mostly david ephgrave

My favourite bit of tonight's gig in Surbiton was having an ex-employee of Woburn Safari Park confirm that you can still bypass the monkey enclosure if you don't want to go through it. It's good to know that the reference I make to this in my material, which is based on my childhood visits, is still accurate. The last thing I want to do is spread rumours about their facilities, or worse still, their emergency exits. If I'd had time, I would have also asked whether Woburn still had the Rainbow Ride (perhaps the most terrifying platform-spinning-around-and- dropping-from-a-great-height contraptions I've ever seen in my life, and I've seen thousands).  It was a fun laidback gig. The venue reminded me of The Croft: Mostly Comedy's second home, where we were based for two years. There was only a small crowd in, but they were friendly and attentive, when they could have been easily distracted by the surroundings. I reinstated my joke book mater...

I'm currently sitting on a park bench on the outskirts of Letchworth, killing time before my meditation class.  I'm here, rather than waiting at the school where the sessions take place, to prevent social awkwardness. It's damage limitation. I'd sooner slip in discreetly last minute than feel trapped in a situation where I have very little to say. It's not that the people who attend the classes aren't pleasant - they're the opposite, in fact - but I spend my life equidistant between one pratfall and the next, so if I'm out of sight, I'm less likely to create embarrassment.  Unfortunately my park bench 'cover' isn't perfect, as I'm in full view of the main road that leads to the school entrance, so most of the other students will probably have to drive past me on their way to the class. "There's that strange one who always walks in just before we start", they'll say. "I knew he was weird". Not that s...

The roof of my friend Steve’s new Mercedes isn’t high enough to accommodate my hairstyle. It’s annoying that he didn’t take this into consideration when he bought it. He’s aware of my lofty barnet. I know he was tied to a timeframe and a budget, but he could have shopped around a little longer, or at least spent some money on modifying the ceiling above the passenger seat to fit my quasi-quiff in. As it stands (the situation, not my hair) he’ll wind up with a waxy patch front-left, which is not my fault, but is. I’m not compromising my style to protect his interior. Having said that, I’ll make a concession. My hair’s recent extra height had led to structural difficulties; so much so that I’d moved up a Silvikrin strength. The additional inches above sea level meant greater wind resistance too; it was like having a drogue parachute above my head. Yesterday, I bit the bullet and had a haircut. I still think Steve will benefit more from this than me. Through being slowed dow...

Today, in a fit of laziness, I'll use my blog to document my tweets about this evening’s Strictly Come Dancing; they need to be preserved for future generations (which implies they’re not already available online). The reason for my indolence is valid: I spent the day walking around Buckingham Palace – and yet I’d rather write about trashy TV than flashy Buck House. This is due to tiredness. I’m sure I’ll cover my regal exploits tomorrow, unless I visit a more opulent residence in the meantime. That’s enough thesaurus swallowing for the evening; here are the tweets: 6:16pm: Cue the on-beat hand clapping. # Strictly 6:19pm: Shaddap You Face and Dance with Me. # Strictly 6:23pm: According to Alan Dedicoat, Daniel O'Donnell doesn't just sing; he entertains as well. # Strictly 6:27pm: What Aliona's wearing is technically not a dress. Just sayin'. # Strictly 6:28pm: Aliona's dress doubles as a car...

I'm annoyed that I've sailed so close to the Leicester Festival deadline that I don't think I'll be doing it next year.  That's the downside to being in charge of all your own admin: things can easily slip through the net. Glyn and I nearly missed the deadline the last time we played Leicester two years ago too, but through knowing a promoter, we just managed to squeeze in. They no longer run a venue, so I was unable to pull the same trick this time around. "Dicks".  (I'm the dick, not them.) It's frustrating, as it was part of my game plan for working up a show for next year. If I don't get in, I'll have to substitute it for a few dates elsewhere, but it's great to have the cross-promotion of a festival to shift tickets; I am, after all, an extremely unpopular person. It's a shame, as I really enjoyed the festival both times we did it.  There's still a chance I might snap up a venue last-minute. Be it a shed, a ...

Yesterday, I reached the dizzy heights of Twitter superstardom.   It had to come around one day, let’s face it. It's a question of fate. When I vacated my mother’s womb in mid-1981, my social media turning point was predestined. He, whose He is spelt with a capital H (I'm referring to God) already knew that four years later, less than twenty miles from my birthplace, a girl would be born who'd discover a love for baking at twenty years old - and a decade later, I would comment on it. Such is the wonder of the Universe. (…and now I’ll stop being a dick.) I’m not surprised that my most popular tweet to date is about the Great British Bake Off; it was either that or Strictly Come Dancing. Despite going against my character – or 140 of them – I’m addicted to both shows. I like to watch people with skill (in the case of the GBBO contestants or the Strictly professionals) or people learning one (as in the Strictly celebs). I also love cake and Claudia Wink...

