We wish you a manic Christmas

This Christmas my family decided to forego the traditional stay-at-home-and-stress-out method in favour of going to a hotel for the weekend, letting other people do the work for a change. We settled on a hotel in Edinburgh, which my parents had stayed at and enjoyed previously. I was quite looking forward to the prospect, having never been to Edinburgh before, and was eager to start exploring the city.

As of writing, I’ve been here for an hour and already have enough material to write at least a page about my experiences so far. After the usual arsing around unpacking and “settling in” (I still don’t really understand how that works) I geared up and got ready for my first foray into the sights and sounds of the city. I stepped out of the hotel door, put my first eager foot forward and watched it sink into inches of brown, trampled snow. I looked ahead of me and realised I wasn’t going to walk to the Royal Mile; I was going to ski.

After a few minutes of stumbling I was approached by a straggled, haggard man with a fishing hat covered in badges (all bearing at least one profanity) and three lit cigarettes; one in each hand and one in his mouth. He asked me for change in the heaviest Scottish accent I’d ever heard; for a moment I thought he might’ve been choking on a very large marble. I gave him about 37p in change and asked him why he had three cigarettes on the go. “I can juggle them,” he boasted, and jostled into a suitable position (apparently the best stance to adopt while juggling is squatting with your feet facing opposite ways). He threw the cigarettes into the air with an “alley oop” and watched them all land in the snow with a “fucking bastards”.

I decided to carry on, and left him trying to dry his cigs by blowing on them. As I staggered onwards, I finally found my way to the Royal Mile. As if it wasn’t obvious, I soon realised this was a massive tourist spot; the streets were adorned with shops peddling kilts and shortbread and haggis and all manner of things, each with a name snatched straight from “the Big Book of Scottish Clichés”; what better to entice people to drink coffee than a big picture of Rabbie Burns? Where else would sell you top quality antiques except “Bonnie Antiquities”? And why buy kilts from a shop called “Kilts” when you could go to “McKilts”?

Fair enough, I thought. Visitors to Scotland probably do go through the motion of making puns based around Scottish stereotypes, so this kind of tat probably appeals to them. But even the most serious and dedicated shite collector would probably frown a little at a shop selling “Diana Memorial Tartan”. Yes, you read that correctly. Just for dramatic (and very disapproving) emphasis, I’ll say it slowly; Diana. Memorial. Tartan.

I carried on, only tutting a little before shaking it off and enjoying the sights again. This was when a second nutter decided to wander over and chat to me. I dug my hand into my pocket, ready to give the change he was inevitably going to ask for, but the begging never came. Instead, he said “Hey, did you vote for Gordon Broon?” I told him I’d voted for Labour in the last election, and thankfully that was enough to satisfy him. He went on to say, “we treated him like a monster, but WE were the monsters! We’re monsters for electing Davey fooking Cameron!” What happened next was one of those surreal moments I’ll never forget laughing about; he shook my hand and, in a slightly well received way, said “at least you’re a good’un.” Then he turned to the road and, as each car went past, he shouted “Monster!” as loud as he could at it.

Chuckling away, I carried on until I saw something that meant “I’ve had my fill for now, time to head back.” What stood in front of me was a place selling package walking trips around the Scottish highlands. Seems fair enough, right? Yes, that’s a great idea, the highlands are a real treat for walkers. What offended me was the name they gave to this tour service; Haggis Adventures. It was time to head back to the hotel.

I should’ve remembered my lesson from visiting London; history, tourism and maniacs all go hand-in-hand. I think the reason I find these things so fascinating is because I’m so used to the nutjobs in Manchester that I’ve become acclimatised to their ridiculousness, and I need an injection of fresh lunacy to stimulate my senses. I do have to say one thing Edinburgh has going for it over Manchester and London; the girls. Sure, they all look just like the ones you find everywhere, but at least they don’t sound like slags. For some reason, that accent is just effortlessly soothing. Hearing it is like lying in a nice, warm bath listening to Howard Shore’s music.

Speaking of which, I’m currently sat in the lobby of this rather posh hotel on Christmas Eve listening to a harpist playing Disney songs and excerpts from the Lord of the Rings soundtrack. It’s very blissful, very comforting and the very thing somebody could just relax in and think about nothing at all. But all I can think of is what madness lies right around the corner for tomorrow.