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Call me Brian Wilson.


If you had happened to walk past mine and Glyn's office earlier today and strain your ears upward, you might have heard me sing the word 'famous' repeatedly, using the notes that make up a Dm7 chord. Likewise, if you were in the vicinity of our tiny workspace twelve days previously, you may have witnessed me go through a similar process with the word 'awkward', a semitone lower. If you did, I haven’t lost it: I was recording jingles for Doggett & Ephgrave's new radio show.

I dread to think what the people we share the building with think. I’m always making noises they might perceive as being suspect. If I’m not singing, I’m talking to myself, running through my material. The fact that they know I’m comedian doesn’t help. It could be a convenient front. You can be a performer and be unhinged; it pretty much goes with the territory.

At least I had the decency to record week one’s Cm7 'death’ chord at home. I thought I’d save that for worrying my neighbours. I may be about to murder them in their beds, but at least I’m melodic. Most people would prefer to be assailed by a one-man barbershop quartet. 

The things you do to earn a living – or in my case, make a loss.
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