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Showing posts from January, 2019

Missed Mantras.

I've got a little lapse with my meditation recently, which is stupid really as it's one of the most beneficial things I do. While I used to go to classes and have turned to various sources online for guided meditations in the past, by far my most frequent port of call is the app Headspace, which I've subscribed to for a couple of years now and would highly recommend to people from either end of the experience spectrum, from novice to guru. Anyone put off by the thought of a paid-for app would soon be bowled over by the amount of content available and how good it all is. As someone prone to suffer from insomnia in the past, I'd say it's almost worth subscribing just for for the meditation to aid sleep alone, which I used almost daily until recently, and have seldom remained conscious throughout; it's like audio chloroform. One way Headspace encourages you is by keeping track of how many days straight you've practised, as a kind of showing-off-to-yourself

No "Bloomin'" in Sight.

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The last minute of this song features one of my favourite vocal performances of all time, rather inevitably from Paul McCartney. A lot of cliches fly around about Macca, much as they do about Lennon, and one of the most persistent is that of Paul as the ever-optimistic upbeat feller with his thumbs aloft. While it's fair to say he's most known for turning a positive spin on difficulty, there's as much of a sardonic pessimist or melancholic side to him as anyone else; take 'You Never Give Me Your Money', 'Too Many People', "Waterfalls' and "Travelling Light' as a few examples of the darker side of his artistic output bubbling to the surface. While, like anyone, there's a light and shade to McCartney's work, the song 'With a Little Luck' certainly plays into the optimistic camp, something which is matched perfectly by his vocal on it. I know it's anal in its specificity, but I'm particularly fond of how his voice

Performance Poetry Performance.

It was gratifying to see July's Hitchin Town Hall Mostly Comedy date with Dr. John Cooper Clarke sell more than our usual venue The Sun's capacity across the weekend's pre-sale - and more still today - thus boding well for how things should continue. As I've said previously, while I was sure the show would prove popular amongst our audience, there was still a slight hesitation on my part, largely due to the risk that goes with staging an event at a venue that's more expensive to us and over twice our normal capacity. Without going into specifics, it's also easily the biggest fee we've confirmed an act for in our ten year history. That said, the end justified the means as we've already covered that figure in three days of sale-time, which is something we would never have dreamt of when we started the club at The George back in 2008. The good news is this initial spike in interest affords us the opportunity to relax, safe in the knowledge that the show

Flour Babies.

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On Wednesday, I got home for a brief window between an appointment with my dad and meeting Glyn at The Sun to set up equipment for Mostly to find my flat like this: That's right: it was that age-old 'dog got into the flour' situation. Except the scene was a little more complicated than this; not only had the dog got into the flour, he'd trampled it with similar success into the sofa, his bed and the front room carpet, before returning to the kitchen and somwow shutting the door behind him, locking himself in. When I put the key in the front door, I could hear him moaning, and when I released him from his baking-based prison he was panting and stressed and needed a good long hug to calm down again. There was no point in getting angry as by that stage it would never read what I was telling him off about, and ultimately he'd grown so wound up he just needed attention to bring him back from anxiety. It was just frustrating that I'd been gone just long enoug

Truly, Madly, Mostly, Deeply.

Tonight's Mostly Comedy was the perfect way to kick off our 2019 season, thanks to an exceptional line-up and a sold-out crowd who were with us from the get-go, giving the gig a boost that left me optimistic for the year ahead. For one, we had Phil Kay and Arthur Smith on the same bill, which any comedy aficionado would tell you is a very promising start point. On top of this we had the fab Katie Pritchard (who's one of the hardest-working people I know, always jumping from gig to gig) who was on sparkling form. The only fly-in-the-ointment was we were Glyn-less, as he was company-managing the adult panto tour in Dudley (lucky him), but despite his absence, the show was a slick problem-free affair, which is always a relief when I'm running it alone. Not that I was alone, really. First off, my friend (and one of the first acts to perform at the club when we kicked off in 2008) Stephen Halliday came down from his midlands base (which makes him sound like an evil genius) t

Bruce McMissed.

