“How is that not funny? That’s my best joke.” says comedian Alex Maple as his favourite gag, like all his others tonight, crashes silently over a stone-cold audience.
Mr Maple must have done something right over the past 12 months, as he has been rewarded with a 24-date run in Edinburgh charging ten quid a ticket - but I didn’t find his joke funny. And the thirty or so other people in the venue agreed with me.
In fact, with fifteen minutes left he is already offering free tickets for the following night and dancing embarrassing jigs at the audience’s command. Tough crowd. We did not take him up on his offer of a free show, so whether or not the next night was an improvement is a mystery.
The thing about the Edinburgh Fringe festival is that nothing else matters. It doesn’t matter how good or bad a show is, how much or little you paid or what you came to see. What matters is that you are there, along with millions of others, performers and punters, contributing to a feel-good atmosphere unlike anything else anywhere in the world.
At the Fringe, you’ll see the most highly strung stress heads happily brave an hour-long queue in the rain, and the laziest of layabouts will think nothing of walking two miles across town to catch a comic then traipse twenty minutes back the other way to meet their mates immediately after.
Most tellingly, you’ll never hear the expression “there’s nothing for me”, as the festival can be whatever you want it to be. That could be a tranquil family walking holiday, climbing Arthur’s seat to idly watch the thronging thousands scrambling over loose change and lost tickets in the city below.
Or it could be a wild weekend of drunken debauchery, laughing as worse-for-wear celebrities fall off barstools whilst trying to keep a low profile, or cringing as desperate D-listers flaunt their faces for some much-needed exposure.
Whether it’s mentioned above, or somewhere in-between, what’s certain is that within hours of arriving in the city centre you’ll have heard a few passing mentions to of a show or production that might grab your attention.
The power of word-of-mouth has never been so potent. A new show can live or die by the reputation it gathers in the many temporary drinking holes and as artisans, actors, locals and lager louts gather to exchange recommendations and plan their next move.
We made a beeline for new show The Hotel, directed by man-from-the-Magners-advert Mark Watson. The reason being, apart from the fact that his stand up show bowled us over last year, that last week’s tenants in our rented flat had put his at the top of a list of must-see shows stuck to the fridge door.
The show itself is a bizarre depiction of a hotel struggling to keep its head above water as its owner drinks himself into an early grave. It’s Fawlty Towers meets The Brittas Empire at The Office. Not so much a sit-down-and-watch theatre production, the audience enter the hotel itself, take their room key and are free to explore and chat to the staff as the story unfolds around them over the next hour.
Up and down the famous Royal Mile jugglers, acrobats and magicians ply their trade drawing hundreds of interested onlookers to watch as they turn ping pong balls into melons, touch the back of their head with their heels or risk life and limb catching knives on their chin.
These folk make a living showing off and know how to hold a crowd, they are often as funny as some of the bigger shows and, despite not demanding any fee, they always put their heart into performing and are usually worth a couple of quid.
Our other highlights included a Dutch comedy collective and a two-man Harry Potter anthology but the soul of the festival cannot really be understood from the anecdotes of others - whilst famous landmarks may ensure the festival always has the same glorious backdrop, the smaller details are all your own.
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