EDINBURGH. Four o’clock. Sunday morning, but for some it was still Saturday night. In a garden shed, somewhere on the outskirts of normality, four strangers swap shifts at a makeshift lectern. One topless, two tipsy, all tired. It was the Fringe, it was freezing, and it was time for my close-up.

Now, I’m not big on policy, but I’ve heard that honesty counts for a lot and, on that recommendation, I’m willing to put it on the manifesto. So let’s face it, I’m the light entertainment of the paper; if this stuff had any less ballast it would be borderline airborne.

While my fellow columnists expertly tackle the day’s hot topics, I’m out in the cold with only adventure up my journalistic sleeve. As reportage goes, that’s not the most insulating of specialities.

I’ve just never been an overly political beast: my tail is far too fluffy for such matters. Not that I lack interest – I’ve marched on spring and picketed white fencing – but the laws of the land just aren’t my professional stomping ground.

Of course, that’s not why I’m here anyway – or why you’ve made it this many column inches into my cross-country ramblings. If it were, you would be disappointed and I’d be so far out of my depth that Davy Jones would be offering up his key. Instead, I bring the kind of levity that only court jesters and helium technically should, and it’s fair to say the clouds are exactly where my head and I intend to stay.

But it wouldn’t be a life of adventure if I wasn’t willing to test my most concrete of boundaries so, this week, I tethered my thoughts to more worldly grounds and added my slightly wavering voice to the cause.

Iraq Out & Loud: Reading the Chilcot Report in Full is an Edinburgh Fringe project devised by comedian Boothby Graffoe and organised by Bob Slayer and Omid Djalili: a best in show pedigree if ever there was one. Keeping entirely with the spirit of the Fringe, the idea surfaced only weeks before the performance began, but it somehow came to fruition with a freedom that belies its hefty time restraints.

It can’t be easy for a director of any experience to stage an uninterrupted reading of 2.6 million words, but factor in the assorted temperaments of a cast of thousands and we’re talking serious production costs and a database of rider requests. Except that the venue was straight out of the Homebase sale – and the performers? Well, anyone with an hour to spare, a fiver in their pocket and a decent lozenge could attach their name to the lengthy end credits. I’m sure by now you’ve gathered that this wordy warbling wasn’t a Proust appreciation meet and, of course, there was a point to the piece. In fact, more of a skewer. You’ve heard of Chilcot, right? Well, that guy can write; and while his similes are as dry as day-old dandruff, he whets the appetite with the promise of juicy details.

If I sound facetious, please accept that it’s due only to the perilous gaps in my own knowledge and because I have a bit of a thing for orderly vowels. Obviously, though, the main reason the other readers and I signed up for a stint in the shed was to lend our support and vocal talents to the exposition of John Chilcot’s extensive findings on the 2003 invasion of Iraq. Since the evening of Monday, August 8, the Chilcot Report has been continuously read aloud by different comedians, politicians and personalities, occasionally punctuated by the odd member of the public.

At the stroke of four on the Iraq Out & Loud scene’s trusty clock, I stepped inside a shed lit like a moth’s Valhalla and stood awkwardly beside a topless gent for a moment longer than it took him to down the last of his cider.

His finger ran across the page from which he read, as I took up the narration mantle and tried hard not to make this sound like erotica. As his audience of one staggered out, and mine was ushered quickly in, I perched on the edge of the rickety throne and settled in for the session. Red carpet underfoot, video camera taping overhead, and a wooden stand holding the tome within my sightline, the stage was set for an hour of comedy and tragedy – the comedy, of course, provided by my inability to pronounce Bosnia and Herzegovina at pace. Eurovision, I feel your pain.

Every hour for the previous six days, and several more since, a similar changeover has occurred – although some more demure cast members were fully attired throughout. Up to four spectators and two designated readers enter the Chilcot chamber – due more to fire safety regulations than lack of popularity – but, as Sorcha Shanahan, the incredible night-shift handler, explained, most participants preferred to take a turn at both roles. Once inside the hut, with the door wedged closed behind them, the players are left with full responsibility for the show going on, which, of course, it must. Taking over at the right time, keeping up the pace, and ensuring that the reading never, ever stops is all on their shoulders – and there have been some giants among them. Ian Rankin, Stewart Lee and MP Tommy Sheppard have all brought life to Chilcot’s account, and, as I cleared my throat to join the ranks, I’ll admit I felt vaguely unworthy.

Since only two cadavers were manning that particular graveyard shift, I had half an hour to bring my own intonation to the text. By then, the performance had waded through the first five volumes of the 12-part epic, and was already well into its sixth. It felt a little like jumping into the middle of a plotline, since my frame of reference was already listing to one side.

You’ve hopefully guessed by now that I’m a big reader: not physically, but the love outweighs the skeletal shortcomings. At the age of five, I was asked to give a recital to my school assembly and, even though the anxiety years barred the pursuit, the joy of reading aloud never really left my mind. And even though the material was more Modern Studies than Modern Classics, the pleasure of converting text to speech was still immeasurable.

But back to Chilcot. Amid stumbles over inscrutable acronyms and pesky Roman numerals, I ploughed on to the best of my ability. I’m pretty sure my tiny timbre doesn’t bring the required gravitas to such a significant piece of work but, believe me, my heart was heavy even if my diaphragm was not.

At item 238, I handed over the vocal cords, and signed the book’s margin like all the other readers before me. For the rest of the hour, I listened as the words were given fresh voice once more, letting the syllables tickle my sleepy synapses. Outside, Sorcha and her nocturnal colleague, Christian, lined up our replacements and we, the five o’clock shadows, in time relinquished control of our short-lived script.

Brief though it was, my foray into world affairs brought me more than just a broken sleep and scratchy larynx, and while I won’t be jockeying for a political column any time soon, maybe adventure will lead my horse into the field some day after all.