I bet you didn't book to attend two screenings of a rare Wings film today to end up missing both. Because let's face it: that's the sort of behaviour that's reserved for me. What's frustrating was I was really looking forward to going until I ran out of time to leave for the first showing; I then booked for the second one on a whim to end up running out of time for that one too. The reason for my tardiness was, as ever, due to Mostly Comedy, when it suddenly became in our interest to get the Dr. John Cooper Clarke show on sale as soon as possible to line up with an advert for his tour in the Guardian Guide this weekend, which for some reason took forever to do. I also had to sort out a few things for my dad before a couple of doctors' appointments on Tuesday and Wednesday, and the race to get this all done before I caught the train to London snowballed in a stressful enough way for me to end up pulling the plug on my McCartney-based jolly; so it was that I m

Best Foot Forward.

Today, I finally finished compiling my 2017/18 tax records (with my wife as my unpaid assistant), which makes for depressing reading unless you're a fan of minus figures. (If so, then get ready for  this : -4922.679232) (I know: phwoar) I find myself at a crossroads over what to do next. The past four years have been primarily about performing stand-up to fringe audiences to work up my solo chops, having always performed comedy as one half of a double-act up to that point. While I've taken shows to London, Brighton, Bath, Leicester, Hitchin and Letchworth over that time, there's no doubt Edinburgh was the biggest underlying factor, with the other dates being either a warm-up for or a cool-down from three consecutive Edinburgh Fringes, with me writing another solo show in 2015 that I didn't take to Scotland, but was still put together with going there alone as my motivation. There's no denying the experience has been challenging, both creatively and financial

This is the News.

According to Twitter wisdom, twenty-five years ago today, the satirical send up of the media 'The Day Today' first aired on BBC2; a programme that had a huge influence on me as a teenager and I still love to this day. Until recently, I was sure I was introduced to the work of Chris Morris & Steve Coogan et al by a friend from the drama group I used to go to at the Gordon Craig Theatre, when he lent me his copy of the radio version of 'The Day Today' - 'On the Hour' - along with radio episodes of 'Knowing Me Knowing You with Alan Partridge' as a kid. I was absolutely certain of this and would have staked my life on it until I happened to see this friend again when he came to one of my shows a couple of years ago and asserted afterwards that I introduced them to him . Now I don't know what to think: it's as if the very fabric of my existence has been metaphorically ripped at source; that, or I've just got a shit memory. Ultimately it d

Poet Who Knows It.

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While there was no reason to doubt it, I was delighted by the excitement today's announcement that Dr. John Cooper Clarke will play July's Hitchin Mostly Comedy Festival provoked. I'd like to think my judgment of what our audience wants to see is pretty sound, based on the club's popularity, but every so often there'll be a slight undercurrent of worry, particularly when there's either a lot of money involved or the event's taking place at a different venue to usual. In the case of John Cooper Clarke, I'd been working on the booking for a few months and had every crossable appendage assuming the position in the hope it would come good, but knew all along it would only work if we held it at Hitchin Town Hall so we could get enough people through the door to fund it. This obviously meant whittling down a date that both John and the venue could do while striking a deal with both that wasn't too expensive when a show of this nature has more overhea

Knebworth Sands.

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I have this performance of The Beach Boys song Lady Lynda on regular rotation when I listen to music on getting ready in the mornings and seldom skip it. It's made all the better for the fact it was recorded at Knebworth Park - approximately six miles down the road from where I live (cue all those assassins trying to track me down to a less than ten-mile radius) - in 1980, less than a year before I was born, so if my family had lived in the house I grew up in by then, they could have potentially heard it from our window. I wish I could have been there myself, though if the gig was anything like Oasis' show there in 1996, it would have taken us a surprisingly long time to get home afterwards, despite the convenient location. When I went to see Brian Wilson perform Pet Sounds in Edinburgh last summer, he happened to have Al Jardine (who sung and co-wrote this) in the band, which was an added treat, and while he didn't sing my favourite of his Beach Boys songs at the gig,

Unmissable Hancock.

