mostly david ephgrave

The thing that made this year bearable for me was, without a doubt, meditation. If it hadn't been for the often-weekly Zoom classes run by the Letchworth Centre of Healthy Living, I wouldn't have leant so heavily into the gift of space and perspective that meditation can give. It was all about grounding for me and quieting the noise and the anxiety. Of course, it doesn't take your problems away, but it creates a little breathing space to consider them with equanimity. And that's a useful tool to have in your arsenal. (Insert euphemism here.) The problem for me is my deeply ingrained fear and depression, which is hard to work around. I hate how depression zaps so much energy from me. It stagnates my creativity and fucks with my sense of self-worth; something which has become harder to sidestep in the past year, although I'm determined not to let it beat me.  It helps that I understand the cause of my poor mental health with more clarity now, in the wake of the atmosp

Pulling together a couple of composite images to summarise Mostly Comedy 's 2020 act roll-call - as I do every year - served to underline what a great bunch of people have either appeared at the club or guested on our podcast since January. Stills, taken from some of our Zoom-based More Than Mostly Comedy Podcast interviews this year. ...plus a few more. Of course, the year was nothing like we'd planned, with just two proper live dates in January & February thanks to COVID-19, but at least we managed to make a virtue of adversity by dipping more heavily into the podcast than usual, with ten new episodes already released and another three waiting to be edited; that's far more than we would have done had the club been open, so that's good. And even if we'd gone ahead with the onstage interviews we'd intended to do at the club this year, it's unlikely we'd have had such an impressive roster of guests; that's the advantage of being interviewing peop

I was so sad to learn that Tony Phillips passed away earlier this month. Tony was a bit of a local celebrity and was a face you'd always see around Hitchin, whether you knew him or not. He was a longterm friend of Doggett & Ephgrave, who always supported our projects and often lent us a hand as we did to him. And he was a creative powerhouse, forever writing and performing, and always trying something new; he put us (relative) youngsters to shame really. I believe it was 2010 when he took a two-hander about Glenn Miller to the Edinburgh Fringe. Glyn and I were there that year with our first stand-up show 'Big In Small Places', which he was good enough to attend with Hitchin's Town Centre Manager Keith Hoskins in tow. We popped to the Pleasance a few days later to watch his play, which he'd written as well as appearing in it, and we were stuck by how good it was; it still sticks in my mind vividly. It could have toured easily and had a life beyond the Fringe (whi

Hearing back the interview I did for my friend Clary Saddler's podcast Mouth-Off in July last night proved how the timing of chance events can be fortuitous, as it gave me a little spark of certainty and gentle self-confidence I haven't felt for ages. powered by Sounder I know my self-perception is often skewed by my depressive mindset, after years of negative framing that makes me feel I'm not enough, either as a person or a creative entity. But listening to our conversation a good few months after recording it helped me hear my thoughts with fresh ears and gave me a renewed, if tentative, conviction in my own voice and that I may even be allowed to feel a little pride in my achievements, such as they are. (There's a fine line between having some self-belief and commissioning a giant statue of yourself to front a flotilla down the Thames though, so I'll tread lightly.) It helped that Clary went all out when it came to content, bolstering the interview with audio

Today, I found myself thinking about the changing seasons, now that Autumn draws near (not that you'd know it from the weather) and how this relates in a sense to my new house. (That's the first time I've called it that, without any caveats, which is progress.) Seasons are an obvious way to chart passing time that's illustrative of rebirth and development. They roll on endlessly, outside of our control, leaving us to adapt to them; when it gets warmer, short sleeves are prevalent, and when it's brass monkeys, out come the Winter coats.  Personally, I'm standing on the edge of real change. After twenty-one years in Hitchin (or essentially my adult life), I'm moving to a village outside it, into the closest thing to my family's spiritual home*. My grandparents bought the house in the late-1940s / early-1950s and raised my dad and his brother here, with my dad moving back when my parents separated when I was a kid. And now here I am, making it my home with

