Edinburgh on a Saturday night can be a slightly frightening place. I am sure this is true when the Fringe isn't on, but the influx of theatricals into the heady mixture of lust, frustration and alcohol makes me nervous. This year, more than any before, I am getting a taste of what moderately famous people must have to endure all their lives. I am only really well known here and probably only at this time of year and to be honest it's mainly really nice. People say "Hi Rich" or stop to shake my hand or have a photo taken. I am just waiting for the first fist to fly into my face though! Last night some men drinking from pint glasses in the street, using a bin as a table, recognised me and told me I was moderately famous and clearly wanted me to stop and chat. But I felt it was probably foolish to do so and they shouted after me a bit in a mildly threatening way. Just as I was turning a corner another man standing outside a pub, swaying a little bit, told me I had been a bit harsh to Andrew Collins, which given my state of alert seemed more threatening than it was probably intended to be. I told him that I really hadn't, but didn't want to go into it there and then and carried on my way, down a dark cobbled street where I bet hundreds of heads have been cracked open in its long history.
Tonight I was walking down to the late show at the Stand and the theatre on the streets of Edinburgh was, as usual, knocking the socks off what was going on in the venues. An angry man got out of a cab to remonstrate with the driver of a car about some perceived slight. The man in the car opened his door and got out to face up to his accuser. I thought about stopping to watch how it played out, but I didn't have time. There was the promise of a fight in the air, but perhaps when faced with a man prepared to put up some resistance the wind was taken out of the sails of the aggrieved party.
As I crossed South Bridge there was a police car parked up and a man prone on the floor surrounded by a copious amount of sick. The man was slumped against the wall of the bridge, looking like he wasn't going anywhere too soon and the two police officers were crouching near to him, trying to avoid the rivers or vomit around them. It wasn't even midnight yet. What stories would play out before the night was over and what other bodily effluents might be spilled on to the cobbled streets?
I wasn't really interested in finding out, because these days the only thing I am likely to spill is blood. I am not even getting drunk enough to splash wee around. As I crossed the bridge back there were a few handshakes and hellos - it's really a lovely thing to happen and there aren't many jobs where you get such appreciation for your work (but there's always the fear things could turn nasty to keep you on your toes) - a young man saw me approaching and his mouth dropped open as if he had seen Brad Pitt (which it's possible in his drunkness he thought he had). He was totally on his own, but as he passed he said to himself in a quiet voice, with slight awe "famous", which really made me laugh. Was that for my or his benefit? I am glad that this only happens to me for a couple of weeks in the year but after many Fringes where I have been anonymous and unknown it would be churlish not to be slightly gratified that things are picking up. I wouldn't like to be properly famous - mainly because this Fringe has made me realise how much I walk around on my own and how vulnerable to idiots I am - but there is some satisfaction in having this level of renown in one city in the world.
I have failed to watch any shows again, but I did watch "Dead Snow" on DVD this afternoon, a film about zombie Nazis, which is such a compelling idea that I am amazed no one thought of it before (no doubt someone has), but really with Nazis and zombies combined you don't need very much more. Great fun. Who needs the greatest arts festival in the world when you have stuff like this - and the constant threat of violence and effluent spillage on the streets!
