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There's a scene in the film Festival, which always made me laugh. Daniela Nardini, as an intrepid arts reporter, is hiding under a table, reporting live from a drunken, late night comedy awards ceremony which has turned into a near riot.

While I've never had to hide under a table, I have attended many of those late night ceremonies where it's not just the beer that's bitter, and it's not just the drunk who can't look you in the eye.

Put it down to festival fatigue, the lateness of the announcement (they were generally held after midnight to allow performers to get their post-show) or the fact that it's the end of a whole month of festival activity, but they were always strained and stressful events.

Fast forward to this weekend - and the announcement of the inaugural Foster's Edinburgh Comedy Award winners.

Those with a long memory will remember this was once the Perrier award - indeed Fosters have produced an elegant Top Trumps pack featuring many of the previous winners, like Cambridge Footlights (featuring a young Emma Thompson, Stephen Fry and Hugh Lawrie), Dylan Moran and Al Murray, who handed out this year's gongs.

It's had its ups and downs in the last few years, losing its long-term sponsor, then its new sponsor after just three years.

Director Nica Burns stepped in with her own money last year to secure the event while she tried to find a sponsor who, in her own words, was "the right match".

The lager company Fosters - with its long-term use of comedy in its marketing - was the one she was waiting for and despite the fact that the sponsor promotes beer, rather than fizzy water, the awards ceremony on Saturday afternoon was a nicely mellow affair.

The sun shone, there was a barbecue (Australian, you see) and there were as many people sipping coffee or bottled water, as the bottles of "amber nectar" being handed out for free.

Perhaps the performers are mellower too. Nominee Josie Long buried her head in her boyfriend's chest and said: "I just wish they'd say the other guy's name and get it over with."

All in all, it was a nicer kind of tension.

In the end, the winner was Russell Kane for his show Smokescreens and Castles - third time lucky too, as this was his third outing as a nominee.

Before he posed for photographers and did interviews, he had to phone his mum. Bless.

Daniela Nardini's reporter could clamber out from under that table, pour a cuppa and pull up a chair. All is well in the world of Edinburgh comedy.

And the only friction - a complaint by comedian Stewart Lee about the search for an Edinburgh comedy god - was also smoothed out when the obscure Japanese karaoke outfit the Frank Chickens, won the title.

Lee, who's been appearing on the Fringe since 1987, thought the notion of attaching a brand to a celebrity, a poor one.

To be fair, it was just one email, in which he suggested people would be better voting for an obscure and forgotten act - but in the last few weeks, that's grown into a viral campaign and last night, the Frank Chickens, who appeared just once at the festival in the mid 80s and regard themselves as performance artists rather than comedians, were officially named comedy gods.

Which brings things nicely full circle for me this festival.

For it was, as a young reporter on Glasgow's Evening Times in the mid 80s, that I was dispatched to interview the Frank Chickens.

Like many Glaswegians, I'd never been to "the festival", had no idea there was more than one, had no notion to go until I was dispatched.

I got off the train, went to assembly rooms where I saw their show, did the interview and got back on the train.

It took me another decade to return to the festival - although it took the Frank Chickens even longer. Welcome back! And congratulations.

If someone asked you to name the consistently best-selling show on the Edinburgh Fringe, what would you say?

This year's big name comedian? A stark drama about sex trafficking, which can accommodate a mere 13 people per show? Or a kids' show, based on a popular book, with plenty room for all on a damp Edinburgh morning?

Ten points if you knew the answer was the latest show from the Ladyboys of Bangkok.

The company has a long tradition of appearing in Edinburgh - this is their 12th year - and they even pay tribute to their "second home" in their own inimitable style in tartan mini-kilts and feathers.

They also immerse themselves in the local community - both appearing in events like the Cavalcade (they have their own float) and visiting local shopkeepers with free tickets in exchange for space for their posters and flyers, and good word of mouth recommendations.

The results speak for themselves. Hundreds are packed into their circus tent on the Meadows twice a night, seven days a week, for a combination of show, curry and a glass of bubbly.

