mostly david ephgrave

For some reason I'm never able to make people understand what I’m saying. It happens all the time, so much so that I’ve started to account for it. I’ll walk into a situation with a readily-prepared statement in my head – and consciously take my time when saying it; trying to allow for the inevitable confusion that follows in my wake. Even all this forward-thinking doesn’t seem to help; more often than not, I still end up with conversational egg all over my face. It occurs most frequently in bars and restaurants. A good example took place a couple of months ago. I’d met up with a friend in a local pub - and, as I’m generally not drinking alcohol at the moment, I decided to have a hot drink instead. I walked up to the side of the bar where the coffee machine was situated. Behind it stood a big sign that said ‘Speciality Teas Available’. I’m a bit of a herbal tea nut, so this was right up my street. A surly, monosyllabic barm...

The other day when she was on her way home from work, my girlfriend spotted this: It’s quite appropriate really, as that’s probably the best place in which to cast your UKIP vote. I’m surprised that the owner wasn’t struck by the irony of scrawling ‘VOTE UKIP’ on the side of their dustbin; I can think of more appropriate places to declare political affiliations. I know all publicity is supposed to be good publicity – but it’s probably best to not concentrate your campaign on an object most associated with rubbish. Maybe it was meant as a metaphor for the state the UK will be in if we remain a part of Europe? If so, that's not the way it comes across. At least they chose the bin that matches the party's favoured colour scheme the most. If nothing else, it's good to have a place to file your UKIP propaganda.

I spotted this on the footpath on my way into town this morning: Nothing beats the sight of your first autumnal croc of the year. Stumbling across this single, solitary example of tasteless middle-class footwear called to mind a question I’ve been pondering for ages: why do you often see discarded shoes by the roadside? I’ve lost track of the amount of times I’ve seen this (not that I was knowingly keeping tally). I could probably count the occasions a shoe slipped off in public on the fingers of one hand (at the time of writing I have four fingers on each). Most took place at secondary school, when some wiseguy or girl snuck up behind me; walking too close on purpose, so they could step on the back of one and force it off. Even then, with the threat of mocking voices hanging over my head, I’d still take the time to stop and slip it back on again. I’ve never been in such a hurry that I haven’t had time to do this. Sur...

Today I had my first casting in a couple of weeks - and it didn't go very well. At least I think it didn't go very well. Sometimes it's hard to tell. There have been a handful of occasions over the past year where I thought things went as well as they could and consequently heard nothing - and other times when I've not been pleased with my performance and ended up with a recall. The most frustrating one happened about six months ago when I was up for a corporate video for a building society. I was sent three long pages of script to learn, to be delivered straight to camera. The dialogue was intricate and jargon-packed. It took me quite a while to get to grips with it, but I persevered and finally committed it to memory.  The casting was one of those few occasions when everything went perfectly. The director and crew were lovely - and I felt relaxed from the moment I walked through the door. I got through all the dialogue on...

Yesterday I saw a woman smoking a cigarette whilst riding a bike – and couldn’t work it out whether this made it more or less unhealthy. She came speeding around the corner, steering with one hand while the other took the fag from her mouth for a moment; releasing a plume of white smoke that she cycled straight into. It was as dexterous as it was no doubt cancerous. Her lungs must have been working overtime. I can’t decide whether this heightened activity would push the smoke from her system more quickly, or enable it to cause some more lasting damage. There must be some sort of experiment I could set up to determine this. (I probably won’t bother, though.) The cigarette looked very incongruous: it was hard to draw a parallel between someone so keen to do exercise and someone who needed to smoke so desperately. It reminded me of the time I stayed in a holiday camp in Cleethorpes. I was on tour with a show called Rock & Rol...

It’s just taken me about thirty seconds to rebook Richard Herring for a date at next year’s Mostly Comedy (which is nice). One of the things that’s great about him is he always gets back to you quickly. It was like this from the first instance, when we emailed him late one night to see if he might be available to cover Henning Wehn’s headlining spot the following evening, after Henning had to pull out last-minute due to illness. We got in contact with Richard on a whim (we thought he was too big an act for Mostly Comedy) – and were both amazed and delighted when he emailed back a couple of minutes later to say he was happy to do it. I have a lot of respect for Richard Herring. His work ethic is astounding: this year saw his tenth consecutive Edinburgh Fringe stand-up show, with numerous other appearances at the festival since the mid-Nineties. He has also written a daily blog for the past eleven years; suddenly my seventy-one day straight run doesn...

Over the past few weeks I keep seeing my old German teacher Mr Hogg about the town – and what I find most extraordinary about this is he doesn’t look a bit different. I think I left secondary school in about 1997. You’d would expected some sort of aging to have taken place with Mr Hogg in the intervening years, but it hasn’t; he also taught my friend Steve’s father in the mid-Sixties - and apparently looked exactly the same then too. He must have made a deal with the Devil (or, as he'd say: “Der Teufel”). I guess some people just start out looking middle-aged – and then their birthdate starts to catch up with their looks. Mr Hogg was an excellent teacher, but one hell of a character. What you noticed first were his eyebrows; they must have been modeled on Dennis Healey’s, as they stuck out a good couple of inches from his face. If he’d walked into the classroom slow enough, you would have seen them poking around the door frame for a g...

