mostly david ephgrave

Last night, we recorded the discussion that will form the meat* of our 'F' instalment of The McCartney McAlphabet . The episode's been in the offing since August, though we kept postponing it, though the will to record was always there. But despite the long hiatus, it was great to be back, although I don't think I played my A-Game - or should that be F? - tonight. I wasn't on form though the edit will reveal if this reads (and if there's a subject I can bluff whatever my mindset, it's Macca). But despite my rustiness, it left me keen to get back in the swing of recording more episodes. I've been in the creative doldrums since I returned from the Fringe and desperately want to break the mental logjam with some new activity, and the podcast is a good start. It's an excellent way to stretch my mental legs (by which I mean 'the legs of my brain' and not some weird limb spasm). It's also worth noting the lovely boost we had when we released ou

I'm grateful for the little light that came on today, metaphorically speaking*, while playing a few old songs on my acoustic. It was like a gap in my DNA was filled** to complete me. I felt comfortable despite being out of practice, and for once, I didn't question what I was doing; it just felt right. I had a brief moment of clarity that wasn't undercut by my mood or sense of self-worth. If I can tap into this, it might give me the impetus to start something new. It probably helps that I've been revisiting the songs from my 2018 standup show, 'David Ephgrave: My Part in His Downfall', by posting video clips of them on social media as a placeholder until I start my next project (whatever that is). In truth, it's hard to know where to begin with that. The combination of Mostly Comedy's closure after so much difficulty and my long, drawn-out route back to the Fringe has left me burnt out emotionally, creatively and financially, and I need a chance to regrou

My ongoing mission to tie up loose ends saw me recently edit the final episode of More Than Mostly Comedy (recorded at the last Hitchin Mostly Comedy on 9th December 2021) and my share of the edit of our most recent instalment of The McCartney McAlphabet . Both are available wherever you pick up your podcasts (you lucky thing, you). I'm now in the unusual position of all my editing being up to date, which is a rare treat. In the case of More Than Mostly Comedy, I purposely saved it until I felt ready to look at it and for a time when the stresses of the Fringe had passed. I knew it would be bittersweet because of the circumstances. Unsurprisingly, I didn't want to spend much time wallowing in the last remaining link to something that had been so central to my life for fourteen years. The thought of being confronted by audio from a show that wasn't supposed to be our last was daunting. Both my partnership with Glyn and Mostly Comedy were things I'd fiercely protected, a

Despite being a bassist for twenty-five years, and probably considering it my first instrument (though that's a bit of a fluid subject), I've only ever owned one bass guitar: my trusty Tanglewood replica of a violin bass. So I think I was entitled to upgrade to a real Hofner, which I finally did this week. Arty Hofner shot (as it's known in the trade). I approached this purchase with guilt and trepidation, as I do when I buy anything significant, despite paying in instalments and not being expensive for what it is. Surely I'm allowed a new bass every quarter-century? Particularly when it's literally* for work. And yet I can't shake the sense that I'm treating myself at a time when money's tight (and that's before today's massive fall in the pound's value on the stock market, which I probably triggered by buying it). However, I bought it to be better equipped next time some muso work comes up. While my old bass has done remarkably well conside

In the interest of tying up a few loose ends related to my recent Edinburgh Fringe adventures, I thought I'd share videos of two shocking events that occurred there. (Brace yourselves.) The first documents a washing machine with musical aspirations. View this post on Instagram A post shared by David Ephgrave (@ephgraveseyeview) The second shows at least one way my digs stuck the knife in. View this post on Instagram A post shared by David Ephgrave (@ephgraveseyeview) Popcorn, anyone?