The audience is largely local.

The woman next to us comes every year, and has already been twice this festival.

The show itself is a strange concoction of outrageous costumes and song and dance routines, with the songs and the impressions (Cheryl Cole, Michael Jackson, Olivia Newton John and the Village People) deliberately chosen to appeal to the mainly middle-aged, female audience.

Men foolish enough to stray in, are hauled up on stage for some public humiliation.

But once you've got past the initial "is he, isn't he?" as they parade past in a series of ever more revealing costumes, it's difficult to see where the show goes.

At least in this quarter, where we were mulling over the strangeness of being in the midst of the world's largest arts festival, at perhaps the most mundane of its offerings.

For those who came, along and clapped along, and clambered to their feet to sing along to YMCA, I can understand the appeal.

For all the trappings, it's old-fashioned variety entertainment.

A bit crude, a bit rude and a bit silly but a safe choice in a city full of more complicated offerings.

And with your dinner and a glass of wine thrown in too.

Not my cup of tea - but good luck to them - and all who venture along to their final nights on the Fringe.

Something tells me the Ladyboys will continue to be a fixture at the festival for some years to come.

If you want more from the Edinburgh Festival, I am presenting the current edition of the Culture Zone on the ³ÉÈË¿ìÊÖ Radio Scotland website.

There's a great collection of archive programmes relating to many of the artists appearing at the Festival including interviews with International Festival director Jonathan Mills, Book Festival director Nick Barley, Chief Conductor of the ³ÉÈË¿ìÊÖ SSO Donald Runnicles and a great archive interview from 1995 with the late great Sir Charles Mackerras.

There are also contributions from actor Alan Cumming and jazz legend Tommy Smith.

Just visit here

The Zone will be available online until Thursday 2nd September.

Delighted to report that Caledonia was worth the wait.

The new show by the National Theatre of Scotland for the Edinburgh International Festival had looked to be as ill-fated as the Darien Scheme on which it was based.

Rumours abounded that artistic differences were dividing the cast and that director Anthony Neilson and writer Alistair Beaton, had had a falling out, with the latter returning to London last week.

Mr Beaton was conspicuous by his absence on opening night and in a telephone call with a fellow arts correspondent said he wouldn't be making any further statements about the show, saying he would leave the world to interpret that as they will.

However, any artistic differences seemed to be put aside for opening night, to make way for a thoughtful, clever and timely play, not just about Scotland's attempt to set up a new colony in Panama in the 17th century - but about the issues of trust and risk-taking involved with the business of banking.

It's a bit slow in places, the play within a play sometimes slowing down the drama, but it's funny and thought-provoking and surprisingly poignant about the cost not just in financial terms but in human terms of the whole project.

And as the climate protest at RBS illustrates, it's never been more timely to consider who we trust with our money, and what they do with it.

One final hiccup for the show, though.

A frantic message on Facebook yesterday appealed for a 32 bass, two-octave accordion for the show.

Audiences on Saturday may recall it.

Sunday's theatre-goers wouldn't have seen or heard it at all - as it's been out of action since then.

They have not yet found a replacement but they have a violin instead.

Meanwhile, across town, another epic show, this time Gospel at Colonus, which grew out of small fringe performance 28 years ago.

The show imagines Sophocles' play about the dying days of Oedipus - as a high voltage church service.

While the story doesn't quite fit the mould - and gods are replaced by God in the end - it's the music which is most inspirational.

New York choir, The Inspirational Voices of Abyssinian Baptist Church, the Legendary Soul Stirrers and the Steeles, not to mention the show-topping Blind Boys of Alabama, playing what else, but the blind hero Oedipus.

The set designer could have been a little kinder to the Boys - some of whom, as well as being blind, are also fairly elderly - and there's a few heartstopping moments as they stumble their way round the stage.

But by the end, no matter what your persuasion, it's the good music that prevails and the audience are clapping, whooping and even in genteel Edinburgh, dancing in the aisles.

Hallelujah!

As the Fringe enters its final week - although there's a full fortnight of activity ahead at the International Festival - the awards start being handed out.

