mostly david ephgrave

Tonight, for the second year running , I went to a screening of the stabby Shatner-mask-wearing horror classic Halloween, at the Prince Charles Cinema.  ‎The couple next to me consisted of a man who was clearly a huge fan of the franchise and his girlfriend, who'd never seen the film before. I would have liked to ask her what she thought of it afterwards, but they ran off before I got the chance; presumably to get a head start on any boiler-suited psychopaths in the Leicester Square vicinity. It would have been hard to spot them tonight, what with all the people in fancy dress. You couldn't move for slutty cats (the go-to outfit option for a Essex hen do). I saw one woman dressed as a sexy Mario from Super Mario Bros; a look that was as unsuitable for Halloween as it was confusing.   As with last year, it was great to see it on the big screen. I didn't get to watch it first time around, unfortunately, on account of being minus three. It's an excellent example of...

For the past few days, I’ve been enjoying listening to one of Paul McCartney’s least well-regarded albums, Pipes of Peace . To give you an idea of how little it’s liked, even the majority of fans on his official forum - who you'd think would have a more red-rose-speedway-tinted view toward his work - find it hard to say a good thing about it. When it was announced that it would be remastered and re-released as the next instalment of his current reissue series (alongside the critically acclaimed Tug of War), the news was met with derision on the Macca Message Board (though you should never listen to people on the Internet. Especially bloggers; they’re the worst). Even I, a full-time ‘McC advocate ’, pulled a face when I heard about it - and questioned why he’d choose it over everything else. Not that I haven’t given the album a fair chance in the past. Every so often, I return to the oft-neglected or derided parts of his back catalogue (in a loose sense, I'm referri...

Today, I had a run-in with The Fuzz. It’s not every day you interact with filth; in fact, I’ve seldom smelt bacon round my parts (which is not a euphemism). I can count the times the scum have knocked on my door twice, which is representative of the amount of occasions they’ve visited and not my counting ability. Thankfully, the Old Bill rarely darken my doorstep, as narks have more important things to do with their day. (I’ll abandon the cop slang now, as these vernacular references to The Man are getting tedious.) The police - ‘the law’ and not the rock group, hence the lack of capitalisation - came by on my invitation. When I left home this morning, I noticed the front window of the flat opposite had been smashed. I didn’t have time to explore, as (1) I was on my way to a chiropractor appointment, and (2) I’m not adept at wrestling burglars, but I didn’t want it on my conscience if something untoward had taken place - so I phoned the boy...

Today's been a day of juggling admin (as in ‘switching jobs’, not ‘stocking up on balls’). First thing's first, I sent off my application for next year’s Brighton Fringe Festival. I’d been feeling edgy about this since registration opened on Monday, which is ridiculous, considering how late I got in this year, but I didn’t want a repeat of my recent Leicester Debacle , which meant I won't be taking part in their festival next February. It's a relief to get my form in early, as it's good to chalk another task off the list. All I've got left now is the small matter of writing the show, but there’s nothing like a deadline to focus the mind. (Not that I’ve been accepted yet. Word may have spread.) I also continued emailing acts in an attempt to pull together some equally exciting line-ups for Mostly in the New Year as those we’ve been having of late. This is no mean feat, in and of itself, as the standard has been high (...

I’m purposely keeping my approach to the open spot I’m doing in London tomorrow a little loose, as a social experiment. This seemed to stand me in good stead for my short solo set at last Thursday’s Mostly Comedy. The fact it was such a tiny fraction of the evening, and Glyn and I had already been on to a good response, meant it wasn’t important; as a result, I did a better job. If I can sit back on the material a bit, as I do when I’m performing my hour-long show, I might enjoy it more and get a more enthusiastic response. Ultimately, the point of me taking open spots is to try stuff out. It’s not about getting stage experience, other than in the sense that I’ve done less stand-up on my own. I may as well play with what I do, in hope of improvement. It’s better to take risks and fail, if it helps me find new ways to succeed. (I sound like an internet meme.) The strangest aspect to performing stand-up on my own, particularly when th...

