It also happened at the Mona Hatoum exhibition at the Scottish National Gallery of Modern Art. In a tiny cylindrical room I watched a projection of a surgical camera disappearing into every orifice of the artist. True, few people could stay in the room as long as me, but I found that the voyage up Mona Hatoum’s arse put me in powerful and direct contact with my feelings about my own mortality. I can’t ask for much more.

Vicky Featherstone, the director of Crave, has done everything in her power to make it a performance in the true sense of the word. And for me, watching the actors perform is a little like watching United – when they fly, they take off together, and when they don’t, the collapse is truly ensemble.

We also had a nasty injury scare. During the second preview, Paul Hickey had to stop the performance due to sudden paralysis on one side of his face. The entire company was aghast, fearing he’d had a stroke. The doctor assured us it was merely hyperventilation (read “overacting”) caused by the ludicrous demands set by my text and Vicky’s insistence on performance.

But it’s only by making such demands that there’s a chance of accurate expression of ideas and emotion, and direct intellectual, emotional and physical contact with the needs of the audience.

There are some wonderful performers in Edinburgh this year who are prepared to take risks in order to meet those demands and needs. But there’s only one David Beckham.