I've been a big fan of Craig Ferguson since way back to his days as Bing Hitler. I even once, in 1994, saw him perform stand-up for ten minutes downstairs at Blackfriars in Glasgow before he walked off stage apologising for his inability to perform being slightly worse for wear with alcohol.
This was his first Edinburgh Fringe show in twenty-five years. He asked us not to tweet or Instagram any content from the show so my short review is I liked him. Despite him being resident in the States now and a U.S. citizen, his material still travelled well and he knows how to utilize a good callback. I loved his story about his triple-headed nose pluke named after the prettiest girl in class. Anyway, that's all I'll say about the show.
Highlights and incidents:
The rain put paid to catching the 18.00 train to Waverley with the trip along the M8 taking an hour. Audi drivers apparently believe indicators should be used to declare they are changing lane, regardless of whether there is a space in the traffic flow. At least it shows they know the car has indicators.
My wife was disappointed not to get a coffee to drink with her wrap on the train but Queen Street Station was undergoing renovation and we'd no time to hunt around for a cafe before the 18.30 left. We did get a double seat to ourselves though.
More disappointment in Edinburgh when the Playhouse had run out of coffee pods. She had to watch the gig without her fix.
At security, all bags were being searched and any liquids discarded into a large, clear bowl. It amused me to imagine two people carrying separate components for a chemical reaction causing the liquid bubble and fizz like a mentos cola bomb. Nothing too dramatic. I wouldn't want to miss the show by being arrested for a terror incident.
Heading back to the station after the gig, a rogue golf umbrella prong nearly took out my wife's eye. She soldiered on and was rewarded with a slice of lemon drizzle cake and a hot chocolate. We caught the 22.30 to Queen Street, which was just as well as the 23.30 was cancelled due to a shortage of staff. We did have to suffer a party of tipsy teen girls singing Madonna's Like A Prayer over and over again. It felt like I was in the carriage to hell. Why didn't I bring along earphones? Forty-five minutes never felt so long.
They're onto Lewis Capaldi now.
It just became an Uptown Girl medley. And back to Lewis again even louder.
Now they're arguing over what to sing next.
Vogue with actions.
Ain't no mountain high enough. Too right! You'd still hear them anywhere.
Now they are taking requests. But not to shut up.
They're not the Spice Girls. They're the Pickled Girls.
And they're all Scary.
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