Festival Starts on Platform

The first bad news came at King’s Cross, when I tried to buy a copy of The Scotsman. None to be had. Why? “We only have it on Saturdays,” I’m told, so I can’t be sure I’m heading in the right direction for the main event.

And then the reassuring sight of Nicholas Parsons in a cravat, pushing his luggage trolley, suggested that the festival was underway and the next train to Edinburgh would be the place to be. Dozens of rucksacks and two parties of Japanese tourists confirmed the impression.

Parsons begins his Happy Hour at the Pleasance tomorrow afternoon and will be recording an episode of Just a Minute, the BBC Radio 4 panel game, on Sunday week.

The title of his chat show implies cocktails and laughter, and I’m sure it’s not too misleading. But he’s attracted a downmarket competitor this year in Arthur Smith‘s Pissed-Up Chat Show, playing a few hours later each day.

Arthur has been sober for years — I was once standing with him in the Assembly Rooms bar when a London media type rushed up to him and declared that they hadn’t had sex yet this festival, and he promptly dragged her into the nearest broom cupboard — but he insists that his guests this year are drunk, and he intends to breathalyse them in front of the audience. Imagine the humiliation of failing the test.

But an even worse fate could await me before too long. I’ve managed to blag my way into the first preview of a Fringe hot ticket (I’ll own up later) on one condition: that nobody else knows I’m going in to see it.

The Aussie PR added, charmingly, that if I did let on to anyone, “my testicles would be surgically displaced with a rusty razor blade.” And I’ve never even met the woman.

Before I do, I’ll wait for Arthur to invite me onto his show so I can acquire some Dutch courage. On second thoughts, I’ll play safe with Parsons and just hope he doesn’t ask me to talk for sixty seconds without hesitation, deviation or repetition.