Page 129 of Good Losers (Lochkelvin Academy)

We squeeze ourselves along the uneven cobbles of the Royal Mile before turning onto the traffic-jammed length of George IV Bridge and passing the bustle around Greyfriars Kirk. Already, tourists are rubbing Bobby’s nose raw, taking gleeful selfies and pocketing flakes of black paint.

Finlay still appears lost in thought. “I wonder if people want tyrants,” he muses as we wind our way down a sloping, cobbled stairway. “At least for a wee while, oot o’ curiosity, just tae see whit it’s like. A honeymoon period. Because no one can be decisive anymair. They’re all too fatigued tae dae the research. They want that benevolent wise figure tae sweep in and put the world tae rights, and the only thing ordinary folk have tae dae is cheerlead.” He says this, and yet all I can think about, with minor concern, is the Munros. Not just Rory, with his firm, guiding hand, but Oscar, with his piercing, psychopathic gaze. “Politics is hard and it’s glacial so folk dinnae want tae engage. Because they want things noo. They want things donenoo.” Finlay glances at me with a frown. “Am I makin’ sense?”

“I think so,” I tell him, examining my own desire to have someone sweep in with their impressive oversight and save the day, to have the pressure of making decisions fall naturally out of my hands. To fall in love with a commander like Rory, to hand the reins of a country over to Oscar Munro. But giving up your decision-making power to another is the thin edge of the wedge. Push it too far and you end up wholly reliant on another; that the option of saving yourself is removed, because the benevolent tyrant you put your trust in is still a tyrant, one who has made you crippled and vulnerable and dependent in the process.

Ten minutes and several disconcertingly quiet side streets later, and we’re in the lower level of the city, glancing up at a tall blocky building that houses the largest comedy venue in Edinburgh. It seems like another world, one away from dizzying talks of bitter politics, and I welcome it longingly.

As Finlay and I wait in line, I try not to pulse with excitement. Next to us, a girl a few years older than me, with her hair done up in intricate swirls, jabbers rapidly into her phone, trying to locate her friends and waving vaguely behind us. In fact, the line mainly consists of girls and young women, all of whom seem to have been at pains to exhibit their most eye-catching clothes. Like multicolored birds trying to attract a high-status mate, the line is awash with sequins and rhinestones, hair glitter and decorative beads — everything that would attract a magpie if not a man. Dresses are short and heels high. With the girls groomed to a kind of photogenic nightclub perfection, even I’m starting to feel left out in my T-shirt, jeans and scuffed old sneakers.

Finlay, with his worn leather jacket and against-the-system studs and general overallmaleness, is something of an anomaly here.

He kisses the top of my head and places a protective arm around my waist. “Ever get the feelin’ ye’re in the wrang demographic?” he asks casually, glancing up and down the line at all the fake-tanned, preening girls with a faint look of dismay. A woman a few spaces in front of us whips out her mirrored compact and applies a thick coat of sparkly lip gloss, puckering her lips as though practicing her kiss, living out the romantic fantasy that this extra-sparkly application of lip gloss will surely aid in becoming reality.

I hold back my giggle, looking at Finlay’s bewildered expression. Sure, it’s a comedy gig, but I get it. It doesn’t seem like anything this big ever happens in Scotland: it takes a major arts festival to attract major household names.

And Conor McLelland is one famous motherfucker.

Assistants finally usher us into the venue, ripping our tickets and stamping the backs of our hands. Inside, the venue is a towering, domed thing with rows and rows of seats that lead precariously skyward like the stands of the largest soccer stadiums.

“Oh my God,” I whisper, gazing in awe at my surroundings. Nothing I’ve seen at the festival so far beats this in terms of sheer scale. No ballet, opera or play has been performed with stadium-like acoustics, with a thrumming nightclub bass, with thousands — actual thousands — of people awaiting their night of entertainment.

Finlay and I sit three rows from the front, and I crane my neck, trying to see how high backward the venue extends. All around us, we’re surrounded by eager, chatty girls. Everything is exclaimed in happy, hyperactive outbursts — “OMG! No way! Yassss!”

It’s sad, but I get a prickle of worry that, surrounded by so many thirsty women, Finlay’s gaze may begin to wander. I chance a glance at him and almost laugh at my own insecurity. Finlay looks wildly unnerved. It doesn’t take much to freak out Finlay, but him tagging along to this gig appears to have done it.

No. He’s sacrificed his time and his money to make me happy. This week’s reward from Finlay isdefinitelya reward for me, for my not-so-secret and not-so-guilty pleasure. As we reside in seats that seem to be devoted to the most hardcore stans, I grab Finlay’s hand and squeeze it with a sunny grin, the guitar-laden fury ofKat’s Clawsby Flirtmagicks blasting around the auditorium.

Overhead, a voice announces the arrival of Conor (“All the way from good ol’ U-S-of-A!”), and the hall breaks into wild cheers. I half-expect underwear to be thrown onto the stage at any moment, but before that happens, Conor strides through thick billows of smoke and onto the stage with a surprised grin as he takes in the crowd, unleashing a torrent of ear-splitting screams.

“Okay, wow,” he says with a slight laugh, admiring the sight of a sold-out arena. He waits until the crowd simmers slightly before plucking the microphone from the stand and saying, with a private kind of amusement, “I’m taken, ladies. I’m very, very taken.”

And despite the petulantawws from the crowd, his faithful words make me melt ever so slightly. It’s understandable, really: he’s in a world-famous rock band, gets to show off his amazing sense of humor by performing sell-out venues as a comedian, and he looks likethat. Rock-hard biceps straining beneath his tight tee, his head a wild mane of red curls, his bulging muscles honed by years of professional drumming.

Yeah… I can see why some girls would go nuts over him.

Beside me, Finlay bristles restlessly. I want to laugh. Instead, I place my hand on his thigh and stroke the rough denim of his ripped jeans, trying to impress upon him that I have no desire to run off with the rock star who came to town.

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