Unfortunately, we're unable to reopen Hitchin Mostly Comedy this month as we'd hoped, as we can't meet the current COVID-19 restrictions in a way that makes the event viable. Our official stance (with legs widespread). Fortunately, Hitchin Town Hall is  very keen to get us up-and-running again, as are we, but at the moment, too many problems stand in our way: the biggest being that the venue's current capacity is lower than our breaking-even point. While we're prepared to shoulder some losses just to get going again, it's just not practical if we can't cover our costs even when we're sold out. The event would also have to be run cabaret-style, with chairs & tables instead of rows to assist social distancing, but the smallest booking we could take is a party of six, which would limit interest immediately, which we can't afford when we're already on the backfoot. The good news is we're already discussing ways to make it work as soon as we c

Today would have been the last performance of my Edinburgh show about my dad, Good Grief. While I'm sad that I couldn't do it this year, if there's a Fringe to go to in 2021, I'll be up there with it; I don't bow out of potential debt that easily. Joking aside, it's strange how it all turned out. Like many people, I've watched the content of my diary vacate en masse thanks to the pandemic. I went into the office for the first time in weeks on Thursday and consulting my wall planner was like enjoying a visual joke, as nearly everything I'd planned didn't happen; no Bath Comedy Festival, no Brighton Fringe, no previews, no Edinburgh, and only two Mostly Comedys since January. I might as well have not put it up and saved money on Sharpies and Blu Tack in the process (and we're talking big bucks). I know I'm not the only one that's facing uncertainty, but there's still so much up-in-the-air. We're currently discussing with Hitchin Tow

Today I rocked my leopard-print facemask on the bus; trendsetter or cunt? The jury's out. In many ways, I tested this poser to the max by changing buses in Stevenage Town Centre. If there's one place you're most likely to be mocked or taken down for defying fashion norms, it's there. But despite sitting at the bus stop with the facial equivalent of Tarzan's loincloth covering my air holes for a good fifteen minutes, I remained unchallenged; after that, I'm invincible. I may as well visit the Kop in full Everton regalia without feeling I'm tempting fate. The reason I bought a leopard-print mask - along with a few others that weren't plain black - was to quash the conventional male wisdom of not standing out. While I may be prone to anxiety, I'm comfortable enough in my skin to risk not just buying things from the sedate men's sections of whatever shop without feeling I'm calling my manhood into question; moisturiser's moisturiser, for fuck

I tried to apply a practical mind today by doing some gardening to prevent my incoming directionlessness mindset from scuppering my day. The current circumstances, both personally and on a wider scale, feel like the perfect storm for low mood and lethargy. Meanwhile, I'm standing at Ground Zero, steeling myself against my depressive susceptibility (like Gandalf, dosed up on citalopram, screaming, "YOU SHALL NOT PASS"). At least I'm prepared for this, having spent years attempting to carefully manage my mental health to varying degrees of success. The pandemic, however, has left many people who've never considered what's a healthy strategy to stave off depression and anxiety, ankle-deep in a river of faeces, sans paddle. And that precise location, for those of you familiar with the app what3words, is fuckwit.johnson.shame. The change of scenery from laptop to garden definitely helped, as did focusing on a physical task. It's like when I disappear for an ho

I found myself pondering the nature of the phrase 'work in progress' this morning. It's a statement that surfaces a lot in my job. Half of a stand-up's year revolves around previews and festival dates that lead toward Edinburgh that you mark as work in progress to alleviate expectation and prevent reviews from coming too early. Just chatting to a friend who attends a performance will usually involve the words, "It's not ready yet." But it suddenly occurred to me today that to ever remove the disclaimer is almost ludicrous as the idea that it's ever finished is a misnomer; the tweaking - like a playground bully with his victim's nipples - never ends. You can also apply the statement more broadly: life is, by its very nature, a work in progress; you're always chipping away at existence bit by bit, trying to change your ways for the positive and doing your best. And, to paraphrase Lenny Kravitz (as I often do), "It Ain't Over 'til Its

