2004-08-13 - 4:11 p.m.

Back from Edinburgh, where the only thing wetter than my clothes were my pants, which OK, are technically part of my clothes, but I mean my figurative pants were moistening at the sheer prospect of all that cult-cha to be had. You can�t move for it up there. If you aren�t stumbling over techno-soundtracked kabuki, you�re accidentally rubbing up against an all-albino Polish a cappella showtunes troupe. Yes, it�s 99 per cent awful, but that still leaves about a zillion things that you would pay to watch, so it�s all good.

The first rule is never go to see anything that involves the cast trying to get you to go and see it. These are people who have mistaken volume for talent, and shouting Richard III does not make you any better an actor, I�m afraid. And students? I�m sure that �comedy revue� worked out real well in your little uni common room, but really, stop charging as much as the professionals, eh?

Me and Bruce were very lucky with our choices, which are too many to go into now, but which I will bore you with next time I see you. We started with a play about Jeffrey Archer, and ended with a live performance of Hedwig, very much keeping up a self-obsessed fantasist theme going there, I�m sure you�ll agree. If only Jeffrey had Hedwig�s way with a put-down and lippy.

We were also lucky enough to meet Diaryland royalty in the form of the ex Ms Badjuju, and the current Mr Discodave, both of whom are as legendary in the flesh as they are on the screen, and with whom drinks were long overdue.

I am now physically, emotionally and culturally spent, and intend to spend the weekend in front of the TV, watching anything that involves a distinct lack of cerebral input.

Yours atrophyingly,

Pablo