It's three o'clock on a cloudy Scottish afternoon and marching down Cowgate toward me are about 20 middle-aged ladies, all wearing belly-dancing costumes. You see similar oddities in our major cities most weekends, of course, and this may indeed be a hedonistic hen party. As we're in Edinburgh in August, however, it could equally be a Women's Institute group doing a bit of guerilla theatre about the occupation of Palestine. It's best to keep an open mind at festival time.

Circuit Training has nipped up to the Scottish capital to take in a few relevant shows and do a bit of rubbernecking as the comedy industry marches north en masse. The Pleasance Courtyard in particular must be heaven for stand-up groupies: there's Stephen K Amos deep in conversation, Justin Moorhouse buying ice cream, Tim Key looking worried, which may just be due to the shape of his eyebrows. But our first proper engagement of the weekend involves a less familiar face.

7.15pm, Tom Craine: Comfort Blanket
Pleasance Below

Tom Craine probably engenders a wee bit of jealousy from more grizzled stand-ups as despite only hitting the circuit a few years ago he's already had a pilot commissioned by Radio 2 - The Sharp End - and worked across several Beeb digital channels. This is the young comic's first Edinburgh show and while clearly nervous and sweating profusely he's adopted an interesting technique to avoid any awkward silences: talking at several million words a minute and never, ever stopping. Not even for laughs.

There's a decent sprinkling of the latter here but also some (fast) food for thought as Craine races through the various facets of his theme: the metaphorical comfort blankets we all use to get through life. Indeed, the spindly comic seems to be using his microphone as one early on, cradling it to his body in such an awkward manner that for the first ten minutes you assume he must have a withered arm. When he then swaps hands and starts gesticulating wildly it's like witnessing a miracle, which isn't something you can say for every show.

Overall it's a solid, enjoyable debut, if slightly exhausting for all concerned. Late the next evening we bump into the likeable Craine wandering the streets, and pop the big question: how will he keep that frenetic pace going for a whole month? "I'm probably going to explode," concedes the comic.

Back to Saturday afternoon and we spot Andy Murray's mum, Judy, queuing for tickets, but haven't the nerve to pop over and ask what she's seeing as she always looks absolutely bloody terrifying during matches. If it's comedy we make an educated guess at Richard Herring, as (a) he said surprisingly nice things about her son on a podcast a few weeks back and (b) it's this year's most talked-about show.

8.40pm, Richard Herring: Hitler Moustache
Underbelly

Edinburgh veteran Richard Herring helped prove the old adage that all publicity is good publicity prior to this year's event. Having been accused of all manner of nasty things in a now infamous Guardian feature about offensive comedy he was then paid by the same paper to write his own rebuttal, got much comedy mileage out of his alleged infamy for a few weeks and sold tickets a lot quicker than usual. Not that he'd expect any empty seats under normal circumstances anyway, as Herring at Edinburgh is a bit like Elvis in Vegas: the career (and waistline) may fluctuate but it's always a must-see show.

This year's offering is harder-hitting than usual as the prime comedic premise of wearing a Hitler moustache for a few weeks in an effort to reclaim it for comedy - Chaplin having worn it first - precipitates a full-on rant about apathetic voters, race relations and a jokey proposal for curbing the rise of the BNP that, actually, would probably work. The gags, meanwhile, are magnificent.

Having performed at the Fringe for 20 years now Herring really should put on a pre-Festival workshop for rookie comics like Craine, in the manner of an old astronaut preparing the new breed for their first trip into space. Although, having said that, we do get an email from young Tom a few days later, and he's gradually becoming acclimatised to the rarefied Edinburgh air. "I've calmed my tongue somewhat," he says, "but it still lashes like an excitable eel."

Well, it's a start.