Distance and space are helping me reframe the nature and mechanics of my relationship with my mum, with some startling realisations. It's a delicate process, as mulling over the detail can reopen the door to the pain of all the unresolved feelings in the face of someone who can only shut you down. So you have to tread with caution. But if you sidestep the exhaustion from begging to be heard, the overall picture is revealed. Put simply: my mum could have been kinder. She could have tuned in to my requests, which weren't outlandish, and shown interest in helping my future too. She had it in her power to exercise that choice, and to play a part in what lay ahead as well. But when given the option, time and again with as much calmness as I could muster in escalating circumstances, she stonewalled me and threw up barriers and actively chose the route that led to a future without me. That outcome was of her making - just like the acts of emotional abuse through my childhood were too

While sorting through some old things today, I stumbled across a cassette of early Big Day Out demos I haven't heard for years and, after putting magnetic-tape-to-tape-head using my first HiFi (which I rescued from my garage last week), I discovered they're still bloody good. The songs were recorded using our friend, one-time band manager and adopted-father-figure Martin Goodrich's 8-track in around 1997ish, and sound remarkably polished considering our tender age and the technical limitations. The joy and energy bursts from the speakers like the band are playing in your front room today and, while there are inevitable Britpop-style musical quotes we'd soaked up at the time - like the odd Oasis-Esque vowel sound - something sparkling and original still comes out the other side of it. And the songs - which are unashamedly out-and-out pop - are catchier than coronavirus. (Too soon?) Before I sound smug, I should point out the driving force at that time wasn't me, but

The fact I'd hired a skip the same week I approach the end of my therapy while also taking part in an online meditation retreat was metaphor-tastic, to say the least. A skip forces you to consider what to throw away and what to keep, in the same way that therapy helps you discard or come to terms with some of the rubbish in your life. Sometimes, it's hard to let go of detritus, whether you want to or not. You can also remain attached to things that brought you no good and served no other purpose than familiarity. The brutal choices presented by the circumstances offer an opportunity to move on. That's not to say this will happen instantly, though it stands as a gesture towards it. There's nothing quite like throwing something huge away for taking a weight off your shoulders,  leaving a  sense of uplift and relief. (That paragraph was either profound or just collection of vague, circular sentences; answers on a postcard, marking the left-hand corner, "Dick".) T

Today saw my first public transport adventure since the COVID lockdown and my first visit to a town centre (Stevenage, unfortunately*) in months. Using the bus was fine, actually, though it would probably have been a different story at a busier time of day. Still, the trip to town was an eye-opener, when you consider people's attitude to personal safety. Whole families were walking around maskless, crossing my personal space, and the covered-over bus stop was full of people sitting next to each other with their masks around their necks like it somehow only mattered if you're close to others in a moving vehicle. It perplexes me how people can be blasé about the risk. These restrictions - most of which have admittedly been poorly executed - weren't just instigated for something to do. The lockdown's not the enemy to celebrate the easing of; the problem's the illness. The public's bad attitude to the pandemic is best illustrated by the numbers who rush to Britain&#

Today saw my first proper venture out of the house that wasn't to walk the dog, to meet a friend in a pub garden for a catch-up. While I'm very much of the 'not going to places unless you truly have to' camp at the moment, we did our best to remain socially distant and sat outside too. And while we've talked a lot via text or Zoom these past few months, it was nice to engage in conversation across a table in the real world for a change; let's hope we didn't contract anything in the process. Both of us have been having a difficult time lately and have vented a lot between us, though however bad things get, we still manage to laugh about it. Our relationship has always been a case of chasing the next joke, which is sometimes the best thing to do when things have turned to shit. His situation's been multiplied by being forced to start a crazily stressful delivery job that's out of his comfort zone, while also living alone. I don't know how I'd h

Life's sent me into a bit of a mad panic over the past few days. I don't know how to create any stability in the current circumstances without the small income I take from Mostly Comedy, and with the vast majority of the money I inherited after my dad died being piled back into buying my mum out of his house at a price that shows no concession for who she's dealing with. My work is on hold until the COVID-19 situation eases, and I'm putting a lot of energy into our podcast in the meantime in the hope of creating a financial stopgap for the club (except it's currently making a loss). On top of this, I'm trying to process the events surrounding my dad's death and my mum's active decision to not fix them. Despite her frequent disrespect for personal boundaries and inability to discuss a different perspective, I always assumed ours was a protected relationship. But I was wrong. Her words during our final conversation when I suggested a path to repai