There’s a woman who lives near me who I can honestly say I’ve never once seen not on the phone. (Brief hiatus for you to work past the ‘never’ and ‘not’ to understand the gist of this sentence.) This isn’t an exaggeration. She’s on it every time she walks past (and I’m going to apply the oft-misused word ‘literally’). I see her every day, usually more than once. I don’t want you to think I’m spying on her - I am , I just don’t want you to think it – but it’s very hard not to notice her telephonic proclivities, particularly as most of her conversations take place right outside my window, any time of the day or night. If I didn’t know better, I’d think she was addicted to speaking to people she can’t see; if there’s such a fetish, it’s sick . I’m not the only person to notice it. My wife has spotted it too. It happens so often, it’s comedic. She may as well have a handset skin-grafted to her palm. She usually adopts that annoying hands-free technique favoured by teenagers ...

I had to take my jumper off when I got to tonight's meditation class, despite being cold, as it had a stain from the pain au chocolat I ate this morning on it. ‎ This is possibly the most middle-class statement I've made in my life to date. Not that jumpers are particularly aspirational per ce, nor meditation - but stick them in the same sentence as a French pastry and I may as well be looking down on Ronnie Corbett and up at John Cleese.  (It's a reference to The Frost Report.) What makes it worse is I went about it knowingly, as I had no alternative; everything else of suitable tog was in the wash - as technically was this. I had to grin and bare it, hoping no-one would spot the dirty mark when I took my jacket off. I didn't want to look like the sort of person who goes about wearing unclean clothing, even if I am. I have an image to live up to, albeit a low-grade one. Perhaps I should invest in a bib.  ‎

A quick flick through some of my recent blog posts has given me a confidence boost when it comes to writing new stand-up material. A downside to writing a blog every day is you quickly forget the content. It’s like satiating the Beast: you see an idea through to its resolution and then it slips from your mind. Thankfully, you’re left with the written evidence – but it takes a lot of sifting to find the bits that would work in a live setting. I like the thought of employing someone to do this sifting for me; partly for a second opinion but mainly due to laziness. There’s a lot to get through. It would be like employing a cleaner, chucking your house-keys at them and saying, “ You deal with it”. (If I did this, I’d be more polite.) The good thing about this form of creative amnesia is that what you’ve written will often take you by surprise. You see it with fresh eyes. Believe it or not, the odd line I reread this morning made me lau...

Where would we be without the text at the bottom of the screen in the Fixodent commercial? And there was me thinking it was a genuine event. I thought that women balanced on dentures all the time.  If I were asked whether eating a carrot or having someone stand in your mouth was most likely to cause your false teeth to come loose, I’d have opted for the latter if it weren’t for the writing; it’s a simple case of size and weight. Even when doing the double whammy: biting the vegetable would be the least cause for concern in this instance. Do we live in a world where this disclaimer was necessary? I can’t see the reality of the advert coming into question. They didn't need to cover their back in case of copycat incidents. It's like a takeaway coffee-cup with ‘caution: contents may be hot’ on the side, ramped up to infinity. You never find a person with a mouth span wide enough to fit it all in. As screenplays go, it hasn't got much...

One thing that particularly pleased me about last night’s Mostly Comedy, as dull as this may sound, was the slickness with which we got the audience in. This can be a challenge to orchestrate, particularly when the demand is as high as it was yesterday for Stewart Lee. The show sold out in four hours back in June - and the emails, phone calls, texts, tweets and Facebook messages asking for tickets didn’t stop from then until a few hours before curtain up. We’ve never had such a constant demand, except for last September’s show, which also featured Stewart Lee; I think I detect a pattern.  Stewart Lee at last night's Mostly Comedy (photo by Gemma Poole ). The reasons it can be difficult are (1) we’re in an adjoining space to a small-scale theatre, so usually have to wait for a show to finish next door before we open the house, leaving us a tight window to get everyone in without starting too late, and (2) we’re often sold to capacity and, be...

