On Sunday morning I woke up in a terrible sweat
I know it was warm on Saturday night, same time last year it had been one of the hottest nights of the year in fact. No despite the heat, it wasn’t that kind of sweat. It was more of a cold sweat – you know the type, the type caused by fear. Not in this case the fear of the unknown, more the fear of the known. It was the realisation that once again it was ‘fringe Sunday’.
So why is it that when the rest of Edinburgh and central Scotland are waking with excitement, looking forward to a good day out, I suddenly find myself sitting bolt upright in a blind panic?
Let me enlighten you. Next time you are wandering across the meadows or strolling up the high street during August, dishing out Two pounds of your hard earned to every grubby ‘street entertainer’ who thrusts a cap, shoe or guitar case in front of you, think about the real unsung hero. Think about the chap who has to hold up that well-worn unicycle. Think about the chap who has to endure hours of ridicule (well it seems like that at the time) while pulling tight the straps on the escapologists straight jacket or the guy who gets himself conned into being kissed by another male who happens to be masquerading as a juggler. Because you see all of those guy’s are me!
Every year I have to endure the smell of b.o. as the entertainer [loose use of the term] climbs over me to reach his equally smelly cycle saddle, pretend to be amazed as the straight jacket miraculously releases its occupant just as he is about to run out of time and then for my final trick I’ll pick up another spilled skittle.
So every year as the festival approaches I start to formulate my plan. Maybe this year I’ll sit at the front amongst the kids. Or perhaps I’d be better to be at the back amongst taller, fatter or stronger looking people. Or should I feign uninterest, glancing around the other displays. No good – I’ve tried them all before. I still cringe at that blood curdling phrase, “now I need an assistant – someone who looks intelligent.” someone who looks like he has mug stamped on his forehead more like.
I even once tried donning the disguise of a hippie complete with suitable baggy clothing and scruffy backpack. He still managed to single me out and suitably humiliate me again, “it’s okay you can take your parachute off now – you’ve landed!” Once again I pretended I was hearing the joke for the first time.
The problem is that I think they recognise me now. They know I have a strong pair of legs. They know I won’t let them fall. So perhaps now is the time to take a new tack. I’m starting to wonder if perhaps I could make a full time occupation from it. ‘Professional street entertainers assistant’ would look good on my passport I should imagine. I can see me now giving out my spiel about how two pounds are nice but ten is nicer, “after all this is how I make my living.”
I am sure there are many festivals around the world worth a visit. Amsterdam springs immediately to mind and I have never been to New York or Berlin either.
Easy to dream I suppose but in reality I think I’ll actually have to come up with a completely new approach next year. Perhaps I should discreetly stick my toe into the spokes of the unicycle. I might even drop the straight jacket just as he is about to dive into it headlong from the other end of west Parliament Square. Or can you imagine – I might even get that snog in first.
But then again, I might just settle for fish and chips in Anstruther!