mostly david ephgrave

The emotional weight of this lesser-known Beatles b-side far surpasses its familiarity. When summarising all of his songs many years later, John Lennon dismissed this as a poor man's rewrite of This Boy, but to say that is to do the number a massive discredit. I'd say it knocks that song out of the park, and where This Boy's a twee slice of early-Sixties' teenage doo-wop, Yes it Is is a mournful, adult reflection of frustration and loss; the suggestion it could be about John's mum (who died following a road accident when he was a teenager) is more than likely. Whatever you think of the song, the vocal performance is outstanding, with John, Paul and George's voices blending as no-one else could. How they managed to get such a wonderful sound while standing around one mic is extraordinary. This is even more striking when you consider how early in their recording career it was and is proof that talent can't be masked by primitive technology; I dread to th

I was a little overwhelmed by the level of niceness aimed my way via Twitter, following an honesty-box tweet yesterday about the pressure I've been under caring for my dad for the past few weeks. Firstly, I didn't mean to make people worry. While things are pretty intense, I'm not on my own and my family's doing their best. My dad's never been an easy patient and now's no different, other than being a more extreme version of his usual self, and he's still managing to find ways to scupper the ways we've streamlined his care, although I'd like to think we're giving him fewer opportunities to do this. I just wish he'd exercise more patience, but then he's never exactly been a picture of serenity. One of the biggest problems is the level of expectation. At the moment, it doesn't matter how long my mum or I have been there, he bases everything on the times we're not; this while neglecting to remember the four visits he gets from hi

Tonight's Mostly Comedy was a genuinely lovely gig, despite all the stress and frustration that led up to it. Tonight's Mostly Comedy line-up: (l to r) Clinton Baptiste, Glyn, Neil McFarlane, Brodi Snook and me. The spanner in the works, as I mentioned a few days ago, was Simon Day, unfortunately, having to pull out of the show due to filming commitments. In reality, this sort of thing's par-for-the-course and no big problem if it weren't for the misunderstanding of some, but not all, of the people who'd booked. We make it as clear as we possibly can at point of booking that line-ups may be subject to last-minute alteration - such is the nature of any event with so many variables - but as time has gone on and the club has grown, there's a reasonable contingent that ignores this. The point is, the show we run is a mixed bill and we don't officially credit anyone as the headliner, but for all the punters who know the score, there are always a handful

A pleasing byproduct of downloading the app for the camera on my dad's doorbell so I can answer the door on his behalf is I can now speak loudly to the village at any given moment like the God of Woolmer Green. While I say this in jest, being able to keep an eye on what's happening at my dad's house will bring a lot of reassurance. From time to time, it can be hard to get hold of him, which based on previous experience can be more than a little concerning; he's been rushed to the hospital now more than once, with the only warning being the fact we couldn't raise him, so for me to be able to see when the carer's visited is great. Anything that creates a sense of contact is to be encouraged. I demonstrated the app to him again while I was there today, in the hope he might take it on board and use it more often. The problem is his illness and inaction have made him so passive that he struggles to engage with anything, so the hope he might press the right

Today was another day of putting out metaphorical fires as I organised a replacement for Simon Day for this Thursday's Mostly Comedy now he's pulled out due to filming commitments. I was aware he couldn't do it yesterday, but what with it being a bank holiday it was harder to get a firm answer from anyone. Today I confirmed Barry From Watford mastermind Alex Lowe as his Phoenix Nights character Clinton Baptiste, which worked out nicely for everyone, though there then followed an inevitable slew of admin to make sure all the ticketholders knew of the change and all our listings were updated. Throw into that a whistlestop tour to Welwyn Garden City for a chiropractor appointment, plus all the usual dog walks and dog wees thrown in, and you'll get a vague mental image of the madness. The long and short of it now is that everything is sorted, or at least pretty much. I'd just love a day where there wsn't anything get on top of.

