Today is the day when one of those phenomenon of nature occurs.

Today is Flying Ant Day. Ants - thousands of the little beasties - fly to mate. Some fly very far, and some just a little way. Its a nuptial ritual where queen ants fly, open their six legs, and eventually drop to the ground exhausted and wingless.

To put this in context, it's the equivalent of women running out of their house to shag anything male that moves, and then having all their clothes nicked in the process. Like breeding in Newcastle in the present day.

But ants aren't Geordies, so its all just conjecture. But it's still all a bit weird to get your head around.

Anway, the point is two-fold. One, there's loads of ants currently in the air bonking as I type. Two, Flying Ants Day is about to become a creaky metaphor for the Festival. Intrigued, you read on.

Well, while the female ant tragically loses her wings, its with shock and an urgent plea to the European Convention of Insect Rights, that I tell you that the male of the species loses his life. Within a day or two of getting a taste of life's sweetest delight, Joe Ant will curl up and die; his only role in life fulfilled.  

So, while one of the species prospers - wings growing back and instant promotion to head of a thriving ant colony - we must mourn the little men who did all the hard work. Their life was brief but integral to ant civilisation continuing.

Enter creaky metaphor. Tonight I had an awful night playing reviewer; watching a bunch of little men dying on their arses to a crowd so bored that they that barely had the poop to clap. It was car-crash live comedy at the Fringe.

Who are these mad creatures who make these nuptial pligrimmages and fly up to Edinburgh to be humiliated and lose hundreds/thousands of pounds of their own money?

What cruel twist of nature impels these mad creatures to come to the Edinburgh Colony of Arts to artistically shag themselves dead?

Flying Ants Day is an unexplained wonder of nature that takes place every year. Next year it will go on with the same frenzy. The cull is always inevitable. A few queens prosper, the rest pop their anty clogs. The forgotten heroes of their generation.

I dedicate my creaky metaphor however, to those poor, brave male comedians who died on stage in that grimy venue, south of Edinburgh last night. Few in the audience laughed. Indeed to use the word 'audience' is a trifle over-generous.

But take solace, guys. You're still a welcome and much needed inclusion in this cut-throat Colony.

Chin up.

Exeunt.