mostly david ephgrave

Fuck me, I'm forty. The fateful day. The milestone's significant and inevitably a moment for reflection. It seems like only yesterday I was celebrating my thirtieth while on tour in the Netherlands and suddenly I'm a step closer to what's commonly regarded as middle-age...if I'm not there already. And all those gits who say "Life begins at forty" are conspicuous in their absence. I may speak to Citizen's Advice about a recount. Joking aside, I see my fortieth as a positive chance to sink more comfortably into my skin. For much of my life, I questioned my self-worth to the point that it made me unwell. The events of my childhood scarred me mentally and left me riddled with self-doubt and ill-equipped for a happy adulthood. The kid I could have been was drowned out by the role forced upon me and it crippled my progress. And so much energy was consumed in pretending I was okay when I wasn't. I had to bury the truth at all costs. It didn't matter h...

The grey hairs appearing at my temples think they’ve gone unnoticed, but they haven’t. At first, there was just one, of inconclusive greyness; the difference could have been due to hair product. Looking back though, I was burying my rapidly frosting head in the sand: why would my daily two-pronged matt clay and hairspray attack result in a white hair in exactly the same place? While I wasn’t bothered by this potential change, I couldn’t help but keep an eye on it, particularly post-haircut. That was the ultimate litmus test, with results showing up grey instead of purple (though the latter would explain Phyllis from Coronation Street). A few visits to the barber later and the results are in; someone’s follicles have reduced their melanin output and that someone is me . I’m not that concerned, to be honest; plenty of people grey far earlier than me. That said, it raises the inevitable question: how long before I switch from Grease-era John T...

The other day I found my first my grey hair. This ageing malarkey is bullcrap. I didn’t sign up for it. I hoped to be like the Peter Pan of Pop Cliff Richard in every sense, except for NOT WANTING TO BE THE LEAST BIT LIKE HIM ; I don’t need my voice to sound like I’m constantly using one of those old-fashioned vibrating-belt slimming machines. Stop singing airily, Sir Cliff; give it some oomph for once. I know I’m not decrepit, but I’m still further along my personal timeline than I would like. I’m two years older than Jesus was when he died, and where are my devout followers? I've got 876 on Twitter at the moment, but I can’t see them setting up a religion in my memory, even if I came back from the (Eph)grave. While I joke about it, it’s strangely unnerving to spot changes in my appearance. I’ve been very tired lately, but that doesn’t explain away the lines appearing around my eyes, or my subtly altering hairline. This grey hair takes...