Edinburgh Fringe Day 8. The Devil Without

Boy, do I feel better for that day off...

Today was the 'How To Sell Your Show' seminar at Fringe Central and I was in two minds about going. However, I'm glad I did. Lots of good tips about social media and who to contact elsewhere. And a young man lounging in a front seat on the right who was mentioned as a reporter for Fringe Review, an online magazine that covers all the world's Fringe festivals but specifically this one.

The moment the talks were over, I was sitting beside him with a press release and 'hello, I'm a vicar and comedian.'

He could have brushed me off but he didn't; instead he engaged immediately and asked if I'd like to help him review a show called The Devil Without about Faust. That night. At 10.45. Luckily he confessed that it was past his bedtime before I'd said anything so naff myself So we commiserated with each other and he promised to text if he could get free tickets for tonight.

Tonight! I was going to Tesco's with Anne-Marie at 8pm, being somewhat short on rations. Taurean me was really rather peturbed but AdventureMaggy agreed enthusiastically while thanking God I'd had such a restful day yesterday.

I looked up the show while I was still at Fringe Central and both the poster and the context were certainly scary ... apparently it was about the devil trying to get to Faust (who in this show had evaded him for 500 years) and temporarily taking possession of one of the audience in the process (it's a show of magic). Hmmm. Well, I had a pietersite stone in my bag which is very good for protection ... and the Latin (short) liturgy for exorcism was to hand too. That subject has come up in the show a couple of times so it's good to have it—and really nice to finally have a use for my Latin O level.

Anyway ... the other exciting thing today (I know how to live) was taking the no. 2 bus from Fringe Central to Haymarket instead of walking up to Princes Street and taking the tram. That introduced me to Grassmarket and some other lovely streets which I could explore this evening between my show and the devil's.

Good show tonight at Ryries with people who'd actually heard of Mary Whitehouse (let alone The Mary Whitehouse Experience).  Not all of them, of course, but it's nice when there's interaction with the audience about her. I hadn't realised how few people even remembered Newman, Baddiel, Punt and Dennis. God I'm getting old.

I stayed on to watch the guy after me—George Firehorse's 37 Years of Comedy. Lovely stuff with magic and fun. I ended up taking part in a ridiculous competition to see who could pin the most clothes pegs to his beard and to my delight won. Silliness is a very good thing occasionally.

And then (can you bear the tension?) I took the no.2 back to Grassmarket to wander around and have some gluten-free gnocchi (which are not, I've decided, a good idea) with yummy Neapolitan sauce at a little Italian restaurant.

Dan was at the venue before me but we only met up just before the show. As he said, "I suppose you being a vicar, you wouldn't think of waiting in the bar?" Oops. And then we had to sign our permission to be hypnotised and were in the darkened theatre room where Ian Harvey Stone began his performance.

A few years ago I would have been seriously freaked. But I didn't engage; didn't follow the prompts and held on tightly to the stone so I was detached for most of the performance. I don't therefore know if it was scary but I think it was. Certainly when one of the selected audience on stage began acting as if Mephistopheles had got inside her head.

Fair dos, Ian was very careful not to invoke any deep magic; he ensured that all participants including the audience were clear and focused on good before they left. But when I looked at the Pietersite, it was cracked.

Dan and I agreed that it was nothing that Granny Weatherwax couldn't have done but would have refrained from doing on principle and met Ian and his partner outside.

Dan basically wanted me to have a recorded chat with Ian which I didn't realise—and he introduced me as an exorcist (!) So, given that I didn't really know what to do, I interviewed him about what he knew about shamanisn (obviously quite a bit) and magic (ditto) and why he had come to do the show ... and whether he thought it was a good idea to mess with magic. After all; he might be able to clear up what he was doing but you never know what an audience member might bring in ... or what they might do next.

But it was all very amiable although, somewhat to my surprise, Dan said afterwards I shouldn't have been critical. What? That's what a good journalist does as long as its in the genuine spirit of enquiry. Still...I'm 25 years out of date so what do I know.

Taxi home ... not enough knowledge of night buses yet and 'my' two had stopped running. Got in at about 1am and had a really bad night's sleep. No, not scared, just to much adrenaline. But another very good ... and very interesting day.

68. Cyprus Christening

I'm not a maternal kind of person. I'd have puppies like a shot but I've never had a child of my own.

Lion has two grown-up children, Chris and Karen. Their mother died when they were in their teens (I can only imagine the horror of that) and we have a good relationship in a peaceful, slightly distant kind of way. Neither Lion nor I come from cuddly got-to-keep-in-contact families but the bond is still there.

When I told my brother about the diagnosis, he—the hotshot international lawyer who I see about twice a year and who had, just a moment before, been slightly testy at my insistence on talking with him on the phone—said 'shall I come? Shall I come now?' He was just about to go into a high-pressure meeting 200 miles away at the time but all the veneer just falls off at the vital moment.

But Tim is our son ... and Ariadne is our grand daughter. Not a speck of blood contact but Tim's face when he saw us and his open arms to embrace us was what it must be like to have 'real' children.  And Natasha, his wife, acknowledges us as parents/grandparents as well. Tim's blood mother wasn't there—I didn't know if she would be and was quite prepared to take a back seat if necessary. His father, as mentioned previously, was murdered in 2006. They had been divorced since Tim was two years old.

The Christening, in the tiny but beautiful St. Paul's Anglican Cathedral (which doubles as church for several other denominations nowadays too which I think is a very good idea), was short and lovely. Just the Baptism with the minister explaining to the agnostics what was going on, including the fact that the font is by the church door as it is welcoming the child into the community.

The ceremony included the traditional 'renounce the devil' aspects which modern people find so hard. Again, for the mystic, it's fairly simple; it's about dealing with the demons of the psyche inside so that you can be a clear channel for the spiritual guidance of your Godchild. Ariadne's Godparents are young and I don't know what level of faith they have but it was interesting that Tim came up to me afterwards and said, 'When I was a child I would go and hide in one of the dog kennels (his mum is a breeder) and phone my Dad in the dark to ask him all sorts of philosophical questions. I am so happy that Ariadne will be able to do that with you.'

The other significance, for me, was that this Baptism—the recognising of a new life in the world and in the Christ consciousness—was on my birthday. Three hundred and sixty two days after I found the first lump. It does seem like a rebirth; a new responsibility and a new start. This day was a day to be born again.

I don't usually write about the signs and portents and all that that I get but I'll risk it this time. I went up to the altar after the ceremony while photos were being taken and prayed for everyone there and for the church and all who come to it. And I asked that I might live until Ariadne's 21st birthday and be a source of spiritual guidance to her should she ask for, and need it.

Very clearly, I got '25 years.' 

Thank God for waterproof mascara.

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