While the death of the Queen last week inevitably overshadowed the arrival of the new Tory Prime Minister, Liz Truss, I hope this won't lead to decreased scrutiny. It's hard to fathom that she's the most popular and competent candidate the Tories could rustle up to lead the UK, but I guess that's what happens when you leave the decision to 0.2% of the population. How can someone who sounds like she's voiced by Speak & Spell and curtseys like she didn't spot a dropped curb in front of her be in charge of our nuclear codes? Her speeches are more wooden than every Center Parcs put together, and the civil service nickname her the "human hand grenade", and yet she still nabs the top job. If nothing else, her promotion continues our ongoing Prime Ministerial decline. It's like watching The Doctor regenerate in the most budget way possible after switching from BBC1 to QVC. You can only fold a piece of paper seven times, and yet the Conservatives can p

It's fair to say my last week on the Fringe didn't progress as I intended. The first enemy at the gate was my old friend, the vestibular migraine, which surfaced a couple of times over the first few weeks like a sinister prelude for what lay ahead. Then on the penultimate weekend, what started as a low-level toothache escalated to the point that I had to call 111 to arrange an emergency appointment for a suspected abscess (good times). I hadn't realised how swollen my bottom jaw was because my beard had concealed it the same way it hides my hideousness from day to day. By last Monday evening, it was extremely uncomfortable and had sent my vertigo into hyperdrive. I was vomiting and felt like seven shades of shit (and that's a lot of shit-shades to deal with). To cut a long story short, that meant no more shows for me. Firstly, my face was too swollen to speak at length, which is pretty much the definition of standup. I was prescribed antibiotics for the infection, which

Today proved how much better my show works with a bigger audience, something that's probably not that surprising, though it was lovely to have it confirmed. I didn't have that many in - probably about twelve, though a few more were shown through about ten minutes before the end when it was far too late to do a recap so God knows what they thought I was on about - though the impact on the atmosphere was huge. Suddenly, there were laughs to ride and the chance to have fun with the material, and I felt like a standup again too, which was a bonus. That's one of the positives to doing a lot of shows to small audiences on the Fringe: by the time you're back in front of a more substantial crowd, you quickly see the benefit of all those gigs when you had to work for a reaction. This was the case when we filmed my last show, 'David Ephgrave: My Part in His Downfall', a month after the 2018 Fringe. Putting it in front of a packed crowd felt like a treat, and the fact I wa

 A little over a week has passed since my last blog post, and I'm still in Edinburgh doing my thing. Monday was my first official day off, which was much-needed, though I did squeeze in an interview for my McCartney McAlphabet co-host Clary Saddler's podcast Mouth-Off and a therapy appointment too. The show itself is going well , though I'm still struggling for numbers. I don't mind performing to a small audience generally as it reminds you to connect instead of going on autopilot, though it's not a cost-effective way to do a fringe run. It also doesn't help you build a grassroots following when so few people get to see it. What's nice is people are getting on board with the subject matter. No show is a wasted opportunity, though it's the stuff around it that's frustrating. For example, yesterday, I set up my gear - no mean feat itself - to pack down moments later because just one person came. Days like this when no one has booked in by the time I

It's a week today since I caught the train to Edinburgh to bring my show 'Good Grief' to the Fringe, and it's also the first chance I've had to take stock and write something to post here. The short answer to the question, "So, how's it going so far, David?" is, "It's going well, David; thanks for asking", though, as it's the Fringe, that comes with many caveats. Or am I just being pessimistic? The fact is Edinburgh's one hell of an endurance exercise, however you look at it, with a definite sense of one step forward, two steps back.  (And that's just navigating Cowgate.) The biggest challenge is doing it alone. Firstly, there's the logistical impact. Some people who bring shows to Edinburgh have producers and directors assisting them. Not old muggins Ephgrave. The only person I have working for me is my PR, who's brilliant and lovely, but I pay for that (well, not the lovely bit, which comes naturally) as I know with

Last night, I had what was supposed to be the penultimate preview of my new show before I jet (or 'train') off to Edinburgh, but - for a variety of reasons out of my control - ended up being the first. Me, during last night's show at Hitchin Town Hall (21.07.22) I'm pleased to report it went well, though there's still a lot of work to be done. While I'd intended on doing an hour, the distinct lack of opportunity to spread the stories I wanted to try across several dates made me decide to split the show into two halves so I could throw a few more into the mix without rushing them. It also gave me more time to regroup in the interval, which is useful when you're road-testing new material. Plus, it gave the audience a welcome break*, which was helpful, not least when the room was as hot as it was. Going through my notes, pre-show. All in all, the results were encouraging. I've found it hard working in such isolation this year, particularly on the back of al

