I’d like to make a complaint . . there’s nothing to moan about

Oh jings, where did they all go? One minute the town’s packed to the gunnels, the next it’s like the set of a post-apocalyptic zombie movie, without even Brad Pitt to enliven the proceedings. And yes, last week I was indeed moaning about the place being more rammed than a Newcastle disco offering free entry to hen parties and half-price Malibu, and this week I’m moaning because they’ve all gone.

But hey, Ego sum scotia, ego moere. Ego amo is (I am Scottish, I complain. I like it). (note to Ed: I have thoughtfully included the translation after the last time I used Latin and omitted same. We don’t want a repeat of the last performance, do we? Blubbing in the street is so undignified)

Anyway, now we’ve only got each other to moan at, until the Germans arrive in November and set up the Christmas Market.

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We’re not short of things to moan about. We’re well-practised. We’re good at it. In fact, we’re so good at it we should insist on it being included in the Commonwealth Games. Oh, hang on, we could moan about the opening ceremony. We will moan about the opening ceremony. It’s in Glasgow. It could be a car crash. In fact, since it’s Glasgow, it possibly could involve a car crash, perhaps the immolation of a Cherokee Jeep as homage to the foiled terror attack, which let’s face it, would be more in keeping with the plucky spirit of the city than some sort of wannabe Olympic flame.

To be fair to Glasgow though, all these big sporting do-dahs since Beijing have been a bit of a bust. Rumour has it the opening ceremony for the Chinese Olympic Games could be seen from space. Even the closing ceremony involved more people than actually lived in China. Or cared, for that matter.

Come to think of it, the end of the Fringe is a bit of a let-down. Let’s take a leaf from the Olympic book and hold a closing ceremony. I’m thinking a mass wave-off at Waverley. A young friend of mine has suggested bidding farewell through the medium of modern interpretive dance, culminating in a ceremonial drop kick of a stuffed toy replica of Greyfriars Bobby at Murrayfield, closely followed by a mass walloping of a piñata, shaped like a unicycling mime artist. My friend has issues with loyal terriers and mime artists who can only afford bikes with one wheel.

Alternatively, we could gather up all the flyers and turn them into a massive papier mache model of a tram, then carry it shoulder-high down Leith Walk and incinerate it on the docks, Up Helly Aa style. At least one tram would make it to Leith. It would make a terrible mess.

Something else to moan about.