Steve comes face to face with his own vision of Hell. The Fringe is probably the most exciting, fun, fascinating place to be at the moment. The launch party, less so.
Held in the vast City nightclub, it's as if a dozen hen nights have all descended into one place at the same time let's call it the seventh circle of hell.
It's stiflingly hot, deafeningly loud and there's karaoke. Everyone's wearing stick-on antlers or animal tales, in keeping with the fauna theme of the event, but there's not even music, just a bolshy bottle-blonde woman yelling into a mike. Later, she sings. I think she has a show at the festival.
Maybe I'm just getting too long in the tooth for this, but I'd rather be chatting in a bar. I see scant people I know here just the odd promoter or comic and conversation is difficult. Some people are surfing the internet on screens built into tables. How little confidence in its ability to entertain is a nightclub that enables you to check your emails while your party?
As I go to leave, after necking an unpleasant glass of tart wine, the stage has been taken over by a talented troupe of drummers, much for the better. But it's not enough to make me stay, and I head back for the last early night (well, 1am) for the next three weeks.
Steve comes face to face with his own vision of Hell. 