One of the most pleasant ceremonies is the awarding of the Herald's Angels - which takes place each Saturday morning during the festival.

The promise of a bacon roll and a taster of some of the shows at the various festivals is usually enough to draw a wide gathering of folks, and arts editor Keith Bruce is usually spot-on with his choice of winners.

Inevitably, there's always one show which causes a buzz and slips away before you have a chance to see it.

This year, for me, it's Private Dancer (presented by Dance Base) a dance performance, performed for one audience member at a time, by a selection of able bodied and non-able bodied performers, in a specially designed house inside an Edinburgh hotel.

Those who saw it - its run ends today - say it's challenging, daunting and unforgettable, and creator Janice Parker and many of her dancers certainly seemed delighted to pick up a prize.

It's also yet another of the Made In Scotland showcase - along with Roadkill, Decky Does a Bronco and Grandpa Fredo - raising the game for home-grown work.

Meanwhile, someone who's quietly attended these - and many other awards ceremonies over the years, and in her own words, never won so much as a raffle - is publicist Liz Smith.

For 30 years, she's promoted work across the festivals, and especially at the Assembly.

She's also one of the few who do it all year round - so lovely to see her given the Herald's ultimate accolade, the Archangel, largely at the request of all the winning clients she's looked after over the years.

It is fitting that Edwin Morgan's death happened quietly this week, as the Edinburgh International Book Festival was in full swing.

He was one of a number of great writers who took part in that famous writers' conference of 1962, which set in motion the book festival of today.

It's hard to imagine a poet with such a grip on our nation - aside from that other great people's poet, Robert Burns.

Glasgow's first poet laureate, his work was the subject of a 24-hour poetry marathon in the city and it wasn't hard to find people on their way to work, already with a favourite poem in their head.

But he was an innovator too.

His command of the English language was enhanced by his knowledge of other languages.

As well as his own work, he was responsible for introducing many non-English speaking poets through countless translations.

He had a command of Latin, Greek, Italian, French, German, Italian, Russian, Anglo-Saxon, and Hungarian but even if he encountered a poem in a language he didn't know, he'd immerse himself in it until he was able to understand.

There was barely a poetic form he didn't try, from the complex sound poetry of the Song of the Loch Ness monster to his Glasgow sonnets.

There was certainly no subject left untouched from love and loss and simple pleasures to singing monsters and speaking Martian.

When he was diagnosed with cancer seven years ago, he was already the author of an outstanding canon of work.

Apparently his doctor advised that he could have six months or six years and he piped back "can I have the six years please?".

From his Glasgow nursing home, he used those six years or more to add to his extraordinary archive, not least in Gorgon and Beau, the poem he composed about the battle between the cancer cells ravaging his body.

I had the honour of meeting him many times, both as a journalist and as a student of Scottish literature at Glasgow University in the mid 80s.

He'd recently retired but often returned to the classroom to encourage a new generation to write and read the literature of our nation.

His legacy is all around, from his desk and chair and archive in the Scottish Poetry Library (which he helped found) to the prize in his name awarded only this week to AB Jackson.

And of course, in his own words which still inspire, entertain and illuminate.

Here's one of my favourites:

STRAWBERRIES
There were never strawberries
like the ones we had
that sultry afternoon
sitting on the step
of the open french window
facing each other
your knees held in mine
the blue plates in our laps
the strawberries glistening
in the hot sunlight
we dipped them in sugar
looking at each other
not hurrying the feast
for one to come
the empty plates
laid on the stone together
with the two forks crossed
and I bent towards you
sweet in that air
in my arms
abandoned like a child
from your eager mouth
the taste of strawberries
in my memory
lean back again
let me love you
let the sun beat
on our forgetfulness
one hour of all
the heat intense
and summer lightning
on the Kilpatrick hills
let the storm wash the plates
(Poem reproduced from Edwin Morgan's Collected Poems with permission from publishers Carcanet Press)

The Edinburgh Festival Theatre is used to hip hop.

