mostly david ephgrave

Yesterday, I genuinely had to use an online calculator to work out my age. Don’t misconstrue this too much; I knew the ballpark figure, I just couldn’t remember the exact number, and rather than do the simple mathematics to work it out, like so many teenagers around me, I turned to the internet; why carry information in my head that’s only a Google search away? It’s still a little worrying; thank God I know Prime Minister’s name (much to my chagrin) and the current year, or I’d be making myself a doctor’s appointment. I think it’s safe to say this was a temporary mental blank and not something ominous. It’s not as if it was a shock to learn I’m in my late thirties, other than the sense that the time has gone so fast. Imagine how distressing it would have be for Cliff Richard; there aren't enough digits in our numerical system to document him. 

One of the downsides to being self-employed is it can be hard to make a distinction between when you’re working and when you’re not, and have other people understand that just because your day-to-day life may not be as obviously structured as someone with a nine-to-five job, that doesn’t mean you still don’t have to spend a large portion of your day doing what needs to be done, uninterrupted. In recent years, I’ve made more of a concerted effort to have a clear stage in the day when I essentially clock off, mainly to alleviate stress and to give myself some downtime. I’ve got better at it, but only to a point. Today, I haven’t been successful, what with chasing stuff for Edinburgh on-and-off all day, trying to finalise the few remaining Spring Mostly Comedy line-ups (which included a phone conversation with an agent past 6:00pm to confirm a big act for one of our St Albans dates, and then submitting the event to go on sale literally a few minutes ago) and

I gave myself time off from last week's University Challenge for good behaviour, but tonight i was back with a bitchy vengeance. While no-one who's appeared in this series is anywhere near the classic comedy of Monkman at his most urgent, at least Newcastle have Lowery up their further-educated sleeves. He's a sight to behold really, with his bowtie and tweed jacket; he's anachronistic to a massive degree to say the least. It's like he didn't get the twe-team memo that said smart casual and opted for the outfit he'd normally were around their house; it reeks of ambition and winds up making him look like a gimp; in that case, he's probably in the right place.  Keeping our new parking spaces at Wmbley/   8:35PM: Rosie McKeown can't even say her own name, for Christ's sake. 8:35PM: Devine-Stoneman's jawline makes me jealous. 8:36PM: Lowery isn't a contestant, he's a ghost. 8:37PM: Lowery's

Yesterday was a day of personal significance for two reasons: (1) it was thirteen years since I stumbled across an article in the Telegraph about a racist festival in Padstow whose name blew my mind, and (2) it marked the thirteenth anniversary of my first date with my wife. (Above) Headline from Daily Telegraph (25.02.05). (Below) a photo of the festival - called Darkie Days - taken from the same article. There’s no debate over which occasion was most important to me; you need only note how rarely I’ve blacked up since 25 th February 2005 to have your answer. That’s not to say that being with my wife for three years past a decade isn’t cause to celebrate; Jolson jazz-handed stance or no Jolson jazz-handed stance. It’s hard to judge whether it seems that long ago or not; in many ways it feels longer, though in a positive sense. I’m of no doubt my life got better the moment we got together; she’s enriched me in a way that’s never ceased in all this time and

Having finished the John Grisham book A Time to Kill only a few days ago, which I really enjoyed, I've already set to work on its follow-up, Sycamore Row.  As I wrote the other day, it's nice to be back on a bit of a reading streak; there's little more relaxing than being in the grip of a satisfying book. While I've always been an active reader, I sometimes get out of the habit, particularly with fiction, though I don't know why really; perhaps it's because any time I spend not writing makes me feel guilty, which is a ridiculous motivation when I should be doing it because I enjoy it. It doesn't help that I keep leaving writing my blog until late in the day, which is the worst and least productive time to do it. This is something I mean to address, to prevent it from morphing into a clumsy diary, which it feels like at the moment; yesterday's post was crap, for example, though that was mainly due to tiredness; all the more reason to find an earlier tim

