| Sticky fingers |
| Words: Curio | |
| Thursday, 16 August 2007 | |
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The Film Festival began but I just wasn’t in the mood. I got out of the taxi, took one look at the press pen and jumped straight back in the cab. “My favourite French restaurant and don’t spare the horses, driver!” And as if by magic (and £57.50 for a six minute car ride later), I was there. The guinea-fowl was delectable and the wine hit the spot. As I sat with a full gut, I took the garcon Ludo aside and said: “Help me. Get me the hell out of Edinburgh!” “Why not try the fingers, monsieur?” advised Ludo. As I rose from my chair to cuff the Froggy imp for his Gallic impudence, it then dawned on me “the fingers” to which he was referring was actually the tacky 1980s-throwback nightclub called Fingers, where middle-aged spread goes to boogie. It was just next door. And as if by magic (and no need for £57.50 for a six minute car ride later), I was there. (Shamed face emoticon) I actually had a great night in a venue. Drinking a-plenty, crap music and general debauchery. There was also no Festival crowd around me. Indeed no self-respecting connoisseur of the arts would have dared to prance beyond the threshold of this shady dive. Perhaps this was why I enjoyed myself so much; a welcome diversion from this month-long sensory rollercoaster. Just goes to show, we do perhaps try to wrap ourselves a little too tightly in high-brow fluff to prove to ourselves that we really are the paragon of animals. Sometimes nothing beats a slouch with the lower echelons of life to know that you’re truly alive! I’m not sure if it’s simply that saggy bit of the Fest where all performers become tired, homesick and broke, and the Festival goers have some sort of collective breakdown owing to stimulatory overload? But please, don’t let me dowse your flames of joy with my sodden bile. I’ve seen some great shows in the past few days… Aeneas Faversham Returns, On Danse, The Bacchae, Richard Herring, Famished, Hangman, etc, etc. But there’s still a nasty, lingering taste in my mouth … Must be the guinea-fowl. Exeunt. |