It is after all, a designated hub for regular hip hop happenings.

But in the midst of Porgy and Bess? Onstage, in front of a formidably old audience (perhaps more used to hip replacement than hip hop).

But this ambitious combination of gorgeous music, lively dance, video installation, opera and hip hop, brought to the Edinburgh International Festival by Opera de Lyon, does actually work.

The political imagery of later unrest is a reminder of the power of the Gershwins' original piece, and offers challenges beyond a mere portrait of a poor, black Southern American community.

The film projections also allow a more graphic representation than operas often offer.

We see Clara's laughing baby, as she sings Summertime, we see a fish hook rip through flesh during the first murder scene, and we see Bess and Crown's raunchy reunion.

The action doesn't remain on the stage either.

At one stage the chorus files down the aisles of the stalls and sings by the audience's side.

If there's a downside, it's that some of the diction isn't entirely clear.

Lyrics are lost in some of the cloudier French accents.

Ironically, it's the hard of hearing who have the best deal with the simply riveting signing by Dr Paul Whittaker from a box above the stage.

Dr Whittaker, who is artistic director of the English charity Music and the Deaf, doesn't just sign the words, he practically sings them with his hands - a show in its own right as the cast acknowledge in their curtain call.

He even entertains the audience in the interval by describing the musical warm up and the ice cream sales.

The Edinburgh International Festival will be clinging to that success.

Rumours abound that their collaboration with the National Theatre of Scotland on the doomed Darien Project is proving as problematic offstage as on.

A spokeswoman for the EIF refused to comment on reports that the show is running hours longer than billed, and that its writer Alastair Beaton has returned to London.

But during an interview with ³ÉÈË¿ìÊÖ Scotland, EIF director Jonathan Mills insisted the cameras be turned off after one too many questions about the show.

We're promised a preview on Friday - watch this space.

Throughout the Edinburgh Fringe you'll see little groups of people being herded down city streets.

Not conventional city tours but some of the growing number of site-specific theatre shows.

In Roadkill, we take a bus from the Traverse theatre to an anonymous townhouse in Leith.

This harrowing tale of modern day sex trafficking begins right away as a little Nigerian girl, Mary, talks excitedly to us as she travels with her "auntie" to her new home in Edinburgh.

Our worst fears are confirmed inside as we sit in the living room, watching Mary dancing innocently to a Beyonce video.

Next, we listen to her screams from the hall and watch as the television screen transforms into a hellish animation of Mary being brutalised by an eastern European pimp.

The setting adds to the nightmarish story.

We, like Mary, are forced to descend into a circle of hellish rooms, unable to escape.

Behind the shuttered windows of this genteel facade, life goes on as normal and no one heeds Mary's growing desperation or the audience's growing discomfort.

At least one member of the 13-strong audience ends the show in tears.

The bus ride back is subdued.

It's hard to meet anyone's eye.

And as you pass grand townhouses in bustling streets, you wonder how many children live Mary's horrific story for real.

A child trapped in a nightmarish scenario is also at the centre of David Leddy's play Sub Rosa, only this time it's set more than 100 years earlier.

First performed backstage at the Citizens Theatre in Glasgow, this dark tale of music hall skullduggery is now relocated to a masonic lodge, with the Masonic imagery woven into the plot.

The audience is led through the building in 20 minute waves - never seeing another group - and from the entrance where a gas lamp flickers, it's clear we're in another world.

In each new space, we hear and see (even smell) another character - from the melancholic contortionist, the creepy wardrobe master, Siamese twins - who tells another layer of the story.

We never see the heroine - 11 year old Flora - but David Leddy's dark and violent words and images mean her character hovers around us and lingers long after our guide abandons us on the cobbled street at midnight with a curt goodnight.

If that's all too much, you could grab your Chopper bike and an ice pole and head for a swing park for Decky does a Bronco.

First performed at the Fringe 10 years ago - Douglas Maxwell's coming of age drama about boys growing up in a small town - will still resonate with audiences.

Set in 1983, the bronco of the title refers to the schoolboy trick of jumping off the swing, swinging it over the top bar and running underneath.