I went out with my friend Stephen tonight, on one of our famous Old Man Pub Crawls. It could be a sign of maturity that these days, little in the way of alcohol is imbibed. Actually, it’s more likely to do with the fact that Steve works in Hitchin but lives in Stevenage and has to drive home afterwards and I can no longer drink to excess (or INXS) without feeling sick in the night. I’m not sure what happened to me to bring about this change, but it’s probably for the best; no-one wants to see a rowdy inebriated Ephgrave roaming the streets. You’d think that this many years into our relationship – around twenty-three - we would have covered just about every possible topic of conversation we could. In many ways, you’d be right. We long ago reached the stage where we’d prefigure each story with “I may have told you before, but…”. Yet tonight I learnt that he can’t solve Magic Eye pictures (if 'solve' is the right word) and I told him bizarre m...

I don't know what to write about today. There have been times when I’ve felt like this in the past, yet still forced something out (INSERT SCATOLOGICAL JOKE HERE). This can make me uptight and stressed. That may sound ridiculous to anyone on the outside looking in; after all, no-one’s forcing me to write daily, except myself. Yet for some ridiculous reason, I put greater mental emphasis on the handful of days I haven’t written something, than the hundreds of days - over two years' worth - I have. My problem is, as I intimated in yesterday’s blog, that I have unfeasibly high expectations of myself. As a result, I disappoint myself frequently. The need to churn stuff out irrespective of how it makes me feel at the time can squeeze the joy out of it – and what’s the point in that? That’s not to say that I don’t still love writing; the truth's very much the opposite. I’d also sooner keep going than stop and cease momentum – but I do...

I’m feeling a slight flush of confidence, having just watched a clip of me trying out some new material at last Thursday’s Mostly. If you think that sounds arrogant, then you don’t know me well. In reality, I’m my own worst critic (however much Steve Bennett would like to steal my crown). Nothing I do is ever good enough. When something goes well, I still manage to find what I perceive to be the least successful aspect, and fixate on it. If I’m in a particularly destructive mood, I’ll sabotage my performance from the inside, by deciding it’s going awfully and making it known. (“Give us a gig.”) The irony is that no-one seems to notice. Even my most disparaging reviews tend to say I look confident. Maybe my lack of faith in my ability is normal and I’m just giving myself a hard time. I don’t know. Whatever it is, I wish I could take on board that I’m not always as bad as I think I am and that, maybe fleetingly, I might occasionally be good. ...

I wasn't planning on tweeting along to tonight's Strictly Come Dancing, until I realised how many double entendres were taking place. It turned out that these were the tip of the iceberg, when Bruno accidentally dropped a bollock (or two) on live television. Suddenly, everything else seemed slight in comparison. It wasn't a heavy duty swear, of course, unless said with malice aforefort, which it certainly wasn't. Still, he should have known better, on a family show - though I seem to remember this wasn't the first time something of this ilk happened; Len Goodman, I'm looking at you. Here are tonight's ramblings: 6:42pm: My "sausage is close to bursting point", Tess. 6:47pm: Did Darcy just say, "The clubbing seal"? 6:51pm: Pasha: "This dance never stops turning". CANCEL THE REST OF THE TV SCHEDULE. 6:52pm: (Del and Rodney, standing underneath the chandeliers.) 6:54pm: Bru...

Things sometimes play on my mind at unhelpful times. This morning was a case in point. I woke up far earlier than I'd hoped, with a few niggles that I just couldn’t shake. Before long, I was wound up, both by what I was thinking about and when I was thinking about it; not that I’d made an active decision to mull things over, as my subconscious had made that decision for me. I eventually realised that I wasn’t getting anywhere and I certainly wasn’t going to fall back asleep. There also wasn't a chance of resolving what was on my mind, as this would involve talking to people who weren’t in my bed, and even if they were, it would have been rude to wake them up. I did what I should have done sooner and got up to make some breakfast and say hello to the cat (which isn't a euphemism). I also did something I got into the habit of doing when I was rehearsing my solo show earlier this year and wrote down what I felt needed resolving. This helps me shift from being o...

Tonight’s Mostly Comedy was great. Like last month, we were in the lovely position of being sold out. This definitely contributed to the atmosphere. There’s something immensely satisfying about standing backstage, listening to the sound of a hundred and one people packed into a tight room, laughing uncontrollably; it’s not so good with a hundred in, but that extra one makes all the difference (particularly if it's Kriss Akabusi). (Glyn and I get the odd laugh too, it’s just harder to get the audience to do it in unison.) Tonight’s saw the club’s seventh anniversary, and my, how time has flown. It seems like only yesterday that we moved to The Market Theatre, when in reality we’ve been there for three years. While Mostly is still relatively young as an event, it’s incredible to see how much it’s grown in such a short space of time. We started it on a whim, as a vehicle to write more material together, not knowing what kind of beast we’d unleash on the North Hertfordsh...

