mostly david ephgrave

Today, I inadvertently discovered Google Images thinks a photo of me and the 2005 cast of Buddy Holly and the Cricketers is the sleeve for the classic album Who’s Next. We intentionally struck the pose to look like a record cover, to be fair, though if anything, we were aiming for something a little more indie than rock. We certainly weren’t taking a piss on a big concrete block like Daltrey, Townsend, Entwistle and Moon did in 1971, but we wouldn’t have done that, as we had standards; I've got a shy bladder anyway, so would have felt far too pressured whether we were being photographed or not. When it comes to hoodwinking recognition-based technology, I have a history. I once convinced the printing company Photobox that I was a middle-aged woman , and made Shazam think I was ELO , so I clearly can’t be trusted. I’m a better master of disguise than Ted Danson at the end Three Men and a Little Lady, so you’d better not try to marry anyone Tom Selleck fancies or...

It was inevitable that I’d briefly experiment with a tache when I shaved off my beard this morning. I looked like a gimp, as you’d expect. Thankfully, no-one saw me, as I was alone in the bathroom at the time (a place where I seldom have an audience). I hadn’t intended to remove the beard at first, just tidy it up, until intrigue got the better of me; after a while, you start to wonder what’s lurking beneath. In my case, it was just my face, which was grimly predictable. I’m could never pull off a moustache (not literally), even as a Movember-inspired novelty; I just don’t get the below-nose coverage. Not that they’re a good look, unless you’re Selleck, Boycie or a Pepper-era Lennon. That's the only lip-warmer I’d flirt with, if Rufus Hound hadn’t got there first. In fact, I tried it today. I’ll let you into a secret: it looked shit.