Today, in a fit of usefulness, I assembled a hospital table for my dad. It was pleasing to be able to put something together that would help make his life a little easier.  The past few weeks I've purchased more than my fair share of items from Amazon Prime, in the hope of improving his current situation, with this being perhaps the most useful of all. His mobility's very restricted at the moment (so much so, we've had a hospital bed put in in his front room) so anything we can do to enable him to have some level of freedom without being hemmed in is a bonus. Keeping on top of things has been a challenge. My dad isn't one for thinking ahead at the moment, so my mum and I have been putting out a lot of metaphorical fires along the way, but slowly - gradually - we're establishing control. Everything has centred around making him as safe as possible; a carer visits four times a day, which reassures us, although this has facilitated a lack of improvement to an exten

It's probably not surprising I feel largely devoid of comedy right now, what with all the difficult things going on within my family, but today has been a tough day when it comes to my mental health. One of depression's nastiest traits is its relentlessness, and its tendency to make you forget how far you've come when you're in a trough. It's evil like that. So it was for me today, and I would have kept this to myself instead of mentioning it here if I had the energy to filter it. But it took up too much of my day for me to feel able to do that. I'm not usually one for exhibiting the common symptom of lethargy, but I found it hard to lift my head today. I did get a brief hiatus when listening to my old band Big Day Out's 'Seven Heavenly Lemony Lemons from a Seven-Eleven in Devon' CD from 2002 for the first time in years. The recordings are by no means perfect, but I still enjoyed it, and it still made me laugh in the right places; we were definitel

Yesterday, in my current mission to become King of Amazon - the shopping website as opposed to the river/rainforest - I suffered a couple of incidents akin to the previous day's Dad-related Mystery of the Missing Pill Box. They don't amount to much, but you can still relive them below, should you a few minutes to spare. 2:54PM: Option to gift wrap disposable gloves. Really?  2:59PM: NO, IT FUCKING DOESN'T.  9:38PM: I know you're probably sick of the screengrabs of my recent mundane Amazon purchases, but who puts rubbish in the bin like that?  9:40PM: (Resting the bulb on the lid while reaching from a great distance...it's weird.) 9:44PM: Who's this tense around their own dustbin? 

This afternoon, I had my own smallscale Twitter moment; let's relive it in real time: 4:21PM:  4:22PM: (Just to clarify, we're not imprisoning him.) 4:24PM: Look at it. It was a work of art. LOOK AT IT.  4:24PM: My money's on him having eaten it. 4:25PM: It was the healthiest Filofax on the planet. 4:27PM: It was all the colours of the rainbow. Literally. 4:27PM: Apart from the ones you can't see. Which is ironic, as now you can't see it. 4:36PM: If I run out of time to write a new show for Edinburgh, can I just dispense seven-day pill-organisers to the audience like a shopping channel made flesh? 4:42PM: I've ordered a new one. Fuck it. 4:43PM: LOSE THIS ONE, DAD, AND YOU'LL RUE THE DAY. 4:46PM: (I've also ordered him some scourers, but I'm worried the colour scheme will confuse it.) 4:46PM: WHY MUST EVERYTHING BE SO JOLLY? 4:52PM: Perhaps I can develop a mechanism that'll dispense tablets directly to his mouth

I'm feeling quite vulnerable at the moment. I don't really know how to approach my work. It all feels very moot. I'm sure it's just a blip - and it's no wonder, considering what's going for me at the moment - but I've got no impetus to get things done. I've recently been more candid than usual about my uncertainty, along with my dad's and my health situation, and it's made me feel very raw. Over the past two days, I've had a few, brief flashes of ideas, which is a step forward, but I'm still unsure how I'm going to navigate the coming months. Somehow, I've got to get my head around preparing for Edinburgh while there's a big question mark around my personal life, and to compound it, I'm trying to be funny when I'm not feeling remotely comedic. Perhaps I should employ a writer or an understudy; that would take the pressure off. I'm just going to try to rein things in. Sometimes it's best to focus on someth

