AVENGED

And…Action!

"I’m sorry sir, you’ll have to put that away," instructs the security guard.

“Why?” I ask innocently.

"There’s no filming or photography here I’m afraid."

“Why?" I ask again, getting into the part. "This is a public street.” 

Pause. The tension builds.

"You can take a picture of the trucks," he counters. "But the signs and number plates are confidential."

"You're talking a load of absolute bollocks," I spit with beautifully controlled malevolence. "What harm can there possibly be in us taking a picture of a crane!"

"Dad, please, come on!" pleads the eldest from stage left.

But I push on regardless, twirling my rhetorical war hammer to deliver the killer blow:

"And there's absolutely no way a number plate can be confidential!"


The security guard is visibly shaken. Short in stature but huge in officiousness - I get the feeling he has not been fully briefed on the legalities of his remit, or the rights of those he’s seeking to repel.

The Avengers are filming in Edinburgh. I’ve brought the eldest down to soak it all up on the grounds that the Marvel Universe and our own do not coincide that often. I’ve planned a special Avengers walking tour of the main sites, including the spectacularly mundane café set in the station, the indomitably drab white trucks on Calton road, the spine tinglingly deserted production office in Old Tolbooth Wynd, the Oscar worthy lighting cable coiled under the chair outside Café Cockburn and, of course, the awe inspiringly ordinary kebab shop.

Enthralling as all this is, there’s something missing. After much deliberation I decide it's drama. People doing interesting stuff to each other. There’s plenty of stuff about (though not much of it interesting), but no people. Somewhere a huge nocturnal army of movie makers sleeps. At the appointed time they will rise from their slumber and work their magic on the dark deserted streets. But only when the rest of us are asleep. It’s something that can’t happen if we’re there to see it. Like Santa. We just have to content ourselves with the result - a pile of presents on Christmas morning. Or Avengers Infinity War, Release Date May 2018. 

Our mistake was to come expecting to see the elves at work. No chance. All we have are the security guards who hover around the equipment and vehicles, trying to divert attention away while, paradoxically, wearing the most eye-catching hi-vis jackets imaginable. As the only (highly) visible representatives of the Marvel Universe they are woefully earthly, totally lacking anything that comes close to character. And, for that matter, information. We sidled up to one of them earlier on in our tour:

“Is this for the Avengers?”

“Don’t know.”

“How long will it be here?”

“Not sure."

"Thanks."

So, it transpires, one of the pre-requisites of making it in the security guard game is total ignorance. Odd how everybody in Edinburgh seems to know the Marvel team is in town apart from them. Who are employed by it. Presumably they’ve been trained to be this ignorant:

"What do we do if someone starts asking questions?"

"Just act ignorant."

"Okay."

They may not admit to being part of the filming, or know anything about it, but they’re all we’ve got. The only potential source of drama. At least they’re acting (ignorant). 

All we need is something to happen. We’ve already circled the station café set menacingly, and taken several pictures through the gaps in the fence. But no-one has challenged us. We've even hung around and looked in when they opened the gate to let someone out but, once again, the security guards refuse to be drawn into battle.

So we’ve headed back out to see if anyone wants a fight on Calton road where, sure enough, our antics attract the attention of a young ginger security guard who intercepts us next to one of the towering lighting cranes splayed across the pavement and most of the road. And it is here that our confrontation is staged.

"So what’s inside the trucks might be confidential," I continue. "But the whole point of a number plate is that you can see it. It’s like saying your face is confidential!"

"Come on dad, let’s go."

But I stand strong. Faced with this merciless tirade, the security guard is showing signs of submission. But then he reaches for his walkie-talkie, and I fear reinforcements will soon assemble. Every second counts, time to finish this sucker off:

"Now if it were I that were making the multi-million pound Hollywood blockbuster then I’d need to ask your permission to photograph your trucks. But seeing as I'm not, and you are, and you have chosen to allow pedestrian access during daylight hours, which means I can see your trucks, including their ever so ordinary and unremarkable number plates, there’s absolutely nothing you can do to stop me!"

“Dad!"

The eldest has baled (as he would put it) and is disappearing back into the station. I decide it’s time to regroup. And to give the victim one last chance of redemption….

“Look, we all know what’s going on. We’re all fans. We’re just interested - how can you expect us not to be…!"

But the security guard changes tack in an attempt to diffuse the situation:

"Good bye sir, have a nice day."

Seems he’s learnt something from the Marvel folk after all. But as I head back towards the station, and now safely out of range, he finds the courage to fire his parting shot:

“I saw you earlier, by the way, snooping around the trucks…”

"Yes but you didn’t catch me, did you…"

"Dad, it’s over! Leave it!"

"Sorry. I’m just giving you something to talk about with your friends on Monday. A story!"

"A blog more like..."

"Well…yes."

Thank you everybody. That’s a wrap.


@jesoverthinksit



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