c.f. a steady stream of pub/chat/cultural events.

At lunchtime a couple of Fridays ago I did my now-customary furtive change into cycling gear in the disabled toilet before heading off for North Berwick. The Social (Engineering) Committee’s semi-annual Beach Party was kicking off over at Seacliff Beach, and I decided to cycle there rather than take the shaky old coach they’d booked for the occasion.

It was not exactly a great journey, it must be said. The constant headwind wore me down and the traffic along the coastal road kept me on edge for almost the entirety of the 40-kilometre journey. For the last couple of kilometres, though, out east of North Berwick where no-one seems to want to go, the road emptied of cars, the wind dropped and the sun broke through the clouds. I rolled down the private road to the beach, pulled a pair of baggies over my indecent cycling shorts and grabbed a beer. It was a great afternoon spent milling between the beach and the marquee laid on for the day, quaffing booze on the company dollar and eating barbequed meat until my sides groaned from the strain.

I slung the bike in a luggage compartment under the bus for the return journey and would have happily called it a day, but it wasn’t over yet. Once I’d sobered up to a degree and put on some long trousers, I was off out again to meet Doug and some of his London workmates to see Mark Watson at the Church of Scotland on the Mound, or the “Assembly Hall” as it’s rebranded for the Fringe. Maybe knowing that you’re watching a comedy gig in the house of God would otherwise take the edge off — the Almighty’s watching too, and he kills a kitten whenever you laugh at a masturbation joke.

The show was solid if not quite stellar, but the three hours of increasingly sozzled conversation in the Wash which succeeded it amused us admirably. Doug, the newly arrived Davis and I got stuck into self-referential and obscure band chat with ease, while Doug’s friend Rob looked on and feigned interest with remarkable success. I rolled home at 3 am, tired, as they say, but happy.

…and then met up with Doug and co. again the next evening for more festival boozing. Bolstered by the attendance of Fat Pete and the Captain, we saw Henning Wehn perform “My Struggle” in a dank vault under North Bridge. (He’s German, and the title of the show is nothing if not bold.) I was in two minds about the gig; for the most part it was observational humour with a fairly cutting edge to it, but it was let down by some don’t-mention-the-war stereotyping that I think a 2010 Fringe audience doesn’t have much use for.

After the show we decamped to the temporary beer garden in the still-vacant hole where La Belle Angele and the Gilded Balloon used to stand, sank a few pints and chatted amiably for a while. Alright; we played drinking games. I begged off around 1am (so I could get up early the next day for a bike ride with Edinburgh RC, but that’s a post for another time), shook hands/man-hugged everyone in attendance as appropriate and walked home through the chilly, clear night. It had been an excellent couple of days, and I now find I’m hankering for another London trip to try for another weekend of carefree culture+drinks.

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In other news, Jeff, Devon, Neil, Vanessa, Jez and I won the Cumberland pub quiz the Monday after the abovementioned Fringe action; Jez, Ally, Row and I came a valiant second this following week, and finally last night Jez, Row, Tom and I got thoroughly wrecked in honour of Jez’s birthday after gorging ourselves on Row’s expertly prepared dinner. I walked home at 2 am with War of the Worlds playing on my headphones. Need I say more?