mostly david ephgrave

Wearing a mask while a GP examined my gentleman's area last week made me feel positively coquettish. There's a lot to be said for maintaining a sense of mystery. It's good to keep a little something back. Not your scrotum though, as that's public property, and should take the role of the face as a man's most identifying feature  in a mask-wearing pandemic  (though less of the "little something", thank you very much). It's just a more extreme version of the many awkward micro-moments provoked by the current circumstances (like your glasses steaming up because you're wearing a mask writ large). The doctor and I were the only two attendees of the world's most demeaning masquerade ball with the ball in question the most out-in-the-open part. The fact the doctor was a junior one at least leant a sense of learning to proceedings with me proud to assist their education, though I'm not sure if the chaperone also in the room was there for the GP or ...

Yesterday, I spent twenty minutes incapacitated in Wilko car park because I had a bit of grit in my eye; I sometimes wish the ground would swallow me up. The Theatre of Conflict. The most annoying part, besides the grit, was the fact I’d made a conscious decision to leave my bag in the office rather than take it with me, which I’d otherwise always do. If I’d taken it, I would have had a bottle of water and some tissues with which to construct an ad hoc eyewash. Instead, all I could do was rub it (my eye, that is); blinking constantly while tugging at my eyelid. I genuinely felt trapped. I couldn’t go in the shop without looking strange, and I couldn’t stay where I was without seeming suspicious. I ended up walking to the far end of the car park to where I’d be almost out of sight, but this only made things weirder. Every so often, someone would come out of shop's exit and walk past at me; keeping a fully-functioning eyeball trained on my definite questionability. It w...

Tonight, I had the uncomfortable experience of eating a cod fillet next to a fish tank.  I was dining alone in a restaurant in Brighton before a gig, and hadn't considered where I was sitting until after I'd chosen my main course. Goldfish, catfish and koi swam within my eye line, judging me for my dietary preferences; no doubt hating me for my lifestyle choice. Being pescatarian means nothing when you could still be chowing down on someone's mum or dad.  To add insult to injury, I was wearing a shirt with pictures of fish on it. If anyone noticed, they'd have thought I was obsessed; not content with eating them, when I can wear them and watch them swim by me as well The gig was fun. It was in a tiny room below a pub, which was more like a Moroccan opium den than a comedy venue - and all the better for it. See below for a picture of the stage (Rowley Birkin QC / Ronnie Corbett out of shot). Surrounded by seating. ...

Of the many public toilets I’ve visited in my life, two stick firmly in my mind: one was in a café in Cromer and the other was on the platform at Cambridge Station. I'm sure you're desperate to hear all about them. Are we sitting comfortably? Then I’ll begin. Exhibit A: You're looking at the sum total of a North Norfolk cafeteria’s gents' toilet facilities. The toilet and urinal are in alarmingly close proximity. Whoever fitted them was probably working to a prison motif. Whatever their intention, they’ve come up with a very pressured set-up; I wouldn’t be comfortable using one while someone else used the other. Having both in the same room serves no purpose, particularly when you’re on your own. It’s not like halfway through a wee you’d say to yourself, “Actually, I think I’ll finish off over there”. This sort of thing could only happen in Norfolk. Exhibit B: I haven’t used the lo...

Pray silence for the most awkwardly posed photo of all time. It was taken the day after we’d performed the Buddy Holly show in Armagh, Northern Ireland. We’re standing outside our hotel the next morning, with the Mayor, the hotel’s proprietor and a couple of representatives from MacMillan Cancer Support. By we, I mean the band’s rhythm guitarist Ben Tinniswood and me; the rest of the Cricketers were supposed to be there too, but they didn’t deign to get up.   No-one looks comfortable with the situation. This was because we’d been ushered into a very specific formation by the photographer. No mayor should have to crouch like that. The balloons blowing into the woman’s face personify our self-consciousness; it only needs the major’s chain of office to come unclasped for the image to be complete. One thing you can’t see is Ben’s and my physical discomfort. Our tuxedos were still damp with sweat from the night before. We showered first thing and got straight bac...

There was a brief moment yesterday when I was worried I might look like a paedophile. Before you sharpen your pitchforks, let me explain*. If it had happened, it wouldn’t have been by choice. There was no sinister intention on my part. I know: they all say that. I was on a bus full of secondary school kids. There was one sitting next to me, and they were all down the aisle. A couple of girls stood by my seat, chatting. One of them was leaning on the rail that had the bell button on it – and I was concerned that if I went to press it, I’d look like I was reaching for her chest. This is what the Daily Mail does. It makes you consider each action with a guilty conscience. If I hadn’t been white and born in the UK, I’d have headed to the nearest port to hand myself into passport control. I must be up to something shifty without knowing it. As my stop approached, I panicked. I started overthinking it. What would be the correct speed and direction to take to suggest innocenc...

I’ve just come out from the second rehearsal of the play I’m doing called Marry Me or Be Evicted, which opens in a couple of weeks. I’m sitting in Caffe Nero around the corner from the theatre – and just stopped writing for a moment to talk to my friend Ollie (co-owner of The Croft, where we used to run Mostly Comedy), who I haven’t seen for a good, or bad, few months. “What are you up to?” he asked. “I’m just writing my blog.” “What’s it about today?” His gaze was drawn to my laptop screen, to see a page that was empty except for the first four words: ‘I’ve just come out’. He couldn’t have timed his entrance better. The rehearsal went well. We were directorless today, but still managed to get a lot done. We’re already past the halfway point of the script, with a couple of weeks to go before the opening night. The show is frantic but fun; I only wish I could shift the cold that I’ve had for weeks, so I’d have sufficient voic...

This morning I refrained from using a public toilet, because a professional photographer stood outside taking pictures made me feel too self-conscious.   I’m aware that this isn’t a standard problem. Unless you’re me; this sort of thing tends to follow me about. I assumed he was professional because he had a tripod. He seemed too well-equipped to be a pervy opportunist. It also wasn’t very subtle; unless he was relying on the premise of being hidden in plain sight. The subject of his attention was a flat-capped man on a mobility scooter, who looked suitably nonplussed. He kept coming out of the disabled toilet while the faux-David-Bailey snapped away; it was like a modern day ‘Blow-Up’, recast for restricted access. I couldn’t work out why the man kept going in and out. Surely his movement wouldn’t show up in the picture; unless they planning to make some sort of GIF. Despite the urgent call of nature, I walked on by. Th...