It's a measure of how stressful the past few weeks of sorting my dad's palliative care have been that I spent an hour looking at a page of figures today when I got home, unable to make head nor tail of it; it's like someone substituted my brain with Pollyfilla. The kindness everyone involved in his care has shown - from friends to medical professionals - has been exceptional. My Dad has a small army of loyal mates, all in their seventies themselves (who my mum accurately described as being, "Like the cast of 'Last of the Summer Wine'") who have gone out of their way to help him. But inevitably the pressure is on my mum and me the most as we try to navigate the difficulties presented both by my dad and his illness; it's a neverending one-step-forward, two-steps-back process that it's hard to keep a handle on, and the fact my dad can be a difficult patient at the best of times makes the whole thing rawer. In some ways, the busyness helps as it do

When I pressed the bell on the bus today, only the last four letters of the 'STOPPING' sign lit up to spell 'PING', which was a small victory for happy accidents. It was beautiful in its appropriateness; so much so, I was tempted to point it out to the other passengers, except that would mean breaking the official bus vow of silence, and you should never do that. Instead, I laughed to myself and made a note in my ideas pad so I didn't forget it; a pad that's fast resembling a very odd shopping list. It's always pleasing when these little things happen; it's like someone 'Up There' is cracking a joke. It's like the time I watched three people press the buzzer bathroom at exactly at the moment and I thought we might get thrust into another dimension; well, if The Doctor can travel through time in a converted police box then anything's possible; I've just remembered Doctor Who is fiction.

Today, the DWP rescinded the PIP I'd been "awarded" for two years - that gave me a semblance of financial assistance and a sense that my health conditions of severe chronic depression, anxiety & vestibular migraine/vertigo were real - despite my providing more evidence than ever. For starters, they decided the detailed reports they'd received from the mental health team I've been under for seven years (including my psychiatrist, therapist & GP) and information on my prescribed medication & ENT analysis of my vertigo was no longer enough and I now required a PIP assessment. Despite expecting my evidence WITHOUT FAIL by a given date and absolute assurance I would attend my interview, they gave me under two weeks notice that I had to get to an appointment in Borehamwood (I don't drive). If I missed it/wasn't available, I had one more strike or my PIP would end. This morning, a letter arrived, telling me "I've looked into your claim

Tonight's Mostly Comedy was a good one, which was a relief for me, as Glyn wasn't there and I wasn't really in the right mood. Running a club's a multitasking exercise at the best of times, not least when you're on your own. Your attention's all over the place as you methodically make your way through the setup process, trying not to be sent off-course. Inevitably you spend the least amount of time thinking about the material you'll do and more about the get-in and setup, which is a recipe for panic, particularly when you're responsible for the whole event with no buffer from the audience.  I'd love to be able to rock up, plug in and be good to go, but instead, I'm my own lackey (unless I rope someone in to help). This is all compounded when I'm on my own, and when, in the case of yesterday, a series of things conspired to make me arrive at the venue later than planned, not to mention the fact my dad's health issues have taken over to

With things as they are at the moment, I'm not really in the mood to be funny or creative. A lot of this stems from problems regarding my dad's health and the time that's taken up with trying to care for him, which has left me feeling a little flaccid and barren. As a result, I've spent a lot of time prevaricating when I'd usually be working, and a lot of time just staring at a blank computer screen. I just don't seem to have the requisite space in my head to think creatively, plus I don't really know how things will fall over the next few months. Unfortunately, I've had to pull the work-in-progress dates I had booked in Bath this weekend for the simple reason I've had no time to put anything together, and being away wouldn't be ideal at the moment. Everything's in a state of flux, but hopefully, things will settle down soon.

It wasn't until I cleaned my bathroom mirror today that I realised how much I'd been relying on the Robert Redford-like blurred smudge that had developed on it to hide a multitude of sins. It was like I'd switched from low-to-high-def in just a few wipes.  At least I was living in unwitting denial before I reached for the duster and polish; now I've been brought up to speed in double-quick time. Within minutes I've been thrust into how the other half lives: those poor bastards who are subjected to my face daily; I pity them, I won't lie: it was a shock. I didn't know I'd grown so haggard. Consequently, having my reflection thrown so suddenly into focus was a game-changer akin to Bruce Willis realising he's dead; I may as well have stumbled across a partially-submerged Statue of Liberty for the damage it did to me. No-one told me about the bags under the eyes, nor the grey hairs. No-one said I'd start putting on weight. And yet here it all i