The man listening to Phil Collins on the bus today should invest in better headphones. I’m not referring to their durability, as they looked like they were built to last. I’m talking about their insufficient soundproofing. If I can identify the artist I'm hearing from the other side of the aisle of a noisy bus then there’s something amiss; particularly when it’s the balding ex-drummer of Genesis. The track in question was Collins’ cover of A Groovy Kind of Love, so I suppose it could have been worse. It was like being subjected to the middle-aged equivalent of a teenager listening to music on public transport using their phone as a loudspeaker. In complaining now, I sound like an old man myself; it’s the circle of life (which was Elton John and not Phil Collins, who did the soundtrack for Tarzan). A Groovy Kind of Love brings back memories for me. It was one of the songs I sang to get into drama school. Years later, like everyone else ...

It’s not every day you get to see a Garth Brooks-themed industrial vehicle (unless you work for Doherty Concrete on a 24/7 basis, that is). Garth Brooks-themed Doherty Concrete vehicle (near-side view) When I spotted it on my way back from town this morning, I did a double take. I was so close to it initially that it took a while for the enormity of what I was passing to sink in. At first, the style of the artwork made me assume it was a fairground attraction, but no, it was something much more mundane than that; it was a way of transporting large quantities of sand, gravel and cement from A to B with the intention of mixing concrete, that happened to be decorated to a country and western motif.  Garth Brooks-themed Doherty Concrete vehicle (off-side view)   …and why not? Let's face it: Garth Brooks and concrete are synonymous. They’re both the most successful in their idiom; I challenge you to name a bigger-selling C&W artist or a more w...

I spent some time today gently tinkering with a little material that I might try at Thursday’s Mostly Comedy. If I do it, it will be only be about five minutes' worth. It may even be less than that. It won’t be a full-blown set, just a few gags interspersed between one act and the next; provided Glyn doesn’t object, that is. In fact, if I chicken out and don’t do it, I'll use him as an excuse; my official story will be that he forbade it. (Yes, I said "forbade".) I need to get some momentum going again. I could do with working through my blogs to see what else - besides my ‘…and Ephgrave’ material - will work in a stand-up environment. That’s a pretty daunting task. When you write something every day, you soon lose track of what you’ve talked about. When I have a focus, such a topic for an episode of our radio show, it’s easier to sift out the stuff that’s of use; I just type the appropriate trigger words in the search bar and the odd bit of ready-made...

This afternoon, in a continuation of our newfound love unwittingly stumbled across while on holiday, I took my wife to a local pool hall for a game or two of…well…pool. It took a while to relax in what for me was an unnatural environment (which implies my wife hangs around pool halls all the time). The place was designed to a sportsman’s motif, or so it seemed in my over-active little head. The Ireland Vs. Argentina Rugby World Cup game blared from flat-screen TVs surrounding me at every angle, while football kit-wearing men bought drinks. The bar staff looked like they’d been petrol-pumped full of testosterone (and that was just the women). I was worried everyone knew about my P.E.-shirking past; if Messrs Tomley, Rycroft and Smith walked in, I would have done something smelly in my jeans. (They were my games teachers, by the way, and not solicitors.) In reality, the atmosphere was nothing like the mental image I painted; as is often the c...

See below for my tweets regarding tonight's episode of Strictly Come Dancing, all in one place, like. This evening saw a personal first, when I gave one of my three available online votes to Anton du Beke.  It's official: I've changed.   6:32pm: First Gleb Sighting of the Weekend. # Gleb 6:33pm: Tess' chest is in mourning. 6:35pm: "News Anchor, Kirsty Gallacher". Don't forget the glottal stop. 6:36pm: Last week, Anita came as Ruth Madoc. 6:38pm: Gleb and Anita: if it's not one sliding on the floor, it's the other. 6:38pm: If Anita moved like that on Country File, John Craven would have a heart attack. 6:40pm: Gleb's head is a completely blank canvas, on which he draws a face every morning. 6:42pm: Gleb is an animatronic operated by a team of five. 6:43pm: Every night, Gleb goes home, shuts his curtains* and has sex with himself.   *(not a refere...