The last time I was in Edinburgh I went to a Pizza Hut buffet in muddy jeans. I managed 6 1/2 slices of deep pan pepperoni before the stares of my fellow diners got too much and I escaped to the outdoors, a social pariah under a moody sky.
This time, I got my southpaw jaw out at Literary Death Match at the Fringe at The Stand 3 on York Place. It was infinitely better. The sun shone. The words flowed. And later, so did the beer.
Shout out to Literary Death Match’s irrepressible Adrian Todd Zuniga and Suzanne Azzopardi, judges Mark Billingham, Declan Michael Laird and Tom Salinsky, plus writers Julie Mayhew, Alvy Carragher, Alecos Papadatos and Abraham Kawa.
You can read Literary Death Match’s version of events here.
My reading got me into the final…
..where I waited for an audience member (Declan Michael Laird’s brother) to join my team in an international author spelling bee…
…at which we basically sucked. But come on, where was ‘Ah-Guff-Ur-Chris-Tea’?
Julie Mayhew and her random audience member excelled at the spelling bee, won medal, changed history
Then these people made me laugh lots. Who said the sketch show was dead? Funny haha/peculiar par excellence (plus lots of underpants. Perhaps too much underpants. Which makes it sound like I mean they should have been naked, which is the opposite of what I meant. Honestly.)
Plus I saw Jessie Cave, who would boil your bunny through a Hudson filter.
Rounded off the weekend with Sufjan Stevens. You know it’s a special show when you only get your phone out during the standing ovation.
PS The muddy jeans. Yeah. Blame T in the Park for that.