"I want to die. I want a comet to hurtle down from the sky and flatten me like a pancake". Such a cheery bunch we Edinburgh lot are. That was the morning greeting of a dear friend of mine...she is no longer my friend.
I can't stand a misery guts. But then, in all fairness, we haven't really had a lot to cheer about of late, have we? Tram works. Garbage strikes. Ridiculous weather. The recession. Urgh!
Walking down the street in the city centre though, you look around and there's something happening. A disturbance. It was subtle at first, barely even noticeable in fact, but it has become more and more glaringly obvious as the days and weeks have passed us by. The next time you go out and about in Edinburgh, you'll see it. You don't even need to look for it anymore. It's there. Staring you in the face.
People are going insane.
There is a madness in peoples' eyes. A deep red glowing storm that is yet to be unleashed. They're tinkering on the edge and just need a little something, a little breath of discomfort, a little irregularity in their day, to push them over that thin line and into a world of pure evil. It won't take much. Just something small. Something relatively insignificant. Something like...I don't know...The Edinburgh Festival?
Now don't get me wrong. I love the festival. I'd go as far as to say it was the highlight of my year (well, as long as there is no World Cup on in the year of question). But there are those, and when I say those I refer mainly to the local population, that may be a trifle reluctant to utter a kind word about this now world famous arts event.
And to be honest with you (and this is just between you and me, don't tell anybody), there have been occasions in the past around about mid-Festival where the idea of hanging a shredding machine over my neck and pacing up and down the Royal mile has not been too far from the front of my mind. And in my darkest hour, it sickens me to add though I feel I must be truthful, it was not only leaflets that felt the wrath of my new office toy. On the contrary, leaflets are no sport.
But wait a second! Hold on! Let's take a step back for a moment! This is all so miserable. I'm turning into Little Miss Praying For Armageddon. The festival is great! Not only is it great, but it is important also.
According to Culture Minister Michael Russell, the Fringe generates £75million annually for the Scottish economy. £75million! Food for thought for those who wish the festival were not so. Many businesses would struggle to exist if it were not for the festival. In a time where existence is a day to day uncertainty one should be thankful and not complain just because they have to adjust their route home for a few weeks.
Now, what of the people who actually take part in the Fringe? The people who throw leaflets and, occasionally, tickets at you despite your best efforts to tip toe passed them cunningly disguised as a letter box? One cannot blame them for what they do.
The Fringe has historically been a springboard for up-and-coming artists. For example, it helped to launch the career of Derek Jacobi who starred in a sixth form production of Hamlet. Comics such as the Monty Python team, Stephen Fry, Hugh Laurie, Rowan Atkinson, Emma Thomson, Bill Hicks, Steve Coogan, Rory Bremner...the list goes on and on and on.
Edinburgh in August is a place to make a name for yourself, whether you are an actor, comic, musician, writer or theatre company. Whatever it is you do at the festival, if you do it well and if you persist, you will be successful.
However, much like Christmas, I fear we are losing touch with the true meaning of the Fringe. Not just the fringe, but the Festival in its entirety. No, it's not that it's possible to see young actresses strip down to their underwear and dance around lamp posts in the rain just to get your attention. And no, it's not that it is possible to find a place to have a beer at 4:30am (though, I freely admit, that is one of the beautiful benefits of this time of year, especially for people such as myself who have to find creative juices at unnatural times of the day).
The Festival was born out of the madness and horror of the Second World War to help "provide a platform for the flowering of the human spirit". I very much doubt that those who put this together back in 1947 could have possibly foreseen what it has become today and would be very proud indeed at its success.
But its true success does not lie in the amount of money that it makes or the careers that blossom from it. It is about the human expression. A celebration of our differences and, perhaps more importantly, our similarities. A view somewhat distorted when one stares at the other down the barrel of a gun. A place to look at yourself through others' hearts and minds and discover that, hey, we're the same. To meet complete strangers from complete different countries and cultures and find that they too are in pursuit of truth and beauty in peace and strength.
So, whilst some of you red eyed children of Satan dribble into your soup of despair, bear in mind the bigger picture here. Why not go and see a show? Try it! You might like it!
Visit EdinburghGuide.com's coverage of Edinburgh's Festivals at www.edinburghguide.com/edinburghsfestivals