It was with some sense of relief that I did the first new material I’ve tried in a few weeks at last night’s Mostly Comedy, and it got a reaction I was happy with. It’s not that I haven’t been working stuff up with a view to putting in a new show, or blogs I’ve earmarked for this purpose; I just haven’t had the time or the mental space to learn it. I’ve been rushed off my feet lately, and rather than share stories that aren’t enough in the noggin for public consumption and make a hash of them, I’d sooner tinker with them in my own time a little longer, so as not to lose faith before they’re ready.  Saying that, it’s often not until new material is performed at a gig that you find the missing pieces that make it worth listening to. Last night was a case in point, as a lot of the little incidental lines I threw in off-the-cuff got the best response. I wasn’t so aware of it at the time as I was caught up in my administrative 'running a gig' mindset, b

It’s hard to fathom, but in a few months it will be a decade since my old band Big Day Out got together one last time for a special reunion gig to raise money for Glyn’s and my first Edinburgh Fringe. I don’t how it can be so long ago; it’s frightening really. And that anniversary’s just the half of it, as while our reunion gig may have been ten years ago, we actually officially split up six years before that. Sixteen years have passed since we were still a going concern, which is as long as I’ve been out of drama school too. It was a sad end to something very special that, at the time, meant the world to me. When we broke up I was ripped apart, and what made it worse was I was the reason it ended, after the two consecutive UK tours I took after leaving college left the rest of the band thinking they could no longer wait for me. In retrospect this seems silly when, in reality, we could have easily found a way around it. But back then, faced

Does anyone else ever feel like they’re walking around in someone else’s clothing or is it just me? (And do you like my mini-dress?) It may be a byproduct of my labyrinthitis, but sometimes everything I’m wearing just feels wrong. When my dizziness is at its worst, my eyes constantly flick from side to side literally all day and all night - and I don’t use my literallys like a hyperbolic teenager - which makes me feel like I’m in the wrong body; it’s like stumbling across a vat of half-set jelly: I'm the epitome of self-aware. It probably doesn’t help that I’ve put on weight lately, but that combined with my vertigo makes everything a little skew-whiff. I only left the house once today to pop to the shop and when I did, my gait resembled that alien in Men in Black who takes up home in that redneck’s body; young Bambi on ice had more grace than me. It must be nice to spend just a few minutes a day not feeling self-conscious; oh,

My stress levels were pretty high yesterday, but all tension was soon brushed aside when I confirmed the comic legend Bobby Davro will play Hitchin Mostly Comedy in May . I’d been gently working on the booking for a few days after being given Bobby’s number by a mutual friend last week. I sent him a text with all the details last Wednesday and chased it up a few days later, but didn’t want to push too hard, as I was using his private number and didn’t want to pester him unduly. I resigned myself on waiting until the weekend had passed before trying again so I didn’t encroach on his downtime too much, but this plan was soon put to bed when I checked my mobile on Sunday evening to pick up the following voicemail: “Hey David, it’s Bobby Davro calling you; give me a call regarding doing your show. Thanks sir.” With each passing year, my life gets more surreal. If you'd told Childhood Me that one day I’d be fielding calls from Davro, I’d have given you a weird look and cr

I’ve been devouring John Grisham’s debut novel 'A Time To Kill' for the past week, which is the first time I’ve sped through a good book in ages. While I’ve always been an avid reader (or a David one) I sometimes get out of the habit, according to my mood. It doesn’t help that I’ve gone through a spate of writing my blog immediately before bed, which I'd prefer not to do, partly because it cuts into time when I might be reading or - Shock! Horror! - sleeping. I can’t get a handle on people who don’t read at all, when it’s about the cheapest and most effective form of escapism you can get. I enjoy both fiction and non-fiction, but find the latter the more relaxing of the two. I’ll often alternate between them - I last read Robert Webb’s ‘How Not to Be a Boy’, which I really liked - but do love a good novel; I’m particularly fond of thrillers: Robert Harris is always a good call. This is the fourth Grisham book I’ve happened upon, having

Today was a day of low-level admin, including finalising the first line-up for St Albans Mostly Comedy (which is good news), putting together a mailing list mailout for next week’s show (in which I mentioned the news of our soon-to-be additional venue, without actually revealing where it was) and generally not doing a great deal, save a little reading, as I hadn’t slept particularly well last night, so writing wasn’t an option. Within the mailout I mentioned the fact that Red Dwarf celebrated its thirtieth birthday yesterday - something I hadn’t realised until Norman Lovett tweeted about it - which felt pertinent, what with us regularly playing host to both Hollys, which we’re doing again over the next few months. Without double-checking due to laziness, this must put Red Dwarf alongside The Simpsons as one of the longest running sitcoms, though in the case of the former, it’s been a little more off-again on again instead of going straight through.

