A Hug and a Nap

There's a guy with dreadlocks and drums leaving the cafe, and as he waves goodbye before he heads off to whereever it is these people all come from, it really hits me that the festival has finished. The poster turrets on the Royal Mile, all bloated from the layers of shameless, aggressive advertising will come down; the stages all disassembled, and those wonderful outdoor bars will dissolve like sugar in the morning coffees that helped us through it all. I've spent the past two weeks complaining to anyone with ears about how fucking horrible the festival has made my life, but shit... like every terrible boyfriend I never broke up with, I'm going to miss the sucker.

I've met more buskers than I thought existed in the whole world (good old Scott; Michael with the unicycle, and the guy who looks like a bum because he has dirty hand but really he's a portrait artist that likes lemon with his tea). And I've struck up conversations with them so easily because it's like the city opened its whole mouth as everyone seems to want to know what other people are all about.

It's these connections, far more than the intended message of whatever pish is going on in the venues, that held my attention for the whole month. Dylan Moran talked about it at his show when considering where to turn in this world of mass consumption, crooked politicians, failed religion and life-threatening diseases. I am used to his comedy being a razor of cynicism, but he started speaking philosophically (though still hilariously) about a lot of topics close to my heart, and came to a conclusion about meaning that centred on human relationships. Basically. These are more difficult to avoid during festival than a drunk guy outside Tesco at 2am who is trying so hard to borrow a lighter from you he's pretty much got his hands in your pockets.

This whole month will stick in my mind as more than just a fast and crowded blur of idiotic customers, beer, and laughter at stupid o'clock in the morning. It's been a lot more than just a hard lesson leading me toward the fact that working on the Royal Mile in August is balls. A lot of people I met were so fucking loud about their stupidity that all I wanted to do was cut off their dreadlocks, staple them to their chin and drag them down Leith Walk by their new facial hair, but a lot of others were genuinely interesting people with something to say, even if their shows sucked. All these new ideas had me looking at the world in profile – the new perspective revealed something different than the last time I considered it. So yeah, I guess I loved the festival for this.

My brother used to have diarrhoea when he ate a lot of chocolate because he loved it so much. Too much lactose or something. So when I say I loved the festival, I mean that too much of a good thing can lead to someone just sitting on the toilet for three hours with a book that they got thoroughly bored of after only two chapters. If it went on for another month, I would be tempted to top myself but I'll be up for it next year. Now, like everyone who worked through August, I just need a hug and a nap.