London

You don’t know the meaning of the words ‘silly season’ till you’ve spent an August in Edinburgh. Each year some controversy threatens to ignite the Fringe, and each year we journalists dutifully fan the flames, even though we know it will all be forgotten in September along with those unfortunate dietary experiments involving deep-fried haggis.

This year, of course, has seen the row which should go down in history as the ‘no smoke without ire’ débacle. I, like every other journalist, was desperate to get into the first performance of ‘Allegiance’ where Mel Smith as Churchill was to lead the battle against the puritanical restrictions of the Scottish authorities by lighting up a cigar on stage. Blank faces at the press office. ‘We’re sorry, we’re not giving out press tickets for that performance.’ Befuddled faces at the ticket office. ‘We’re sorry, all the computers are down – you’ll have to come tomorrow.’ I retreat for a strategic hot chocolate. Feature continues

Silly season be damned – the adrenaline is pumping and the pulse is racing - and with a zeal that would be better deployed in trying to expose a terrorist ring, I start to plot on how to get in. Should I disguise myself as a giant cigar, and pretend I’ve arrived as a prop? Should I sing ‘Land of Hope and Glory’ very loudly and hope the distress caused by my uncertain singing talents would create enough confusion for me to slip past the stewards? No Halliburton, back to reality. And with that, back to the ticket office. The computers are back up. Result! Like many intrepid journalists before me I present my credit card, and with that simple gesture, I achieve my goal.

And then of course, the silly bugger didn’t light up. Well, considerate bugger I suppose it must be conceded, since it transpires that not only would he be fined (and he was happy to pay), but the City of Edinburgh Council had also threatened to close down the Assembly Rooms where he was appearing, according to artistic director Bill Burdett-Coutts. Even though the council has denied Burdett-Coutts’ claim, the pressure was obviously on. Smith tantalised us all with a bit of foreplay: the cigar was taken between the lips, a lighter flickered seductively – but at the end of the day, no full frontal smoking was going to take place.

Later that day Smith was disgorged from a taxi I was waiting to get into, looking extremely grumpy. I got in, hoping against hope that the taxi driver would say ‘You know, I had that Churchill in the back of my cab.’ But she didn’t, and when I quizzed her, she’d heard nothing either about Mel Smith or about the smoking ban. As she launched into a depressingly racist monologue, I realised that this controversy, like all the rest, would prove as evanescent as a waft of cigar smoke.