Shake your what?

The Edinburgh Festival has provided some (to borrow a well-used promotional phrase) “top quality entertainment!”

Since the dreamlike tear fest of Radiohead, myself and Effie have been moving around Edinburgh on foot at about one hundred man miles an hour.

Wednesday began with us slowly gathering our thoughts and minds before attacking the city with kindness and exuberance. We wondered around in the afternoon, hoping to find some action. Then we chanced upon Newcastle's second-favourite busker Robbie and his double bass player, Brendon. They were perched on the top of the windy (that's windy/curvy, not windy/blustery – did I just spell it wrong?) Cockburn Street (pronounced Co-burn Street – NOT Cock-burn). I will dispense with the parenthesis to let you know that they were looking quite street-hagged and not a little bit like tramps 'working' for a booze fix. Brendon had a bad habit of shouting things like

“Oi! You! Give us some money!”

But without any redeeming smile to suggest Edinburgh irony.

They would also openly swig from bottles of Ginger Wine. As professional buskers they weren't exactly paying the bills.

Until myself and Effie jumped in. Thankfully they had a tambourine going spare, so without a word's encouragement, I went and joined them and provided a rhythm section and some extra vocals. We both danced around for them and tried actually smiling and engaging the strangers who were giving us bemusing looks. Money started flying in.

Unfortunately, at this point, Brendon still had no musical respect for the tambourine man and just wanted me to go on a mission to find them some Buckfast. In case you don't know what Buckfast is, it's essentially a tramp's drink made up of fake grapes, a large dose of caffeine and some highly entertaining chemicals:

Alchohol 15% Vol.

Vanillin : 0.009%
Potassium Phosphate 0.20%
Sodium Phosphate 0.05%
Sodium Glycerophosphate BPC 0.65%
EVIL: 83%

It tends to make you very hyperactive. Drunkenness is a kind of side effect. It also claims to be 'made by the Benedictine monks of Buckfast Abbey in Devon, England.' It seems that the monks have lost their way.

After repeatedly telling Brendon that I was on no such mission and I just wanted to jam, Robbie finally did the decent thing and went on the Bucky mission. At this point I was allowed the guitar and we rocked out some of my busking classics, to the great amusement of those queuing outside a baked potato shop.

Robbie returned with two bottles of the illustrious Bucky and we did our level best to look like alcoholics on a day trip from The Priory. But it was much fun and I think we helped them gain a decent wage for the day, eventually. God, I sound so patronising. But, really, they were just drunk and tiredly and unenthusiastically playing songs before we gave them an energy burst.

After bidding them farewell, on a train trip back to Newcastle, we went on missions again. We bumped into Raphael, the extraterrestrial-Hang-playing friend from India. He was performing on the Royal Mile to an enchanted and generous crowd. He gave me a free cd. Bless him.

Then we bombed around looking for more action. After a few broken promises of free shows, we stumbled upon an open-mic night. We got a pint and a set organised and watched a pair of African guys do a marvellous set of djembe, piano, saxophone and call-response singing.

After them, I took the stage with the 'house band'. I politely gave them the instructions of two chords and to wait for me to give them the signal to start playing – to make an entrance as it were. Unfortunately they were a typical disappointment and began just tinkering and playing from the moment I played the first of my two chords to Snoop Dogg's 'Gin and Juice'. From that point onwards it just descended into a cacophonous noise which led me to talk, with resignation, over the mess with an exaggerated Yorkshire accent:

“Christ, who are these guys? I'd sound better meself.” And so on. I'd like to think it was funny. Though a touch insulting.

After two songs of sheer direness, I perhaps unpolitely sacked them from my band and said I'd prefer to play one of my own songs, but without your turds falling into my ears (I didn't use those words, I'm a diplomat). I began to play and the African guys starting drumming and playing sax. It sounded rather good for a first rehearsal.

Having repeatedly referred to the organiser's mum during my set (she was in the crowd, and a very nice lady when I spoke to her), insulted the guy's drummer and bassist for being rubbish and generally made a lot of rude noise, I felt it best to just shake the guy's hand, tell him that at least I enjoyed it, and make a swift exit.

We dashed for a late comedy night and got free tickets to a different, more newcomer-tinged one. Which was nice, but frankly less funny.

Then we dashed home and collapsed.

And that was only one of the last two days.

Yesterday involved more lucrative busking, the forcible ejection of a drunken, irritating tramp from our busking spot, another open-mic night and friends-reunited. Hannah and Zoe. Hurrah!

We also saw my brother, Matt, perform twice. Firstly in his funny sketch show, and secondly doing a storming fifteen minute stand up set at a pub gig. Job's a good 'un.

And we saw Josie Long who is the best female comedian in the world. She needs her own post. But I've run out of power and I need to go eat brie and take on the streets again.

It's pacey living this Edinburgh lark. Somehow brown bread, caffeine and regular hugs keep us going.