Scottish comedy’s own Gary Little leaves a big gap in our lives - Susan Morrison
And just like that, the end of the Fringe is upon us. The scent of mild madness is in the air.
The flyering teams will be out in force to help fill those last weekend seats. My advice to avoid the proffered paper is to wear a lanyard.
Flash it at a flyerer and they’ll fall back like vampires facing garlic. They assume you’re in a show, you see, and so that’s a wasted flyer. If you really want to scythe your way up the High Street at speed, match that lanyard with a hi-vis jacket. Throw in a clipboard and the crowds part in front of you.
Whatever technique you use to deflect a shiny picture of someone you’ve never heard of doing something you never want to see, please be kind to the kid trying to get you into the venue you could never find.
They do it for very little money, sometimes none, if it's their own show, but they somehow stay almost exhaustingly enthusiastic.
If you do catch a show this weekend, as you file out of the hot, sweaty room you’ve just been in, peer into the dark corner behind the tech desk. You might just spot the techie back there.
Say thanks. They never get the credit they’re due and yet without their magic, audiences would be watching people shouting in the dark.
The Stand started the Fringe with the unveiling of an exhibition on St Andrew Square to celebrate 30 years making people laugh on York Place. You can clock my fizzog on a giant panel. Yes, I am now so old I am an exhibit. Half expect to be shoved into a display cabinet next.
It was a great way to start, but the month took a sudden strange turn. One of our performers, the brilliant and delightfully batty Seymour Mace, was nearly wiped out by a car on Dublin Street. Fortunately, he’s doing fine.
Days later we were told that one of Scottish comedy’s own, Gary Little, had died while hill-walking. A big lad, with a big talent and he’ll be sorely missed.