The all-absorbing nature of the Festival became all too clear when everyone started going on about some riots down south. Here, our newspapers are replaced by free review magazines, the daily grind with plays and comedy and exhibitions and the occasional concert.
The strange filtering-through of news to a flat with no internet, no regular newspapers, no TV, was reminiscent of Glastonbury in 2009 when Michael Jackson died, and while the world outside was crying its face off, most of us were none the wiser. Whereas in the fields and the mud we had RIP Jacko tshirts by the following morning, up here in Auld Reekie the comedians react in the only way they know how- jokes.
What seemed like a race to make the easy jokes first meant stand-ups were telling us how they were desperately trying to contact their loved ones in Tottenham- “Size eleven, nothing in white.” (Steve Day, Run, Deaf Boy, Run!), or how they were happy to be already in Scotland before the locals start re-building Hadrian's Wall to keep the English out (Paul B. Edwards, Tweeting Beauty).
Elsewhere, shared outrage breaks the ice in coffee shops and anywhere with a TV screen as the youngest offenders are revealed- a fifteen year old, a twelve year old, eleven, six, a toddler whose first words were “hand me that brick”.
Though two Scots would-be riots have already had to be nipped at the Twitter-bud, I doubt more will flower up north of Hadrian's Wall, even if it isn't rebuilt. As a friend pointed out, Edinburgh is too distracted by the Fringe and there are too many police about. As for the rest of Scotland, I doubt they'd lower themselves to throwing copycat riots just because the English did it first.
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