I spend a lot of time ruminating over the events of my childhood and those surrounding my dad's death. It returns, repeatedly, without choice. That's the nature of trauma from emotional abuse. And the impact when it's at its worst is frightening and can put me at risk. Recovery's often a case of one step forward, two steps back. You occasionally make leaps apparently from nowhere, though progress is fragile, particularly when you've been conditioned to take the blame, or made to feel your pain's only real if the person who causes it can see it. I hope this doesn't sound conceited, but yesterday, as I lay in the garden mulling it over, a statement came fully-formed in my head. And though I'd heard it before, at that moment, it had clarity:  "It's not your fault. You did your best. And if your dad were here, he'd see it." I can't understate what a massive shift this is. And last night, I had a glass of wine to celebr

I'm at the very early stages of planning a new podcast about narcissistic abuse, and I'm quite excited about it. It's a subject I'm still getting to grips with, though the act of reading up on it (and talking to other people who've experienced it) is helping me come to terms with it. Every day, I learn little details that put what's happened into perspective. And while I'm still delicate, there's been progress. Just today, I had a mini-revelation that took a little weight off. I was watching a video from a series recommended by a friend that was discussing toxic logic when the penny finally dropped on the common point that narcissists have no empathy and no rules apply to them. While I'd read that frequently and even remarked about it, I hadn't processed it, because it's such an alien concept when you  are  empathetic. So much of the pain comes from asking the question, "Why me?" and "Why wasn't I enough?"

I'm struggling with dark thoughts at the moment; a familiar territory reinstated by my circumstances. The best way to manage difficult emotions is to approach them kindly and without judgment. Being hard on yourself for being hard on yourself is counterproductive. The physio I see for my vestibular migraines uses the analogy of keeping a glass topped up to prevent my vertigo attacks; if tiredness, stress or caffeine trigger symptoms, the trick is to minimise exposure to reduce the chance of it. With depression, that's more difficult, as with recovery from emotional abuse. You may have strategies in place to combat it, but when the problem's less tangible, it can be harder to identify the triggers, and therefore easier to blame yourself. And, like anything, the tools might not always work, particularly when you're challenged considerably. And if it's severe, you somehow have to keep yourself safe, which can be very hard when you're in a pit. The othe

Wednesday afternoon's interview with Josh Widdicombe was the relaxed, easygoing chat I hoped and expected it would be and will make for an entertaining episode, I think. Us and Josh, during last night's Zoom interview (15.07.20) It's funny as, from the outside looking in, he's one of the bigger names we've interviewed, although the way we came into contact with him makes this feel less significant, as regards intimidation at least. Not only was he one of the club's regulars during its earliest days, but we also shared a Free Fringe venue with a split-bill show of him and James Acaster with them in immediately after us, so we were relaxed with them both. It helps that, like James, he's just a nice guy with no arrogance, who's remained that way, irrespective of his success. And as far as I'm concerned, those are the best people. So this allowed the interview to flow with ease and without pretension. Plus it was great to catch up. And it's

Yesterday's podcast interview with Anna Morris was another nice one, with some lovely stories about fortuitous moments, where the universe just seemed to step in on her behalf. Stills from last night's ZOOMostly Comedy with Anna Morris. While I'm a realist, perhaps counterintuitively, I'm also a firm believer in following the moment without overthinking it too. When it comes to creativity, that's often the best route to take. The best ideas usually come quickly and almost of their own accord when you're not stretching for them, though that's not to say you don't still have to put in a lot of work to shape them afterwards. But there's a lot to be said for being open and ready for the moment when your subconscious dredges up something good. The best example of this for me was when I was still an active songwriter. Back then, only the moments that surprised me that felt worth pursuing. While I could churn out a basic song with a beginning