What better way to mark today’s strange Valentine’s / Ash Wednesday mash-up than going to hospital to have a growth on my face investigated? It was nothing if not romantic; all lovers of love should do this. Why take your wife out for a romantic meal when you can ask her to accompany you to an appointment where a dermatologist stares at your facial irregularities through a giant magnifying glass to rule out melanoma? Move over Cassanova, there’s a new kid in town, and that kid’s got seborrheic keratoses that are more likely to be seen on a man in his fifties; who says I’m not a catch? The good news was they (for there are two) are nothing to worry about, which was a relief. It was only because one had grown considerably towards the end of last year before falling off - as I said: “catch” - that I went to the GP to be referred to a specialist to double-check it, and while I knew it was most likely not a concern, I didn’t want to rely on my untrained

Today, Glyn and I visited the venue in St Albans where we’ll be taking Mostly Comedy in the Spring. I’m excited about the prospect of trying it there, as I feel confident that it’s a town and a space that should suit the club well. It helps that the people in charge of the venue are keen and on a very similar wavelength to us as regards what makes a successful event while allowing time for it to grow. The venue’s also a stone’s throw from the station and the time it takes to get to St Albans from London by train is basically the same as the time it takes to get to Hitchin. Our meeting (and tour of the venue) was very productive, and no sooner had we got back to Hitchin than I was already attempting to book some big names for it; I’m always of the ethos that it’s best to do it straight away so there’s less work to do nearer the time; I would thought we should be able to finalise the line-ups quickly, which would be equally good. The other ex

I felt terribly frustrated for not coming back in time to tweet along to last week’s University Challenge; all the more reason I was ready and prepared today for it today. Taking the mickey out of overly-knowledgeable, poorly dressed students is all I’ve got. See below for today’s tweets:  St. John's Cambridge Vs. Ulster (12.02.18) 8:34PM: A Devine-Stoneman. 8:35PM: Levin's mantra: "mime is money". 8:36PM: Levin wouldn’t have looked out of place in a Fifties’ coffee shop. 8:38PM: McKeown and sibilant answers don't mix. 8:39PM: McDaid is Angelos Epithemiou's McDad. 8:41PM: Going to a # UniversityChallenge recording must be a laugh a minute. 8:42PM: The longer you look, the more pronounced Devine-Stoneman's Adam's apple becomes. 8:44PM: Imagine how stressed Paxman would make you feel while threading a needle: "COME ON”. 8:49PM: "Come on, co

The internet sometimes conspires to make you feel like an outsider. This is particularly the case if you opt out of the horrendous social media conventions we’re all expected to be a part of. Facebook’s the big ugly one for me; I joined it a few years after it started, largely to help promote mine and Glyn’s first Edinburgh run in 2008. Once on it, I’d use it both as a chance to try out jokes (as that’s always been my way) and to keep in touch with friends - though before long, my friend list stretched far further than just the people I was close to, to people I’d only just met; it turned new friendships into acquisitions with a Pokémon “Gotta Catch ‘Em All” aftertaste. A few years later, I deactivated my account because it felt unhealthy. Every so often, I restart it, but each time I do, it makes me feel more out of step, and if the algorithms don’t add up and my posts are missed, I wind up feeling lonely too; so much for bring people together.

Today, I did just about the most relaxed rehearsal ever, with my cat on my lap (who didn’t laugh once). I try to vary where I do run-throughs, so I don’t get stuck in a rut, or start to only feel comfortable doing it in just one place; sometimes I’ll go through it in my office, which is the most focused space to hand, but the fact it’s in a shared building with people constantly passing my door can make me feel self-conscious if they know I'm the only one there. Rehearsing at home is nice from time to time, though it’s easier to be distracted, particularly if your house is a bit of a mess. That said, it I’m home alone I know I won’t be interrupted, plus I can talk through material at volume without worrying whether anyone can hear. There's a fine line to overrunning stand-up anyway, particularly when you’ve performed the material a lot in the past, as while you do want to remind yourself of it, you don’t want it to go stale; that’s why I decided to keep today’s