Today is my two-year daily blog-erversary. Celebrate. Since the 17 th September 2013, I’ve written something for every day. Well, that’s not strictly true: every day bar four . I think I can let this discrepancy slide, as missing four out of seven hundred and thirty consecutive days is still an achievement. (I’ll probably post a few extra blogs before the year is through, to quell my OCD.) For someone with a propensity for giving in, I’m proud I’ve seen it through. It hasn’t been easy. Some days, as ridiculous as it may sound, it’s a weight around my neck. If I haven’t written by a certain time, I get very stressed. Occasionally - in fact frequently - I have nothing to say. I’ll stare at a blank page not knowing how to fill it. Then a picture, tweet or a fleeting thought comes to me, I’ll spin it out and another day is done. So, don’t expect every blog to be top quality. Other days, I’ve really enjoyed it. It’s been the catalyst fo...

Pitching the TV programme 'How It's Made' must have been easy. I imagine the conversation went like this: TELEVISION CHANNEL: What’s it called? PRODUCTION COMPANY: ‘How It’s Made’. CHANNEL: Brilliant. Lunch? The premise isn’t complicated. Over thirty minutes, we learn HOW THINGS ARE MADE - except we don't , as they leave out a few key production stages. It’s the sort of thing they used to show in junior schools in the late Eighties; so much so that watching it on a telly that's not inside a shuttered trolley makes me uneasy. The script is so vague, I can only assume the writers were sent the footage with no explanation and had to work out what was going on for themselves.   This isn’t my only reservation about this late-night FreeView favourite. The products discussed are so country-specific, it may as well be called ‘How It’s Made in Canada’. A typical episode will cover ice-hockey pucks, Mounties’ ha...

I can’t imagine many people dreamt they were in a TV special about Hear'Say last night. In fact, I can’t imagine many people have dreamt they were in a TV special about Hear'Say on any given night. It’s alarmingly specific. Or at least it sounds that way, until you learn it was actually a strange mash-up between a programme celebrating the prefabricated pop group and a function gig with Shirley Bassey. The lines blurred, yet made sense in my unconscious state. It was only when I woke up that I questioned it. (I must stop dropping acid before bed.) The fact I remember it so vividly illustrates how badly I’m sleeping of late. I have no trouble dropping off, but my nights are so dream-filled that I feel I’m getting little rest. I then wake up between 5:00am and 6:00am, and can’t get back to sleep. It’s a vicious, sleep-deprived circle that I’m in.   (…which makes me write sentences like that.) I’m surprised my brain ha...

I bet this man’s favourite Beatle is Paul. Don’t let the Wilburys t-shirt fool you. It’s all in the hair. While it may be strawberry blond, there’s no mistaking that cut: it’s a mid-Nineties Macca if ever I saw it. I'm glad he’s gone for an age-appropriate McCartney hairstyle, rather than mimicking Paul’s heyday. It would be embarrassing if he'd plumped for a Sixties moptop. This morning's BBC Breakfast featured an item on artificial intelligence in which Louise Minchin interviewed a scientist who was clearly in his fifties, yet was sporting a Maharishi-era Lennon barnet that he couldn’t pull off, both literally and figuratively. It was as embarrassing as the awkward presenter / robot banter that ensued. Not that I can’t empathise with the man above or the android-loving scientist. I’ve made my own Fab-Four-follicular-faux-pas in the past. I remember taking the sleeve for McCartney’s lesser-known 1987 single ‘Once Upon a Long A...

While watching that bastion of Saturday night entertainment ‘The National Lottery: In It To Win It’ yesterday, I inadvertently came up with my own joke. A contestant called Anthony was in Dale’s Red Area at the time – no comment – who had to get the following question right to be released: The answer, of course, was Corgi, which gave me a sudden burst of inspiration that led to this:   My God, my synapses were firing last night. This tweet was of note as, despite being a comedian, I don't really write jokes; not in the literal sense, at least. I’ve only written three in the past , which is probably why I’m still relatively unknown (or known only by my relatives). The reason for my zero-to-none gag productivity is simple: I don’t like them. I tire of them very easily. The odd pun or two is fine in its place, but a straightforward joke will more likely provoke a groan from me than a laugh, as it’s too obv...

One thing I’m not doing much of at the moment is writing new solo stand-up material. This annoys me, as it’s the one thing I’d particularly like to be doing, yet I seem to have lost my mojo. I hope this is temporary; if not, I'll have to eke out what I’ve written thus far for the rest of my career. Part of the reason for this was the mad panic dash of putting together my first solo show for the Brighton and Camden Fringe Festivals this year. This happened largely by accident. A slot came up as part of The Comedy Project’s season at the Soho Theatre in March, at a time when Doggett & Ephgrave didn’t have anything new to present. We discussed it between us, and Glyn kindly gave me the green light to use it as a chance to do some of the solo material I’d been writing and tentatively trying out since October last year. Then, me being me, I perhaps decided to run before I could jump. After committing to do thirty minute...