Today's the first day this week that I haven't set myself the task of editing one Glyn's and my podcasts, though I've still got one to do to clear the way for the others ahead. While I'm pleased to be recording them, I can't shake the background noise of "Why am I doing this?" in my head. "What's the point?" and "It's not like they'll bring in any money" also jostle for attention in my subconscious. I know it's all part and parcel of bridging the gap to Mostly Comedy being a going concern as opposed to just a growing one, but it's another example of putting in far more work than the money I can take out. And more importantly, I want my career to move on , after years of relentless self-generating without the support of the right agent; being honest, I haven't had good representation since my first agent retired in 2004ish. Even the nature of the interviews themselves can serve to remind me I'm no

I'm trying to keep everything relatively lowkey at the moment and focus on the precious little things that bring good. One such thing is spending time with the dog and enjoying what he enjoys. He loves shooting around the garden, and I like to watch him and spur him on. I'm often so caught up in my head from day to day that I take things like this - or taking him for a walk - for granted. I'm trying not to though, as these moments are what life is all about. Spending time with the wife is another example (though the second-billing was accidental). We've had a lot to process lately, and while this stuff doesn't just vanish, I think we've earnt some time away from it. Recent events have underlined how you can spend a lifetime trapped in someone else's timeline to almost miss out on your own. But approaching forty is a good time to make a conscious effort to live a little differently: to attempt to look to the present and the future instead of always l

There was a point about halfway into Friday's ZOOMostly Comedy interview with Bobby Davro when it suddenly hit me how special the whole thing was. Bobby Davro, joining us via Zoom for our More Than Mostly Comedy Podcast (12.06.20) It was probably partly because Bobby's such a giving performer who throws himself into his work wholeheartedly, jumping from impressions to gags to anecdotes with a scattergun approach. And I mean that positively. It also helped that we were joining him live through the magic of the internet as he sat at the stool of his baby grand piano in his glamourous house, like he was giving a remote award acceptance speech or a prerecorded message for This is Your Life. That - and the fact the conversation was packed with great stories and a lot of laughter - put us in a privileged position, and one we would never have been in if it weren't for the current lockdown; you've got to find the positives, however small they may be. Me, during the

I'm currently a podcast editing machine, having finished the Rory Bremner episode on Monday, and I'm now in the process of mixing the Mark Morriss episode to clear the way for two more interviews over the weekend. While it's great to be productive and be working on new content with Glyn, it's doesn't take away my fear about money. Part of the reason for the live interviews was to generate some income to keep Mostly Comedy ticking over through the current crisis but, while they're going well and proving popular, at the moment the cost to do them cancels any income out. And the slow sales for the next few recordings risks us coming out at a loss overall. Either way, I certainly can't pay myself. Things were already concerning. Because my business made a loss this past three years, I'm not eligible for financial support from the Government's COVID-19 self-employment scheme. Meanwhile, Mostly Comedy's closed for the foreseeable future and is

Last night, we interviewed the brilliant Rory Bremner for our More Than Mostly Comedy Podcast - the second guest to join us via Zoom since lockdown - for what was a predictably witty and insightful conversation. Rory, making us laugh with his Michael Howard last night. While it's fair to say Rory was always on my wishlist, he's someone I would never have dreamt would appear at Mostly Comedy before he did. He's an act like Paul Daniels, John Thomson or Ardal O'Hanlon, who appeals to the kid/teenager inside me, who grew up watching these performers for them to have a formative influence. And as I said to him during our interview, it was his satirical shows of the early-1990s - alongside 'Have I Got News For You' - that first educated & informed me of politics and its innate ridiculousness. Despite not believing we'd secure an act of his calibre at the club, we were delighted when he first agreed to do it in 2016 and overjoyed when he turned ou

My mental health's very vulnerable at the moment, though I'm meditating regularly to keep it in check. I have classes every Tuesday, via Zoom (like so many other things right now) and took part in an online retreat last weekend too. We met three times that day via webcam for ninety-minute sessions of guided meditation and were encouraged to practise mindfulness in our own time too; not that I did much as it was my wife's birthday. And it certainly helped me slow my mind down for a bit (so much so, I fell asleep during one of the sessions). The problem is keeping on top of the low mood that seeps through. I have podcast interviews to research for and promote with little energy to do it, particularly when there's no real money coming in. I've spent the last few years trying to get the right agent, but the current climate will make taking on new clients unlikelier than usual. I know my circumstances are mirrored if not worsened the world over with COVID-19 and

