Spot the critic ...
There's no such thing as incognito on the Fringe, writes Leo Benedictus. Last night, I ran across town from a gig that finished at 10.20pm to catch another one starting at 10.30pm.
I scrambled down the stairs to collect my ticket with a minute to spare, and stopped beside a harrassed-looking man at the very moment that he shouted to his colleague: "Is that Leo Whatsisface here yet?" To his great embarrassment, I told him that I was.
No harm done, but he should have known better. Anyone who arrives at the last minute, on their own, red-faced and sweating, is probably a critic. We have press cards, of course, on thick yellow strings, but we never wear them. Mine waits in my pocket, unused.
The worry, which I try not to think about too much, is that no matter how casually we choose which shows to see, and no matter how unimportant we may personally feel, to the performers the knowledge that we are out there - somewhere - is a very big deal indeed. It's horrible, the thought that I scare people; particularly people brave enough to get up on stage and try to be funny. Even worse is the idea that some critics learn to enjoy it.
"What's wrong with me?" Scott Capurro asked the crowd at one point last night. "I don't know which to worry about more, my diabetes or the fact that the Guardian might be coming." Hiding in the corner, scribbling his words into my big white notebook, I felt very visible indeed.
