Two more weekends left. We drink pints till we fall asleep at the table. The show is still exciting and I’m discovering new crevices everyday to experiment in. On stage you are the best kind of lonely.
I’m listening to Belle & Sebastian and the world is sweet.
I wrote the Fringe (and all of you) a drinking poem.
Week Three, we’ve been expecting you
come in old gal, pull up a pew
there’s not a lot else we can do
but drink through this.
So raise your cups to Tarmac skies
to tenements where nothing dries
to wacky faces, dead fish eyes
two stars, The List
to punchlines told a hundred times
to dance routines and witty rhymes
we hoped would move the hearts and minds
of paying crowds
to all the pints in pop-up bars
the side streets where we left our cars
to craggy cabbies, Oxbridge Yahs
braying and loud.
Neck your suds to wishing dead
the famous with their two page spreads
to sharing rooms and sharing beds
and fluids too
to bodies strewn throughout the flat
full Scottish down the City Caff
producers hunched up over stats
of Royal Mile flyer sluts
the blind hope of the half-price hut
the shows that get you in the gut
and hurt for years
the skyline made of smashed meringue
the homesick heart’s Byzantine pang
the tears, the laughs, the whole she-bang!
Drink up now, cheers!