“This would be the only place where the sun is shining, but it’s minus five degrees!” The dark haired Canadian, comically poised in nothing but his underwear, winked at the tittering crowd. I glanced up at the blazingly blue sky, felt the warmth of the midday sun soak into my bare shoulders and couldn’t help but smile. Playing the British weather card was always guaranteed a reaction.
The Edinburgh Fringe was in full swing; the golden sandstone grandeur of Scotland’s national museum a serene and surprising backdrop to the ongoing frivolity. Rows of quirky canvas stalls were strewn along the sidelines of the spectacle, proudly exhibiting unique articles of jewellery, clothing and art. My sister-in-law perused them with great interest, delicately fingering each gem while her Mum walked tentatively behind, hoping the crisp twenty pound notes (Scottish, of course) would not be sweet-talked from her purse.
The buzz in the air was energising. Pulling into the station an hour earlier, we had been full of anticipation for the much-awaited evening event. We had tickets to see the Tattoo and, in our imaginings of it (who doesn’t love men in kilts?) we had clean forgotten that Edinburgh’s streets would be littered with hopeful, ambitious dancers, singers and performers. It was more than a pleasant surprise as we, like thousands others, found ourselves caught up in the exuberance.
The duo of near-naked men, now being wrapped together in cling-film (and somewhat inappropriately patted down) by two middle-aged women, were drawing an even larger crowd with their hilarity. The pair had captivated our attention from the outset, as they brazenly, yet comically, attacked and humiliated their spectators.
A petite, elderly woman, resting alone against the black, iron fencing which bordered the museum, visibly recoiled as the loudest of the two (at this stage, fully dressed) pointed at her and shouted: “This is the most dangerous woman in Edinburgh! Look, she’s behind bars!” Roaring with laughter, while also niggled by a pang of sympathy for this innocent bystander – who, it turned out, was hunting for her lost husband (Mike Tucker) – I knew we would be in for a good show. Intelligent and dignified? Certainly not. Cringe-worthy and fabulous? Of course!
Nearing the pinnacle of their performance, while embarrassingly enveloped in a cellophane cocoon, their heads jolted up and to the left as a man – clearly of the clerical calling – missioned towards them. Head bowed, but not low enough to disguise his white collar, he ignored the crowd and our inquisitive looks (was he going to reprimand them for their indecency?) Silence fell and all eyes rested on this man of the cloth as he drew closer to the (genuinely surprised) Canadians. “Are you Mike Tucker?” the taller one called. The clergyman stopped short, raised his head and revealed a face full of horror as he absorbed his surroundings. He couldn’t have run away any quicker and we couldn’t have laughed any harder.
How easily we are entertained.
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