Day One.

Well I started writing my blog, then deleted it. Blame Blogger, blame the beers from the night before. Speaking of which, that's what we did as soon as we touched down in Scotland. Some craft beer pub, £4.50+ a pint, everything around 6% and with descriptions like "heavily hopped" - speaking my language. We scuttled off to the hotel, then straight out towards the Royal Mile. Street performers on every corner, from funk bands to casual mermaids. It all beats the usual "man-making-dog-sand-sculpture" (though maybe not quite eclipsing Liverpool's "man-singing-loudly-with-toy-microphone"). 

We headed into a church that doubles up as a music venue for the Fringe and caught a cool folk singer, all trackie bottoms, ironic t-shirt and unkempt facial hair. Nice version of "May You Never" by John Martyn. Nice can of Dead Pony Club to accompany things. This was followed by the more typical pursuits of watching my beloved blues scrape a draw against Spurs, people-watching as various hen parties competed with each other over who had the most overweight friend with the lowest esteem. Top marks to the chunky lad who tried to pull an entire party with a tray of blues shots though (note. said chunky lad wasn't me). Thumbs down to the man with the receding hair-line and three shirt buttons undone though, seen here being awkward by the Pimm's bar (note. said mid-life crisis bloke wasn't my dad). 

For some light and shade we headed for the middle-class mayhem of the BBC tent; craft lager, queues for slam poetry and wireless headphones to enjoy Alt-J. In this mindset we went to watch the rather funny Kate Smurthwaite, a lovely, leftie comedienne I've enjoyed at the Fringe previously. Always a bit bonkers watching a comedy gig in the basement of an Italian restaurant but why not? 

We wandered elsewhere for a pizza and pasta before the real drinking commenced. Even tucked away in the most nondescript boozers you'd find a guitar and fiddle duo playing Radiohead, to a man of a very Scottish kind of drunkeness. It was that level of drunk we were teetering towards when we got back to the hotel. A successful start.