mostly david ephgrave

My last blog of 2015 is a cheat, because I’m running out of time, and I don’t want December to be a post short. While I’m not a fan of Christmas, I’ve always liked New Year. I see it as a chance for a fresh start; to look back on the last twelve months and celebrate the good bits and move on from the bad. 2015 has not been without its personal challenges, but it’s also seen a lot of growth. Not in the sense of height, as I’m still the same 6’1” my Spotlight Profile tells me. I’m going to sign off now, as I’m about to watch E.T. with my wife. I want to find out it the short-necked long-fingered feller gets home.  Here’s to a splendid 2016. 2 + 0 + 1+ 6 = 9. Makes you think.

I like a TV listing that cuts to the chase. There’s no pussyfooting about there, if you pardon the pun. Anyone foolish enough to be looking for something to watch before six this morning would have been under no illusions as to what was on Channel 4 after reading that in the Radio Times. The previous sentence was longer than Id hoped, but I don’t have the same capacity for economy as the world's first listings magazine. I’m surprised that Small Animal Hospital could stretch out the subject of an ill cat for a - get this - 45-minute television programme, though admittedly, that running time would have included adverts. I guess the show’s producers have to pad things out, now that Rolf Harris isn't available (assuming it’s related to the Animal Hospital of-similar-name). Radio Times’ brusqueness today was in stark contrast to the most convoluted newspaper headline of all time, which - though it featured in the local press sevente...

I’m starting to lose patience with the general public. It’s worse than that: I’m starting to lose patience with everything . I frequently move out of the way to let someone pass me on the street, or hold open a door, to no acknowledgement. I step into busy roads to negotiate my way around couples who fill the entire width of a pavement without consideration of the fact that other people might be using it; far better for me to be knocked down by a car than for them to briefly walk in single file. I wouldn’t want a passer-by to think they don’t know each other (not that they could get past if they wanted to). For a person who is reasonably laid-back, my capacity for moaning is extraordinary. I can be irritated by anything from a strangely worded / poorly enunciated TV voice-over to the shape of someone’s face. Ironically, the thing that annoys me most is myself; God, I’m an infuriating, lanky, deep-voiced git. It’s no wonder I turn to meditation to k...

“…and the prize for the longest running, most mucus-producing cold goes to…” (Dramatic pause.) “…David Ephgrave, for David Ephgrave’s Longest Running, Most Mucus-Producing Cold.” (No-one claps. David produces mucus.)   Being ill at the end of the year isn’t a shock; it goes with the territory. People who moan that they're suffering from low-level sicknesses, particularly on social media, are also very irritating. Though I know this, I’m still going to say it: “I’m fucking sick of this fucking cold I’ve got”. ("Language, Timothy.") It’s isn’t even my first cold this month; it’s Cold #2. A fortnight ago, after losing and then regaining my voice, I assumed I was out of the worst. God, was I wrong. By Christmas Eve, the germs had reworked their black magic; so much so that I was back to communicating with Marcel Marceau-like gestures by the 27th of December. I may still be poorly, but I’ve mastered appearing to walk against the wind with aplomb and fine...

I’m looking forward to when my meditation class starts up again next week. It’s still something I practise most days, though however regularly I do it, there comes a point when I can do with a bit of a teacher-led ‘top-up’. I find it very useful for regulating my mood and bringing myself back into the present moment; a place where my mind is often reluctant to be. I’m always planning and looking ahead, or getting caught up in the minutiae of the past, so meditating is a good way to gently steer myself back to now. It’s also good for centring myself before I perform or helping me focus on the work I need to do. (*cough* Tax Return *cough*.) My teacher is excellent at finding new ways to look at meditation, or reminding me of the basics. It’s surprising how often you need to be nudged towards this. The human brain is so used to flitting between multi-tasking and self-judgement that being told that this is okay and normal can come as a relief. Something about my teacher’s p...

