12.30 Saturday night. The phosphors and the phosphenes are fusing - time to set the computers to standby. I'm on course for six hours flat when the phone rings. Sally(Homer) is tempting me from the other side, she has an innate talent for knowing the whereabouts of a good time. A group of Dutch comedians she's been publicising were having a party and the absurdist Hans Teeuwen would be there. I'm sold so I reset my coordinates for the front door and slip into the night. Entering the destination into my phone I set sail and let Captain GPS guide me to port. This night Cptn GPS had too much cyber-rum and couldn't decide which road to dock. I looked like Pac-Man, pacing back-and-forth, illuminated by the glow of the screen. A cabby came to my rescue with The Knowledge and the Captain walked the plank.

 This was Edinburgh Polite Society cordoned by laser wire. A hotel clings to one corner of the avenue a like a defiant carbuncle. At weekends it's pre-marital contents slosh out of the bar, arms locked together for balance, as they serenade the Merchiston curtain-twitchers. 

After several attempts on the bell a face from a Breugel canvas beckons me in. In synchronicity his moustache signs his name- Evan(McHugh). Evan's a comedian, the only comedian not of Dutch extraction- he's an Aussie-Scot. I followed him up to the action.

On the stairs I'm introduced to Wilbert (Han's technician)- a dude with rock-roadie-charisma and clothes that screamed out for cowboy boots. We kept scaling the Axminster until we reached the summit. Taking a deep breath I take the plunge. I had crashed a de-briefing session. The room was littered with spent comedians on the come-down from last night performances. They welcomed me warmly with "Hay's" and introduced themselves like a primary class roster. 

Hans(Teeuwen) is holding court, squeezing the last laugh out of every vowel, still unable to face the comedown. Hans scats with Bird as Charlie Parker crackles through the laptop's speakers. I'd seen Hans a couple of weeks ago and found his humour a breath of fresh air. In a world where alternative comedy seems to have become paradoxically homogenised it takes someone like Hans to be the prick that bursts the soap bubble.

Wrapped around him, like a freshly plucked feather boa, clung his chick Eva. She'd walked straight off the set of a Renault ad and Han's was not Papa. Eva was the prize of rock gods- half his age, painfully perfect and in full bloom.

Leaning out of the four storey window, infusing the night air with blue smoke was Live Producer Laura (Clarke).

Martijn (Koning) began to obsess over 'touch'. What started out as an innocuous request had turned into a revelatory monster. He kept reading meaning in the images, extrapolating until the frustration welled in his forehead.

Kees(Van Amstel) used the hand for comic effect.

Sander's (Van Opzeeland) smile?

Everyone reveled in Martijn's astonishment when the photographs were set to 'slide show'. They gasped and howled as they analysed each other's revealing response to 'touch'. At 5.30 I reversed out of the cab and suggested that Hans should call me if he ever needed my professional services. Eva's purr turned to a growl as she tightened her claws. "What?" she snarled.

I forgot in the cava haze that she was a photographer too - and she had exclusive rights.

Edwyn Collins

Backstage Mayfair Club, Newcastle 1982, Kensal Green 1986, Kilburn 1994

Tonight came wrapped in trepidation. It's been over a decade since I last saw Edwyn(Collins). Back then he was savouring every moment of his long overdue fame. Our families were tight and times were too. We were old friends and Nova Londoners living a block apart. It took almost two decades for Ed to become an overnight success and his wife/manager Grace made sure that all the rewards were duly collected.

 It was shortly after I moved back to Scotland that this chapter was emphatically shut. Their lives had been derailed when Edwyn suffered a double aneurysm. His remarkable road to recovery is best left for Grace to tell in her moving and inspirational account 'Falling and Laughing: The Restoration of Edwyn Collins'. Time slips through your fingers, some times it's necessary to get a grip. Tonight is one of those times- time to rip it up...

  Edwyn is playing his last performance of the Festival and it's his birthday to boot. 50 is the Magic Number. On stage is an elective mix of friends and colleagues. Guest guitar performances by Romeo(Magic Numbers), Ryan(Cribbs) and leggendario Malcolm Ross turned the night into a truly memorable event. Edwyn held the audience in the palm of his hand, the all acoustic set seemed to give new resonance to his amazing body of work.

 Filing out of the venue Grace appeared from the wings and with one embrace dissolved the years of intractable guilt, tonight we were going to party.

 The birthday party was consummated at a quay-side hotel in the port of Leith. Ed's a vision; a garland of flowers around his neck and a glint in his eye. He's lost none of the charisma. With the throng of well-wishers and party-goers this wasn't the time to be re-building bridges, that would have to wait.

Anyone who can call Grace a friend is blessed. Her open heart, selfless generosity and unquestioned loyalty is matched only by her Weegie pit-bull tenacity- she'd be falling and laughing if she were reading this. We make a pact that the next time I'm in London I'll stay with them and we'll make a start on lost time.

 My parting image of William(Collins) was of a nine-year old who blushed like a tickled squid and buzzed with more energy than the Hadron Collider. My memory was standing in front of me, transposed by time into a confident young man- blush tamed but still intact.

 Seb(Sebastian Lewsley), Edwyn's stoic compadre, music programmer and re-programmer used my hand as an ashtray when asked to do 'touch'. I like his style.

 Malcolm (Ross), Ed's stalwart supporter, oozing with champagne charm.

 Ryan from the Cribs was trying his hardest not be so enigmatic, with little success.

And Romeo! I spent much of the night drawn to him like a moth to a flame. It's impossible not to warm to Romeo.

At 7.30am I pull over the covers over my sweetheart and me. It's been a wonderful night of heart lifting.

  At the time of writing this Grace is locked into a battle with MySpace over the rights to show the video "A Girl Like You". Grace begged, borrowed and pawned to get enough together to see it made. I racked up a heap of IOU's from friends only too glad to tear up the check. The video was a testimony to creative ingenuity, dogged determination and a belief that we were part of something very special. Necessity became the mother of a monster- over 2.5 million hits and still counting.