Everything you wanted to know about the Edinburgh Festival, but were too shagged to ask

Flopping or fucking

Edinburgh Festival: a hotbed of carnal desire where lust drips on every corner; or is a hot water bottle likely to be the only thing heating up your bed? Front Of House goes undercover to get between the sheets.

needed for the basic festival functions of cramming in as many shows as possible while maintaining a heavy drinking schedule. Meeting, greeting and seducing a potential lover is a strenuous enough business without throwing in the added strain of consummation. Or as one necessarily nameless actress was overheard to say in a bar recently, ’l’m too tired to sleep with my boyfriend at the moment, never mind going for the bonus bonk on the side.’

HANKY PANKY Wise words indeed but should anyone

LONG AND SAD experience of the Festival has drummed a number of incontrovertible truths into what counts as the Front Of House brain. Namely, by the end of three weeks your liver will be the size of a handbag, your bank account will be as empty as the desert and the chances of catching a festival lumber will have shrivelled to a size smaller than your self-respect.

These three facts are all interlinked in an incredibly complex equation which resolves itself thus: the festive fling is a myth.


The astonishing thing is that all the conditions necessary for a possible liaison are in place. Edinburgh is teeming with

still hold out hopes of hanky panky then it may be prudent to remember just how high the wages of sin can be.

A couple of years back, the female and

materialises. ON THE SIDE

young nubiles of both sexes; the local talent and gene pools are swelled by an influx of Visitors to the city; a vaguely licentious, holiday atmosphere prevails and the consumption of industrial quantities of lager should confuse inhibitions. Somehow it JUSI doesn’t seem to workout. Like a mirage in the desert, the festival fuck is tantalisingly close but equally intangible, a taunting, tempting possibility that never qUite

The reasons for this are simple: everyone is too knackered to consider expending any more energy than is

male principles of two shows at a well- known Edinburgh venue were engaged in a none too discreet affair, this despite the fact that they both had long term attachments elsewhere. After one particularly energetic night of bedding the broad rather than treading the boards, the actor didn't turn up for his show as he was sunk deep in hoggish slumber in her bed. As the call went out on the Tannoy and frantic phone calls went out to his (empty) flat, she sat insouciantly in the theatre’s bar reading the paper. The poor fellow was eventually obliged to reimburse the box office for the refunds of a sell-out show. An expensive night of passion.

This is closer than most people get to a festive flingette



Comedian Greg Proops would appear to have suffered a rather unfortunate amputation at the hands of the Daily

Now you see it

12 THELIST 22~28 Aug 1997

Record's production department. The original, pictured here (left), shows the Proops digit standing loud and proud. However, by the time Proops graced the Record's festival tabloid, the offending finger would appear to have been snapped off at the second

Now you don't

knuckle joint leaving Proops shaking his fist rather than flipping the bird. Any information regarding the whereabouts of the missing digit will be gratefully received.


Bruce Morton recently found himself in receipt of a review from an unusual quarter after a show. Travelling back to Glasgow by train, he was approached by a well-spoken, well to do woman of a certain age who handed him her ticket. On the back of the ticket she had listed all of the gig's best gags as well as couple of hints and tips including 'speak more loudly' and 'don't blether quite so much about Scotland'. A little ironic, perhaps, given that the full title for the venue at which Morton performs is Scottish International at The Famous Grouse House.

Top Secret

Bobby Carlyle and Damon Albarn were in town recently for the launch of the film Face in which they both appear. The movie bosses thought it a good idea to take the stars out for a slap-up feed (looking at stickman Albarn who can blame them) and booked the entire Atrium restaurant. Everything was to be completely hush-hush with all info about the booking being on a strictly need to know basis. The stars should be able to slip in and slip out of the restaurant with barely a ripple. Absolutely no problems there, except for the fact that the group arrived in a highly conspicuous convoy of five black stretch limos. About as common a sight in Edinburgh as flying squadrons of blue gorillas wearing tutus - and a gift to any lurking paparazzi.

The FACE of Damon. geddit? Oh. never mind