Simon Evans's diary: there is far too much faux eccentricity in Edinburgh When I first joined Twitter, about three years ago, I used to enjoy playing, and sometimes initiating, what were known as #Hashtag games. There was for instance #BadCharities, of which my favourite was The Royal Society for the Prevention of Birds. And #HiddenDiseases, such as "This cough sounds like I've swallowed a tuba - cue low, cistern like rumbling sounds." One game involved suggesting collective nouns for things which lacked them. None were as vivid as those which ancient folklore has provided for Crows, Rooks, Starlings and their ilk, but there was one of which I was perhaps a little foolishly proud: The collective noun for Hermits is a "Failure." I raise this for two reasons. Firstly, that it deserves a wider audience, damn it, than I had accrued on Twitter at the moment of its origin. Secondly, that after three weeks of the Fringe, one can begin to wonder whether the preponderance of eccentrics, or at least of eccentricity, is not similarly self defeating. The point of eccentricity is that it is supposed to stand out from the herd. When confronted with a herd of eccentrics - a collective noun that shouldn't exist in print, let alone on the streets of Edinburgh - the instinct is to turn and run. Of course, it may be not the quantity of the eccentricity but rather the quality, the rather ersatz quality, which is wearing. After all, genuine eccentricity is a wonderful thing and one deserving of much more serious and detailed scrutiny than I can afford it in this column. Books have been written on it, research compiled, indicating that true eccentricity can be regarded as a neurological phenomenon, every bit as empirical as Schizophrenia or Belieberism, but rather more benevolent, in that it confers upon its host (so long as allowed its full expression) better health, longer life and higher reported levels of user satisfaction all round. Edinburgh Fringe eccentricity is a rather different proposition. For every individual who genuinely can't help themselves, there are dozens who are rather self consciously exploring, experimenting, taking a holiday from the straight and narrow, enjoying an extended game of dress up and make believe. Let me absolutely clear. I have no quarrel whatsoever with dress up and make believe. I have myself been a practitioner from time to time - a little more so than is entirely normal, perhaps - and I highly recommend it to people of all ages. I have seen it written - usually on tea towels - that we do not stop playing because we grow old, we grow old because we stop playing. Personally, I suspect that we grow old because we have children, but even this facetious reversal contains a germ of the same truth. It is because we feel the role of "game player' has been ceded to our young that we resign ourselves to other more drab duties. It is not necessary. Any one can enjoy the liberating effects of costume, masks, even just a painted nail or a forehead blaze. All can release an inner child, or better still, an inner Empress, Chieftan, slut or whatever for a glorious night of irresponsible hypotheticals. All I'm saying is, a city can only support so many of these fantasies in the hours of daylight for so long. Then one's indulgent smile as somebody's six hooped bustle sweeps a coffee cup off your table or as your children become captivated once again by someone who imagines that rendering themselves superficially metallic and remaining roughly immobile constitutes a service to the community worthy of your financial support begins to weaken. And it is not unilateral. They feel it too. It is there in the apologetic air that haunts the wearer of tri-corned motley who finds himself crossing the road in front of a sweating rickshaw cyclist who is pedalling three drunken revellers up a hill and is suddenly aware of the irritatingly childish indulgence he is. It is there as the pirate leafletter's spiel trails off into self-awareness in between pitches and it is there as the One Man Band takes a deep breath before cycling through his three song repertoire one last time. I don't want to appear mean spirited, I really don't. This has always been an island of eccentrics and now, with our homogenised high streets and our desk-bound service-industry screen-gawping keyboard-tapping bulls--- careers we need them more than ever. But after three solid weeks of unusually high levels of carnival plumage on view, one craves the grey, the drab, the down to earth. I haven't bought a day return to Glasgow yet, but I'd be lying if I said it hadn't crossed my mind. I can't go yet though - not until I have settled on the correct collective noun, so that I can tell the Glaswegians exactly what it is I am escaping. How about - a wheel of eccentrics? An ostentation - the term traditionally used for peacocks? Or maybe just a bloody annoyance? I'm going to have to mull it over - but feel free to offer suggestions below - the best one wins a retweet. In the meantime, it's time I took my velocipede out for a spin. Toodle pip.