As of today, I've been a professional actor and musician for twenty years. Allegedly.  Doesn't working in the same field for two decades technically constitute a career? If so, I look forward to the sense of security kicking in, both psychologically and financially. However, I know I should at least give myself a pat on the back for managing to stay in an industry so notorious for people dropping out. To still be acting twenty years after my showcase at London's Fortune Theatre is not to be sniffed at, whatever my bank balance/sinus issues say to the contrary. All in all, I haven't done too bad. My first two jobs - both No. 1 tours for Bill Kenwright - set a high bar in terms of the scale of theatre I was playing and the work I was doing. Being a musician definitely increased my opportunities in the early days, though I risked being typecast in a genre I was determined to not get stuck in. However, it gave me some great opportunities of which playing my heroes Paul McCa

While writing my new show's progressing reasonably steadily, in my heart, I know it needs to be the last project I do alone for some time. I guess it was my choice - though it often doesn't feel like it - that most things I do now are self-generated, but they all leave me needing to draw on a reserve of self-belief that's fragile at best. I have to ignore so much negative reinforcement to keep going, which is hard when the personal problems I've suffered have much the same impact. The truth is that what I do is increasingly lonely, and isolation triggers the false narratives my past can dredge up. I think my abandonment issues are understandable, but it doesn't stop them from dragging me back. And recent events in my life have reinforced my lack of self-worth, making it harder to ignore them. I didn't deliberately set out to be a solo performer. I was in a band and a double act and sought healthy collaboration. And while being an actor inevitably requires forgin

This turning 41 lark is a bit of a funny one. While last year's birthday was one to be aware of, this year has made me a smidge more melancholy. Only a bit, though. I'm well aware of how these little emotional peaks and troughs fluctuate, and consequently, I try not to read too much into them. Reflection can be a poisoned chalice, and I've had a lot of reasons to look back lately, which were bound to affect me, so I'm trying not to overthink it. I try not to get too drawn into what doesn't matter now. The online world is a case in point. It only takes a quick browse of Instagram or Facebook to be confronted by at least three things that'll make you feel shit, particularly if you're not in the habit of carefully cultivating your social media presence. You start being bothered by stuff you'd never consider in real life.  "Why wasn't I invited to this terrible event I'd despise if I'd attended?" Why does everyone look so happy in this

The big news is I'm taking a show to Edinburgh this year, and I'm trying to get as much of the admin sorted as swiftly as possible so I can clear time to write it. As it stands, I'm creaking toward that kicking-off point. The show will be about my dad (the one slated for 2020 until Covid hit and put paid to that), and I'm excited and apprehensive about the task ahead. There's so much I want to get across - as my pages of scribbled notes already testify - but primarily, I want to capture my dad's character so that the audience leaves the room feeling like they just met him, which is no mean feat. And I want to tackle what's it like to lose a loved one without forgetting that the show's a comedy (which, as far as challenges go, is worthy of fully spandexed Anneka Rice). What's helped so far is the groundwork I did in 2020. For example, I already had a blurb that just needed tightening up. And I've also got a lot of material about him already, which

It may be a symptom of feeling a little rundown and sorry for myself, but listening to a random Oasis song this morning surprised me by hitting me right in the heart. The song was 'Don't Go Away' from their overblown 1997 album, 'Be Here Now'. I don't even know why it entered my head as it wasn't a big hit and, if anything, comes across as a little generic. But, for whatever reason, I requested it via everyone's favourite spy-in-the-room, Alexa, and, within minutes, I was blubbing like a Daily Express reader who's just seen a photo of Princess Di. Or George Osborne at Thatcher's funeral.  Okay, I may be exaggerating, but it moved me, even though it was probably the germs talking. Oasis are an odd band for me as there was a time when I was really liked them. They appeared on the scene when I was a guitarist in a group at school and somehow made being in a rock band seem viable again. But my love for their music faded quickly, and now, most of thei