Understandably, most councils don't like people to do that to their swings, so Gridiron for whom this was a breakthrough show, have brought their own.

They're bigger - to make the adult cast look smaller - and reinforced but that hasn't stopped the cast sustaining a few bruises.

And it won't leave emotions unbruised either. It may seem gentle and nostalgic but it still gets you where it hurts, with a tragic twist.

Catch it at a swing park near you - it's touring the UK after its Fringe run.

Contrary to the views of a correspondent on an earlier blog, much of what happens at the Edinburgh Fringe does so without the help of the public purse.

That's what is interesting about the Fringe - it is a rare example of full-blown capitalism in the creative sector.

Most companies will have to shell out to get here, find and pay for their own accomodation and do their own marketing.

The bottom line is, if they don't sell tickets, they don't make money.

And nowhere is that more competitive than in the section of the programme devoted to children's shows, which has expanded dramatically in recent years.

Their audience members may be little - but this is a sophisticated market, well used to slick stage shows and recognisable brand names.

And with parents who need to be persuaded to part with their cash.

It is further complicated by the timing of the Fringe.

Many Scottish schools return next week - a mere week into the three-week run most shows will anticipate.

That's before you consider the issues of timing, of pushchair accessible venues, of pushchair parking, and a million other details for tinies.

But top of the kids' shows I've roadtested with my five-year-old son is Stick Man, a new stage show of the Julia Donaldson verse book of the same name.

The Scotland-based writer apparently gave the company the pick of her back catalogue after seeing their previous production of her work.

The hilarious adventures of a stick, which gets picked up, tossed, lost, eaten by a dog and thrown on a fire - shouldn't spin out into an hour-long musical show but it does.

And it's fantastically engaging, for a whole range of ages, from wee tinies up to six and seven year olds.

Word has clearly got round too, because it's virtually a full house in the Udderbelly, on a damp Monday morning.

Over at C Plaza, my son insists on a ticket to see The Railway Children - a new production of an old classic.

It's a faithful and old-fashioned version of the heartwarming tale, with a large and enthusiastic cast.

It nicely captures the mood of the original, including that tear-jerking ending on the station platform (I'm sure I wasn't the only one who needed a moment to compose myself at the end!)

The company also provides an informal theatre school for local kids, by casting the part of Jim, the injured relay runner, from the Royal Mile most mornings.

Over at Assembly, Zambezi Express is not a kids' show exactly, but a real feelgood one for the whole family.

A timely tale of a young African boy who wants to become a professional footballer, it's packed with high ocatane song and dance numbers and a level of energetic enthusiasm unparalleled on the Fringe so far.

An express worth catching.

The Edinburgh Fringe always manages to conjure up some bizarre stories.

And none more so than The Not So Fatal Death of Grandpa Fredo.

A madcap comedy, with silly songs and even sillier dialogue, it tells the tale of a man who uses his own crude cryonics to preserve his Norwegian grandfather in a shed in Colorado.

A story, made even more bizarre by the fact it's based on the true story of Grandpa Bredo.

Bredo died of a heart attack in 1989 and his grandson Trygve Bauge brought him to the US, where he preserved his body in dry ice in a wood shed.

His longterm plan to set up a cryogenics institute, was thwarted when he was deported in 1994 - and the body was discovered in the woodshed (along with that of his one paying customer.)

And while Trygve may have failed in his attempts to immortalise his grandfather - experts say even if the technology becomes available, Grandpa Bredo, who has defrosted several times, wouldn't be a good candidate - he has earned a certain notoriety in the town of Nederland, Colorado, which has now set up its own Frozen Dead Guy day.

There, you can indulge in coffin sledging, enter an Ice Queen Beauty Contest or take the Polar Plunge.

The organisers have now approached Vox Motus - the Glasgow-based company behind the stage show - to talk about performing it in Colorado next year.

Are they anxious about whether their satrical, country song rich stage play, which sends up the locals as well as Trygve - will be appreciated on home turf?