I'm struggling to process the loss of both parents; one to cancer and the other to end a cycle of emotional abuse. My nerves feel utterly shot. The past year saw my relationship with my mum unravel through being built on unsteady ground. Whenever her expectations tested my boundaries, I still did my best to meet them. Some of my earliest memories are the lies she made me tell - to hide four affairs from my dad when I was a child, right up to her secretly getting married seven months before he died, yet refusing to tell him, and insisting I lie about that too. And though it wasn't fair to repeatedly put me in this position, I met her terms, because I loved her.  I was a witness at the wedding to show forgiveness to the two people who'd made my childhood so traumatic, yet within months, I was accused of homophobia by a solicitor my mum refused to correct. And she walked off from my dad's burial, seconds after I'd lowered his ashes into the grave, disappearing a

I lost my dad a year ago today; I don't know where the time's gone. He's never far from my mind though. And nothing I do could have happened without him. Because, as he once poetically put it, "You can't even wipe your own arse".  I'm inevitably feeling a little fragile. There's a dull, heavy ache in my body and the need to take things gently. Anniversaries seldom hold much weight for me as I know the date's arbitrary, but this one's a little different as it marks the first year gone. The first full cycle. And that's not easy to consider, however matter-of-fact I try to be. I visited the cemetery today where he's buried, as I often do, and took my dog with me. It was probably due to the hot weather more than anything, but when we arrived at the grave, my dog sat down at the foot of it and made himself comfortable, chewing the grass. It seemed like a good idea, so I joined him (minus the grass bit). We sat there together, by m

It was very heartening when the virtual doors opened on our first-ever ZOOMostly Comedy last night to see so many people logging in and know we had lots of interest. We'd only announced we'd be pushing the podcast aspect of the originally-billed show online under a fortnight ago, so the turnaround was tight. The fact the interview was with the main pull of the night - Arthur Smith - was likely to go in our favour, but there were no guarantees people would be tech-savvy enough to want to try it. It shows how attitudes have changed since lockdown began that asking audience members to join us via the meeting software Zoom wasn't a big deal. And in many ways, I think the interview we presented was probably all the better for it, which is fortunate as it's likely to be the way Mostly Comedy will run for a good few months at least. Arthur was, as ever, the perfect guest. He's always warm and friendly and - unlike many younger, less experienced and less astute com

My anxiety's been through the roof lately, though I've been trying to rein it in with my usual coping techniques - meditation being the main one - but interestingly, I've found drumming particularly beneficial too. I ordered an electric kit at the start of lockdown - although it only arrived at the beginning of May - firmly intending to work on an aspect of my musicality for the first time in God knows how long. I'm a lazy musician who only practises when I'm working, which is shocking really. And drumming's something I've never spent much time on, though I've always been very comfortable with percussion, so it's not too big a stretch. Ordering the kit ticked a lot of boxes in the current circumstances, offering the opportunity for exercise that I was sure would be good for my mental health. And the latter's already evident. It's fair to say I'm going through a rough patch with my depression and anxiety that's been aggravated

After a lifetime of narcissistic abuse that only intensified since my dad's death last May - and after a year of trying to preserve our relationship without letting her pathological lies pass unchecked  - I've reluctantly ended contact with my mother. When someone's mistreatment of you and lack of accountability makes you consider ending your life to escape it more than once, both as a child and as an adult, and telling them doesn't make them change their behaviour, self-preservation dictates to walk away. And when they twist reality so frequently that you start recording your calls to maintain your sanity, you're in an imbalanced relationship. How can you continue association with a person who thinks saying a lie out loud makes it real? In time I'll be open about my story, but for now, I want to be clear she doesn't represent me. And I have the support and testimony of my dad's family, his ex-girlfriend & family, the teacher I first opened