Hands up! Will Adamsdale is among the Edinburgh alumni returning for this year's festival. Photograph: Murdo MacLeod
Each year, as August looms closer and closer, and a larger and larger congregation of butterflies collects in my stomach, I can't work out whether I'm excited about Edinburgh or just plain scared by it. I suspect the two are identical - what else are you meant to feel when you hear phrases like "world's biggest arts festival" and "24,156 tickets sold in a single day"? It's enough to put you right off.
But, scanning today's paper, I've got all excited again. There's been lots of talk about whether Edinburgh can still cut it, particularly after Manchester challenged its crown this year (eh? I have to say I don't understand that one - entirely different projects, surely), but ultimately it'll be judged on the quality of its offerings.
And, looking through our critics' picks, there is indeed some brilliant stuff. The books festival has done itself proud, bagging Mailer as well as Alice Munro, albeit remotely. I won't hear a single word said against Alan Bennett, although I do wonder whether an appearance plugging an extremely slight LRB story is just a teensy bit cheeky. The art festival is more interesting than before, with Richard Long at the Modern challenging Warhol at the National, and Rachel Whiteread and William Eggleston thrown in for good measure. The rebranded international festival looks to be going in some cool new directions: David Greig's Bacchae and Rameau turned into dance feel like genuine breaths of fresh air. And there's a stronger than average film lineup too - Xan tells me to look out for Control, which he saw in Cannes, as well as Tarantino's Death Proof. Personally I'm hopeful that Julie Delpy appearing in person on my birthday is fate talking.
The one thing I haven't mentioned, of course, is the Fringe. Maybe it's me, or maybe it's just the nature of the beast, but I can't get quite as excited this year - or at least not yet. Will Adamsdale, yep; Josie Long, definitely; Mark Ravenhill's breakfast show, sounds intriguing. But the rest of it is still swimming in a faintly nauseating miasma of Tommy Sheridan on stage, Phill Jupitus doing Dickens and, gulp, Sing-along-a-the-Joy-of-Sex.
What I obviously need is some help (in this as in so many other respects). Any tips?
