seen him. He talked about his mum a lot and it was clear that his values in life are mainly derived from her. He listed all the community initiatives she's launched in Pakistan. I've been trying to tie him down to an interview slot for a while now, but really it's his mum I need to be interviewing.
Afterwards, I also make a new wee pal, Murray, at the back of the theatre. He's there with his mum and is keen to test my football knowledge. 'Who was the last Scot to score in a European Cup final,' he asks me. 'Kenny Dalglish! Yes,' I shout triumphantly. 'Nope. It was John Robertson for Nottingham Forest in 1980,' he tells me. He's 10 years old, for goodness sake.
Then he produces a ball. 'What's your keepie-uppie record?' And once more I feel a long way from home.