mostly david ephgrave

I'm not entirely sure if this photo's of my dad on holiday in Butlins in 1963 or me in Dreamboats and Petticoats. Barry Ephgrave (far left). Either way, it looks like a great place to be, and I love the undercurrent of causing trouble to it. I dread to think of what went on on that trip as the seven of them look let off the leash, so it's probably best that pictures can't speak. Let's just say they played a few rounds of Bingo then went home for an early night. Until recently, I'm not sure I'd seen any pictures of my dad as a youngster before my parents' wedding in 1968 when he was twenty-two, so it's been nice to stumble across them as I sort through things at his house. Seeing them is also marked by the thought that the building I'm in is where he came home to as it was where he grew up, which makes it more pleasant. It's nice to see so much of his personality intact in these pictures too, as it's like a welcome reminder

There's a lot to be said for those little moments of laughter and support that intersperse the pain of reframing my life with a better understanding of my mistreatment. It's easy to focus on the negative and let it overwhelm you. And at the moment, the bad stuff's easily found. But I'm also adjusting to the realisation that the worst things I experienced weren't my fault. Genuinely. It was all part of a coercive situation I had no control over despite trying my best. Yesterday, I had a chat with my aunt to fill her in on the many twists and turns since my dad's burial (when we last spoke) as I tried to protect my dad's house. And it was a relief to find - amid the inevitably incredulous reaction - time to laugh at how stupid it all was and point out the transparently obvious motivation with all its requisite double-standards. Because she and my dad's brother can see what's happening. There was also time to chat about other unrelated things t

Tonight we attempted a social experiment by doing the first-ever live version of our until-recently-mothballed More Than Mostly Comedy podcast, interviewing Kate Robbins and Norman Lovett onstage during the second half of this month's gig. As with most Doggett & Ephgrave projects, it was a day of multitasking with scant preparation, but then, why change what comes so naturally to us? Stress-management is our collective middle name (with clunky double-barrelment). Despite this, we came out the other side reasonably happy with how it went and with the sense that it was something we can build on in future. Most importantly, it gives us a chance to stamp our identity back on the club at the point it most risks turning into the type of faceless comedy night we never wanted it to be; I'd much rather pull a thoughtful comedy-literate crowd than a rowdy stag-party any day. Ironically, it's the size of our current venue that risks the club's identity changing the mo

It's a measure of how appalling things have been in my personal life since my dad's death in May that I haven't posted here for the best part of three months, and was barely writing here before that either. I stopped because I found myself stuck in a loop with nothing new to say, or at least nothing I felt I could express freely without making my circumstances worse.  Being honest, this hasn't really changed, and I don't feel much more secure than I did back then, and this is largely thanks to the sustained behaviour of someone from whom I'd expect the opposite treatment if how they are related to me bore a resemblance to their conduct around me. But the stark reality I'm coming to terms with is the person I needed never existed for me or anyone else. They used to read my blog regularly, "So I know you're okay", which makes me wonder whether they noticed I'd gone silent, or why reading I was struggling didn't make them any kinde