Tonight was definitely a night for watching television. This evening saw the broadcast of the much-hyped fiftieth anniversary special of Doctor Who: The Day of The Doctor – and I, like many others across the country, stayed in so I could watch it. I’ve become something of a fan of the series over the past few years. I saw it occasionally as a child, during the Sylvester McCoy days, but didn’t really get into it until its ‘regeneration’ in 2005 (see what I did there). Even then, I was a bit of a late-starter; I only really started watching properly after I bought a couple of box-sets for my girlfriend for Christmas. It’s probably not that surprising that I would like it. I was always a bit of a sci-fi fan as a kid (I used to watch Star Trek almost religiously; braving the cold to sit in my mum and dad’s conservatory each week, as the original series was repeated on BBC2). What I particularly like about the revamped Doctor Who is that...

I’m really enjoying the process of recording our More Than Mostly Comedy Podcasts. One of the downsides of running your own night is you spend so much time concerned with admin that you seldom have the chance to chat properly with the other acts. From the moment you arrive your attention is split between trying to appease the staff and the audience; dealing with technical problems and customer queries – worrying about whether performers will arrive, and constantly keeping one eye on the time so the show doesn’t overrun, leaving them stranded in Hitchin before the last train. It becomes an exercise in multi-tasking, with so much emphasis placed on what goes on behind the scenes that little or no time is spent thinking about your own material, or talking to the rest of the line-up. A couple of years ago, while we were still at The Croft, we had the idea to record our own podcast. We thought that if we made a point of interviewing every act, w...

Worryingly, the biggest laugh I got at tonight’s Mostly Comedy was entirely by accident – when I fell over on stage in full view of the audience. To be fair, the fall was pretty spectacular. It happened at the beginning of the second half. I introduced myself from the off-stage mic, bounded on energetically – and, thanks to the distinct lack of grip on the soles of my shoes, skidded and collapsed in a heap on the floor. My limbs splayed in every direction; I wasn't aware of my own flexibility. What made it particularly special was the off-stage introduction. I made absolutely certain that everyone was looking in my direction; I might a well have dived through a hoop into a pool full of water. I’d like to think I made the most of a potentially embarrassing situation: I stood up afterwards with my arms outstretched, like a gymnast completing a tricky dismount – and bowed to the audience. All it needed was Glyn to hold up a scorecard for th...

Today’s blog is written in celebration of my chiropractor.   For the past nine years I've had problems with my back. I can pinpoint the exact moment it started: early December in Winchester. I was rehearsing for the Theatre Royal's production of Puss in Boots (playing Ratty, henchman to the evil Ogre). The role called for me to perform a one-man Chinese Dragon dance; the sort of thing I do on an everyday basis . On this occasion I launched into it without a proper warm-up – and as I dropped onto my haunches to kick things off, my back seized up and I couldn’t move. It was agony. I couldn’t stand up. All I could do was lay on the floor and make guttural noises. I was terrified. The theatre company sent me off to a variety of specialists – and eventually, I learnt I had slipped a couple of discs in my lower back and strained my left shoulder. I was signed off of the panto (which was heartbreaking, as I was really enjoying myself) and sent home to recover. I reme...

Myself and Glyn are currently sitting on the train from King's Cross to Hitchin; on our way home from the comedy night that never was. Tonight was supposed to be this year’s final Leicester Square Theatre installment of Mostly Comedy (we still have two more Hitchin dates to go). We had a cracking line-up booked, including Red Dwarf’s Norman Lovett, Foster’s Best Newcomer Nominee Sam Fletcher, Time Out’s “rising star” Nish Kumar and us (no prefix). It was a great gig on paper – but sadly no-one wanted to come and see it. That’s not strictly true. There probably were plenty of people who wanted to come and see it, but only two people booked - and when the performers outweigh the audience 5/2 it’s less of a comedy night and more of a hostage situation. We’d probably have to rebill the gig as Mostly Comedians. I think the problem is we haven’t quite got our marketing right. The London gig is obviously up against a lot of competition ...

Today I walked past a shop called 'Brow Bar and Beauty Boutique' – and wondered whether they settled on the name for its alliterative qualities, or if this was just a coincidence. Are the Brow Bar and the Beauty Boutique two separate businesses that trade on the same premises? Did they go halves on signage just to save funds?  If not, then surely the Brow Bar falls under the remit of the Beauty Boutique, and they didn’t need to single it out. It's like if I ran a bakery called The Chelsea Bun and Bun Shop; the second ‘Bun’ would negate the necessity of the first. Unless (1) my business was based in Chelsea, (2) not all the produce was made there, (3) my name was Chelsea, or (4) I only stocked two buns: one bearing the distinctive cinnamon and curranty characteristics of a Chelsea Bun – and another that defied definition. (Possibly not the clearest example; I should have gone with Newsagent and Dai...