A moment ago, while making a pot of coffee, I caught sight of a mug that I received as a present for my eighteenth birthday lurking at the back of the kitchen cupboard and came to the worrying realisation that this happened sixteen years ago. My kitchen is a hotbed for such reminders. My noticeboard has an advert pinned to it that my parents placed in the local paper to mark my 21 st birthday, back in 2002. Next to this, a Beatles-themed calendar celebrates the fiftieth anniversary of 'Help!', on which a photo of the band smiles back, none of whom were twenty-five when the album was released. On the adjacent wall, there’s a framed poster for the show in which I made my professional début nearly fourteen years ago. I may as well carry a device that counts down the time to my advancing middle age, reminding me of how close it is at thirty-minute intervals. I know I’m being melodramatic; I’m not old yet. Plenty of people would...

I listened to tonight’s In Your Inner Ear ( which we prerecorded last Monday ), so I could tweet the photos we took in the studio to accompany it. Ephgrave, Halliday and Doggett embody Christmas spirit. I was pleased with how the show came across. It’s surprising how cohesive it sounds once the music glues together our dialogue. We sound comfortable and relaxed. It’s a better vehicle for mine and Glyn’s personality and humour than any of our other current projects as we’re pushed to the forefront, so it frustrates me that the nature of the set-up and the lack of promotion will mean very few people get to hear it. David watches Stephen's 'weird science'. I guess I have to enjoy it for what it is. It’s a chance to hone our radio chops, if that makes any sense. It forces us into a room together, which is difficult these days with our individual commitments. It's also been a springboard for some of my solo material, as listening ...

I’ve been called many things in my lifetime, some of them libelous, but I’ve never been called a chef. I’d have been surprised if somebody had, if I’m honest, as my culinary knowledge is pretty limited. I’m not one of those people who tries to apply the ‘I can’t cook’ excuse, as that’s a cop-out. Anyone can do it. It’s a science. Follow a recipe and you can’t really go wrong. (Cut to a massive house-fire.) Despite the fact I’m not as ambitious at food preparation as I’d like to be, I do have a speciality, and that’s leek, bean and potato soup. It may only be this in that I’ve learnt the instructions – I didn’t invent them – but in a change to my usual internet bloggery, I thought I’d impart them to you (whoever you may be). Ingedients: ·       1 tsp olive oil ·       1 large clove of garlic, finely chopped ·       2 large leeks, washed and fin...

“It’s Christmas time…and there’s no need to be afraid.” Unless you’re playing the Ghostbusters board game, that is. I spend the day at my sister-in-law’s flat with my mother-in-law, my wife and our friend Richard, who was kind enough to give us the game as a family gift. We settled down to play it after dinner, and like any new board game tackled on a festive occasion, it took some getting to grips with. While the design is excellent, and was clearly put together with fans’ interests at heart, the instructions are unbelievably complicated. You need the Enigma Machine to decipher them. Either that, or some sort of code-breaking degree (though I’m sure there’s no such qualification). While it left us flummoxed for at least an hour, with Richard taking responsibility – and therefore the brunt – of the instruction manual translation, by the time we’d got our brains around it, it was a lot of fun. I would have happily played it again straight away. What’...

For Christmas, my wife was given a box of truffles called Chocolate Delicious that were anything but. They were bad enough to sue the chocolatier for trade descriptions, and the person they came from for the trauma involved. What hurt most was my wife told me I could help myself, yet I resisted opening them all day while she was at work, as I didn’t think it was fair for me to be the one to do it. For eight hours they sat in my peripheral vision, taunting me with their apparent chocolate deliciousness, and all along it was a con. I was suckered in by an adjective; Barnum was right. It wasn’t until the evening that I pierced the polythene and got my sticky fingers into the box. I went for the safest sounding flavour first: the chocolate cream. This turned out to be a grave misjudgement; replace the word ‘chocolate’ with ‘cardboard’ and you’d have a more accurate representation of the taste. It was like snacking on dust. Further exploration reveale...

