Tales from Edinburgh: #1 Russell Kane

Two years ago I realised how much I looked like Pete Firman. He has the same problem. We’ll have each other’s names hollered as we canter past mistaken comedy fans; if they chase asking for a photo, no blushes follow, no apologies, no realisation that one human has been utterly mixed up with another. They don’t see it, even up close. Pete and I find it less hurtful to play along. So I hug his adorer and grimace meekly into the tiny digital lens as it captures its false memory.

The most surreal moment was in 2008, when I was sitting with my girlie in the Loft Bar at the Gilded Balloon. I still had the gig-sweat in my hair and on my shirt. The endorphins hadn’t quite finished with me; I had that marvellous glow of apres-gig satisfaction. That’s when a forty-something well-groomed Scottish woman plonked herself on a stool at our tiny table. “How was it?” she said.

“The show?” I said.

“Aye.”

I’m at a stage in my career where I have to pretend to recognise someone even if I don’t. She looked important - she had that TV-person aura about her. “Great! Hot, as usual, but the audience loved it.” I said. She laughed warmly.

“Aye - it’s a funny shaped room.” My room was an oblong. A plain rectangle. It couldn’t be less funny if it had pictures of Maddy nailed to the wall.

“I suppose so, yes,” I managed.

“Now, tomorrow!” She clapped her hands. I caught a waft of Chanel. She was assured. Who the fuck was she?

“Tomorrow...err.. Yes.” She continued unfazed by the social terror in my eyes.

“I’ve got the radio confirmed for 11am, press for 3pm - and the face-to-face at 6pm.”

“Right.” I said. She was clearly insane. 

“You’ll be back in time for tea.” We both laughed – her warmly, me weakly. “You really do look sweaty, young man.”

“That’s a Pleasance venue for you.”

“The Pleasance?”

“The Beside.”

“What the hell were you doing over there?” There was an awkward moment. Her mouth gaped again - she still smiled, but there was a degree of whirring going on. A pause.

“I don’t know,” I said. We both laughed again.

“You’re mad,” she said, “Mad!” She then stood up. If she hadn’t said what she said next I never would have understood:

“See you later, Pete!” she said brightly as she left. I’d just had a meeting with Pete Firman’s publicity advisor. The person in charge of knowing his every movement. And she hadn’t had a clue.