And so Mostly Comedy has closed. Our closure statement (26.04.2022). Arriving at this decision was difficult. It went against my natural-born instinct to keep things going at all costs. My brain has an annoying habit of defining what I do on the times when it isn't plain sailing at the exclusion of any evidence to the contrary, and this was no exception. But the fact is the circumstances we found ourselves in thanks to the pandemic were unprecedented and extremely hard to fight, particularly when you have so little money to start with and are constantly calling in favours from friends to make the shows run smoothly on the day. Pre-show audience at a Hitchin Town Hall Mostly Comedy (June 2019) The sad thing is I had visions of it carrying on long into the future, though if I could find a way to outsource some of the admin, that would've helped. I liked the idea of reaching our twentieth anniversary - we were already close to our fourteenth - as, for some reason, the idea that it

The plum tree my wife bought me for my fortieth has started showing tiny shoots and leaves, which is a handy metaphor for a new beginning as far as these things go. It's surprising what such a tiny aspect of the natural world can do for your mood. Sitting in the garden now in the sun has given me a burst of energy I didn't have before. It's like a balm for the mind. Until I moved out of Hitchin, I've never had a garden, aside from a communal one at my first flat, which we never used due to some deep-seated need to hide from our neighbours. It's the same reflex that makes you pretend you've not seen someone you know on the street, only more intense, as you've less reason to chat to the guy who banged on the ceiling the night before because you were listening to Bob Dylan too loudly. Oh, those carefree student days (when I swear no-one smoked wacky baccy). (For an insight into our antics, my flatmate Mark was once an hour late for his girlfriend because we wer

I'm delighted to say that, after just under two years of trying, I'm the proud owner of a little Covid in the country. Scan the QR code for a short clip of me inserting a swab in a cavity of my choice. Having those two red lines pop up so quickly was the scratchcard win I'd always dreamed of, and a result that the Government's PCR test-analysing scientists confirmed for me today. It's either that or I'm pregnant. You do wee on the little gubbins, don't you? That's why they call it lateral flow. The good news is I'm currently not feeling too bad, aside from a sore throat and general tiredness, which is pretty much my natural state. And obviously, my first thought was to show a wanton disregard for social distancing by driving to the nearest castle (that's apparently in Walkern, and no doubt haunted by a ghost called Christopher, who dances around the grounds to the club-singing bark of present-day Elton John). And I licked anyone who got in my way

From today, after twenty-three years there, I officially no longer live in Hitchin. Elwood looks down at Hitchin: the master of all he surveys (01.02.19) What's changed is I've sold the flat my dad helped me buy seventeen years ago, with the funds going toward his childhood home. Still, leaving Hitchin is a big thing to process. The beautiful little market town has become hardwired as my home; a base to come back to when I was touring; a location to run a comedy club; a place to carve my own identity (with the emphasis on the "tit" bit). That's not to say I'm not pleased to be moving to the village where my dad grew up. And it's not a completely new experience as it was our base for much of the pandemic while we waited for the flat to go. But the moment the sale went through was significant; to no longer have a base in the town I've lived since I was a nineteen-year-old drama student was a big moment. I'll always love it. And if asked at gunpoint w

Part of the reason I've been silent for a while is my attention is so divided. For nearly two years, I've been trying to push through the sale of my flat as it limped along for a variety of reasons, not least the pandemic's impact. Finally, we're potentially a few days from completion, which is hugely significant as it will draw to a close a stressful process that should also help create some closure from the issues it brought up from my past. And both points are sorely needed. Meanwhile, a different type of closure threatens Mostly Comedy. Trying to keep enough money in the kitty to cover our costs as multiple shows are cancelled or postponed for all manner of reasons has proved difficult; if it weren't for a generous donation via JustGiving last month, we would have folded. Frustratingly, sales were picking up for next week's gig when we had to postpone it to May due to a sickness in the line-up (which sounds like the proclamation of an apocalyptic preacher).