This afternoon, I was lucky enough to attend the recording of the last two remaining lost Hancock's Half Hour episodes for the BBC Radio 4 series The Missing Hancocks (my third time in the audience, man & boy), which was once again performed pitch-perfectly by Kevin McNally and the cast and left me feeling suitably inspired and uplifted as I exited Broadcasting House and made my way back to the tube at Oxford Circus. I must admit visiting the BBC always gives me a bit of a lift, as the child inside still can't help but be excited by the many inspirational ghosts that occupy the building, metaphorically speaking (subject to a proper paranormal assessment); I've only been to Broadcasting House once in a work context - to do a radio interview for the Buddy Holly show I was in - and went to Television Centre once in a non-audience-member capacity - for a meeting with a producer with Glyn - but the part of me that longs to be on the other side of the mic there is always ke

Blutax.

I'm pretty sure if you sped up my life using some sort of time-distorting technology, the resulting image would be of me, constantly surrounded by receipts, pulling together the records for an eternal tax return.  Consequently, I find myself in that back-aching arched-over position once again. If it weren't for the fact it's nigh-on possible to sit in a way that's comfortable and convenient when going through the myriad of receipts and invoices I've collected across a tax year while they're spread out across the floor, I'd probably go say I actually quite enjoy doing it; there's something satisfying about charting my life from coffee shop to venue to coffee shop, tying together the loose ends of another twelve-month journey. The only sticking point is that in doing so, you get a timely reminder of the money you spent and how little you've earned; such is the curse of the self-employed performer.  As it stands, it's clear 2017/18 was a year of

Walkie-Talkies.

Tonight, I cashed in my first metaphorical therapy-dog-chips of the season. I should probably explain: I haven't literally turned my dog into fries and then attempted to barter by using them as a grisly form of currency; I'm pretty sure that would result in a prison sentence. But I did use him as a therapeutic aid after an argument left me overwrought and overloaded, and definitely felt the benefit, with my four-legged friend (the dog) gaining in the process. Sometimes, a breath of fresh air is the best cure for what ails you and a dog-walk is the perfect excuse for this. I usually take Elwood out in the morning for an hour while my wife's at work and she'll do the evening dog-shift (careful how you spell that) but today I took him out twice, and that second walk was just what the doctor - or vet - ordered. One of the biggest advantages to walking him in the evening is I get to see the night skies I'd otherwise miss, and this is particularly the case when I cros

Wide Load.

I must be one of the few people on the planet to introduce an hourlong walk to his daily routine for a month and still put on weight. To do this requires talent - albeit admittedly one I'd sooner not possess - although to be fair my increased mass is purely supposition; I haven't weighed myself in a while. Yet despite the lack of concrete evidence, it's hard to ignore the loosening of my belt and tightening of my jacket: there's something afoot, and those feet suddenly have a little more to carry. Whether I've got heavier in the last few weeks or not, I've definitely put on weight over the past year, which I'm desperate to get rid of. It makes me feel sluggish and affects my self-esteem; I'm almost glad I haven't had a casting for a while as I wouldn't want to commit my increased girth to camera. The change is most likely caused by a combination of medication and biscuits. This partly motivated my getting a dog, as I hoped the excuse for mo

Deeply Dippy.

I kind of feel I've reached the limit of what I can do by myself creatively without someone else to believe in me. It might just be the gloom of the New Year without the impetus of something to sink my teeth into (cliché), or it may be a genuine reflection of where I'm at, but I'm just not feeling excited about what's ahead. I've worked so hard over the past four years, with my 2018 Edinburgh show 'David Ephgrave: My Part in His Downfall' ending up something I'm very proud of, and yet I'm at a bit of a loss as to what to do next. Mostly Comedy has become something of a compulsion with me checking our emails and the ticket reports far too regularly, but despite the frequency I tinker with things to do with it, I've started to resent it. To be honest, it's been a love / hate relationship for years, but as it stands I've started to dread the shows as they've become an exercise in organisation I'm bored with in an atmosphere whe

Dog & Ephgrave.