I took my mum to see Les Misérables today for her birthday, because I’m a model son. We watched it together for the first time around twenty-five years ago, with me going again with my dad on a school trip, then again with my friend Chris a few years later. It’s a musical I know my way around more than most; you don’t get a Diploma in Acting & Musical Theatre (albeit from an unaccredited drama school) without being familiar with the score. It took every ounce of my energy not to launch to my feet and do the famous ‘two steps forward, two steps back’ Les Mis walk in aisle, though I wouldn’t have got very far if I did. Despite the familiarity, there’s no escaping how effective, good and moving the show is; it's run for thirty years for a reason. It hasn’t grown tired, or lost its impact since moving from the Palace Theatre to the smaller Queen’s Theatre down the road. It’s amazing how well Boublil & Schönberg’s book translates from French to English. I’ve never b...

I briefly met up with my mum, my dad and their friend Anne today for a quick drink to mark my mum’s seventieth birthday. I’m sure she’ll be pleased that I've committed her age to the internet, though to be fair, she uses the line ‘I’m nearly seventy’ so often as an excuse to not do something that it’s become a running joke. I sent her a text yesterday to remind her she only had twenty-four hours left to roll out her catchphrase before it became inaccurate; I’m that kind of son. Pushing my gentle teasing aside for a moment, my mum is one of the most youthful and active ‘nearly / actually seventy-year-olds’ I know. Her job is demanding, yet she approaches it with energy and humour, and is clearly very good at it. She’s an organiser and a problem-solver; traits I think I picked up from her myself. She’s also - dare I say it? - funny and easy to talk to. I wonder if she’ll lend me fifty quid? I’m proud of her for all she’s achieved. I’m also grateful for her support. I ...

We prerecorded Sunday’s episode of In Your Inner Ear tonight; confusingly the show that would have been gone out last week if I hadn’t lost my voice. The theme was Christmas, which as it will be broadcast the day after Boxing Day should still feel relevant by then. While it started much the same as our other programmes, it became increasingly haphazard as things went on, as we introduced various props and presents we’d brought along to assist proceedings. I don’t want to let out any Star Wars-style pre-show spoilers, but the fact that Stephen came armed with a small bottle of port helped to grease the wheels, so to speak. I’m pretty sure it was an amusing show, though that could be the alcohol speaking (albeit a miniature split between three). A lot of Christmas songs were played, inevitably, though there were a few unusual selections in the playlist. Tune in this weekend to hear for yourself (though it’s best to have a glass of port at your side....

Why is part of my brain taken up with how Tich of Dave Dee, Dozy, Beaky, Mick & Tich spells his name, when it could be reserved for something useful? You may wonder why this is on my mind, with good reason. Yesterday, I wrote a joke about the obscure band in a friend’s Christmas card – my references are niche – and as I did, I thought to myself, “I’m sure he doesn’t put a second T in it.” I faltered before committing the moniker (not Monica) to paper so I could do a quick Google and, lo and behold, I was right; I know my Sixties Wiltshire-based trivia. The strange thing is that while I’m hugely into music from the era and known to go on about it (to the irritation of everyone around me), the work of DDDBMT largely passed me by. I know little-to-nothing about them, save the formation of their excessively lettered name. I can’t help but feel that this usually useless piece of information was gleaned and stored away at the expense of...

Tonight saw the final Strictly Come Dancing show of 2015 – and therefore, my final evening of tweet after tweet after tweet about it. See below for the whole shebang. I wasn’t happy with tonight's result, but what do I know about it? 6:34pm: I'm likely to tweet about # Strictly tonight. Apologies to the uninterested. Could be worse. I could be doing the dancing. 6:38pm: Katie Derham's face. 6:38pm: This happens every day at Elstree. 6:40pm: In a lock-up somewhere in Elstree, there's one of those big banners with "Daniel" written on it. 6:42pm: Katie Derham's husband's novelty suit is almost as annoying as Katie Derham. 6:44pm: Bruno said "bollocks". Tess Daly said "breast". What's the BBC coming to? @ DailyMailUK 6:46pm: The Jay McGuinness School of Emotion. 6:47pm: I noticed the different My Generation bass solo, # Strictly band ba...