There’s a rumour that goes around every year at the Edinburgh Fringe. Somebody’s cousin’s mate’s friend’s brother has been out leafleting during the month-long festival of comedy, theatre, music, dance and every other conceivable corner of the arts. It’s been a wet day, as Edinburgh in August often is, and the poor sod didn’t have the proper footwear. Saturated and exhausted from a day standing on the Royal Mile, he comes back to his rented hovel to unpeel his socks and – shock, horror – realises he’s got trench foot!
That tale is almost certainly apocryphal, but the fact that it feels true to hundreds of exhausted performers, producers, directors and reviewers each year tells you a lot about how gruelling many people find Edinburgh. It was ever thus, says Fringe veteran Paul Merton. “We had about 20 people in per night,” he says of his first “real” Edinburgh