Artistic co-director Candice Edmunds says they have no qualms.

"I'm from a small mountain community like that - that's part of the reason the story appealed to me.

"And people who live in those sorts of communities have a real sense of the stories they tell and are proud of they way the world sits up and notices so I don't think they'll be offended. It's a really exciting opportunity."

It's a rite of passage for most arts organisations to be the subject of a "waste of public money" news item in the Daily Mail.

So Iron-Oxide shouldn't be too worried, especially given first reactions to their spectacular new show Cargo, which premiered on Leith Links on Friday night.

It's true the show did receive £250,000 of public money - but from the government's Expo Fund, set up specifically for the festivals to try out new and ambitious works.
And Cargo fulfils both in spades.

It's a simple enough tale about the universal need to call somewhere home but it touches on some complex issues about language, borders and warfare.

It also contains some striking images - a giant insect on stilts dragging a pirate ship along, a giant periscope peeking over an iron fortress and a burning paper house - which remain in the mind long after the show is over.

And the designs - not least the freight containers which spray water over the audience (waterproofs are provided) are hugely inventive.

It is ostensibly a children's show - director Dougie Irvine normally plies his trade with Scottish kids company Visible Fictions - but that doesn't mean adults can't still enjoy the magic of the piece.

Its simplicity - and tendency towards images rather than language - also makes it an accessible show for audiences at the multicultural Mela.

And far from claiming the show suggests every Scot is an immigrant, as the disenchanted Mail reporter claims, it simply shows the diversity of this part of Edinburgh. Cast and crew can trace their origins to 29 different countries.

And as someone whose father-in-law arrived as a Welsh sailor in Scotland more than 50 years ago, I believe it's a story worth telling.

Is the fringe recession-proof? Or is it simply such an important showcase for international companies that the question is not whether they can afford to come, but whether they can afford NOT to come.

Case in point is Dublin's Corn Exchange, which earlier this year lost 48% of its government funding. According to director Annie Ryan, that made it even more vital to bring their production Freefall to Edinburgh.

As well as giving their work profile, it allows them to network with other companies who might want to co-produce work (she's already met with Vicky Featherstone of the National Theatre of Scotland).

Leaner beast

Behind all the fun and frivolity lie some serious business opportunities, the chance to sell on a show, or get a new commission.

And with the world's media camped out here for at least some of the three and a half week duration, it's an opportunity few will want to miss.

Most agree the cuts will hit hardest in the next year or so - and the fringe of 2011 and 2012 may be a much leaner beast.

But for now, the show well and truly goes on with a record 2,453 shows - and advance sales for most venues already up on last year.

Not content with starting the Edinburgh Fringe a full three days earlier than it used to, many venues are up and running with shows for the whole week before.

Shops, pubs, clubs, school playgrounds all become official Fringe venues for the next few weeks.

Meanwhile, some of the larger venues, use the warm up week to preview some of their shows.

Assembly - which this year celebrates 30 years on the fringe - is now so proud of its press showcase, it's even become a show itself, with tickets available to the general public, bewildered by the 2,453 shows on offer.

But their normally slick show didn't go entirely to plan.

A bizarre decision to include psychic Joe Power amid the burlesque and stand-up comedy, fell flat.

In fact, it's fair to say that in comedy terms, Mr Power well and truly corpsed, which is quite ironic given his build up as "The Man Who Sees Dead People".

His first mistake was to try to win over a room full of sceptics - who responded by heckling him.

His second was his target.

"I see Pertoski, Prokoski, Petreski...", he began.

Four rows back, London PR supremo Mark Borkowski shuffled uncomfortably in his seat.

It got worse, with Mr Power insisting he had "a father in the spirit world, trying to say sorry to his two sons".

Mr Borkowski looked even more uncomfortable and shook his head.

The audience heckled some more and Mr Power departed, leaving comedian Adam Hills to make comedy gain for the rest of the show.

And Mr Power in need of a good publicist.

Maybe Mr Borkowski - who had his own show at the festival in 2004, exploring the perfect PR stunt - can advise.