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I'm starting to feel like a proper dog owner now, whatever that means. At first I felt like a fraud, who was holding a friend's dog-lead temporarily with them due to return any minute. Now that Elwood's been with us for over a month and I've taken him out every day there's more of a sense that he's mine; I've got to know how he's likely to act to the world around him and got used to reading his body language; I've also learnt his flagrant disdain for squirrels. He's even made his own friends, both dog-based and human: we regularly bump into a contingent of people who live on the same estate as us and all have dogs they walk together; they all give Elwood a fuss. and one of the dogs - a very silly, scruffy boy called Sid - lights up when he sees him and gives him a sniff with his tail wagging madly. It's lovely that having a pet in common brings people together and makes them talk; I've spoken to so many dog-owners over the past f

Roll Up, Roll Up.

My OCD has been suitably placated now the first two Hitchin Mostly Comedys of 2019 have sold out. While it's fair to say this is a common occurrence at the club these days, I'm never complacent; there's always a niggling concern a show won't do well and suddenly we're at risk of making a loss we can't afford. Again, there's been no evidence of this looking likely for years really, but there's always the possibility, and while things have been reasonably comfortable for the club financially for a little while, the last-minute cancellation of November's show with James Acaster did result in us writing off a profit we were counting on. Then purchasing some light & sound equipment left us playing catch-up ever since. There's also always the worry people will either lose interest or expect too much. In some ways the club's hands are tied by its success: last year saw a handful of big names perform who'd either never been on the bill be

"...and so is Michael Fish."

The weatherman on BBC Breakfast this morning said, "Today there'll be a bit more in the way of less cold air" and now I need a piece of graph paper to work that out. The double negatives in action were on a par with Pink Floyd's "We don't need no education" for sounding solid, while bearing no scrutiny; so much so, I didn't know whether to wear my scarf or not. Consequently, the guy's attempt to impart the weather was a resounding failure; he may as well have said, "Tonight will have a lot less not daylight than today has not." I can't begrudge the odd mental stumble or brain-fart when it happens to the best of us; life's by it nature very confusing. Here are just a few times the planet's perplexed me: Hearing a saxophonist play 'Baker Street' at Leicester Square tube. Spotting a picture of Elvis in the window of Boys 2 Men Barbers on Stevenage High Street. Hearing a woman scream, "Where's the bus?&

How Do You Like Them...?

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I wonder if I was the only person to misread the reason for the price rise on "onions". I wouldn't have been that surprised if Chris Grayling blamed the cost increase on a vegetable, as it's my considered opinion that Chris Grayling is full of shit. This is the man who somehow managed to keep his job as Transport Minister last spring when the UK's train services came to a near-standstill thanks to impractical changes to the country's timetables that didn't take into consideration the amount of drivers and trains needed to make them work; I mean why concern himself with such a piddly little detail as that?  I had a fair amount of dislike for the wetly inept individual Grayling is, and that was before I actually heard him speak for the first time via a Twitter link tonight. The tweet included a section of an interview he gave for Sky News today, in which he laughingly tried to suggest things with the rail network were on the up and up; all this while

One-Score Years Before.

I'm trying to comprehend the fact I started at drama school twenty years ago; I find it hard to believe that's possible. How can this be true? I mean, let's be honest: when it comes to anniversaries, twenty isn't a small number. In 1967, that's how much earlier Sgt Pepper gave his band music lessons which would put the year discussed at 1947; comparatively, the length of time passed since my first day at drama school sounds terrifying; I may as well put in an order for a gravestone and a cemetery plot. This is why it's best to not give these milestones much consideration as they'll only make you depressed. I just find it weird that I began training so long ago, which in turn would mean I started my BTEC in performing arts two years prior to that; I'm not going to do the 'first day at school' calculation for fear there's not enough graph paper on the planet. As an aside, I've just realised my BTEC began twenty-two years ago, which wa