scratch that crazy kitsch; Edinburgh Confidential

THIS week my fancy was once again tickled by something uncool. I'm not ashamed to admit a large portion of my teenage years was spent listening to Judas Priest, AC/DC, Whitesnake and Kiss. So I was in horned-hand heaven on Thursday night when I saw Tribute: A Rockumentary - an affectionate look at the weird world of tribute bands. And before you spit out your Sunday morning cup of strong breakfast with a hearty guffaw, Steven Soderbergh is executive producer. Surely that brings to it a little credibility?

Maybe too many late nights have skewed my perception of reality. If this is the case, imagine how I felt after listening to journalist and film-maker Jon Ronson recount tales of some of the strangest extremists in the world. Think David Icke meets Mel Gibson in Conspiracy Theory. Do lizards rule the planet? I'd never considered it before now. Though George W sometimes does that weird flicking thing with his tongue.

It was nice to learn that my show, Festival 02, has had impressive audience ratings. Praise even came, indirectly, from our rivals the BBC. They wanted to use our roof, the same location Nigel Buckland and I have been using to expound our views on this year's shindig, to record their programme links with Kirsty Wark. Obviously we couldn't allow Auntie to appropriate our trademark location, even if Ms Wark had promised to use the same level of profane language as our Mr Buckland. Maybe Nigel could use the Newsnight Scotland set for his next series of Sex And Shopping.

On a more serious note, Goering's Defence, a hard-hitting one-man show starring Ross Gurney-Randall, takes the Nuremberg trial scripts and gives the audience an insight into one of the most ill-directed and evil men ever born. The play will not turn you into a Nazi sympathiser, contrary to what some critics would have you believe, and these issues are better exposed and discussed than swept under the carpet. It was one of my highlights of the month.

Those of you who enjoy star-watching would have laughed yourself a hernia had you observed Sir Ian McKellen's choice of footwear this week. I have the ultimate respect for the distinguished actor, but his Judy Garland red plastic clogs were nothing short of ridiculous. I know a bit about clogs. Those of you who have ever visited a genuine fishing village will know what I'm talking about. Men of the sea wear clogs. Black, white, brown, patterned. All kinds of elaborate clogs from all kinds of exotic locations. I can only surmise that Sir Ian recently spent some time on Mars.

If I had more bottle, I would grass up some other celebrities and their indiscretions. Maybe some day I'll admit what really goes on at the festival during downtime. Until then, you'll have to make do with my abridged crumbs of non-court-actionable gossip.

Suffice to say I could retire on the money I'd make from selling the tabloids what I know with regards to black eyes, propositions and general illicit behaviour. Look out for a celebrity baby boom around May next year; but thankfully I can guarantee that none of those little people will have Orcadian accents like mine.

That's it for me. Next stop for me is a surfing holiday in Biarritz. In the words of legendary Kiss bassist Gene Simmons: it's a dirty job, but someone's gotta do it.

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