A text message from Salvadore.

He’s at the Edinburgh Festival and I’m not, is the gist of it.

I haven’t been for a couple of years now. It was getting uneconomic, if your idea of uneconomic is paying off the last installment on your credit card the month before you return to spend the same amount next year.

Before he left he sent me some photos he’d found.

I am standing amidst the cast of a bad comedy show, dressed in a pink tutu. The others are not wearing a pink tutu. There is something in my face that says ‘I would prefer not to be the only person here wearing a pink tutu’.

I think you could sum it up thus: there are three actorly/comedian-looking people, radiating confident thespianism from their very pores, aglow with the spirit of the Fringe. And one miserable looking bloke, who’d clearly been roped in at the last minute, wearing a pink tutu.

I stole the show, of course. It’s difficult not to, when an audience is desperate for a laugh, and a bloke runs onstage in a pink tutu singing a George Michael song.

That and the fact that I am very funny.

I miss the Edinburgh Festival. It’s so good to see the real Scotland, don’t you think? It continues without me as an important social function, helping to neutralise the decimation of Scottish manufacturing industry by providing good jobs distributing Guardian newspapers and handing out leaflets.

I hope Salvadore has a good time and gets to see lots of shows.

And I hope they’re all lousy.

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