mostly david ephgrave

Frustratingly, I’ve had to pull out of tonight’s Hitchin Mostly Comedy as I’ve contracted some sort of Death Plague over the past two days, which has really knocked me for six (to use a cliché). The timing’s annoyed me as I had some new material earmarked for tonight that I really wanted to scratch off the list and get out in the open, but ultimately, it wasn’t worth putting myself through it when my concentration is shot. If it were just the gig it wouldn’t be so bad, but Mostly Comedy days are always long; too long to keep on top of yourself when you’re head’s pounding and your skin feels like someone’s running a scouring pad over you. What’s striking tonight is Glyn’s and my longtime friend and director Glen Davies will be hosting tonight in our place, which is marked, as for years, I’ve tried to call his bluff and make him do a spot at the club. It just so happens he has comedy on his mind this year as he’s taking his first stand-up show to the...

“…and the prize for the longest running, most mucus-producing cold goes to…” (Dramatic pause.) “…David Ephgrave, for David Ephgrave’s Longest Running, Most Mucus-Producing Cold.” (No-one claps. David produces mucus.)   Being ill at the end of the year isn’t a shock; it goes with the territory. People who moan that they're suffering from low-level sicknesses, particularly on social media, are also very irritating. Though I know this, I’m still going to say it: “I’m fucking sick of this fucking cold I’ve got”. ("Language, Timothy.") It’s isn’t even my first cold this month; it’s Cold #2. A fortnight ago, after losing and then regaining my voice, I assumed I was out of the worst. God, was I wrong. By Christmas Eve, the germs had reworked their black magic; so much so that I was back to communicating with Marcel Marceau-like gestures by the 27th of December. I may still be poorly, but I’ve mastered appearing to walk against the wind with aplomb and fine...

Every nose-blow at the moment is like a small, yet potent explosion.  My cold is going through its various stages very quickly. Yesterday, I had next-to-no voice, so we had to cancel recording IYIE. Today, it's gradually found its way back to existence, though at a quieter, more gravelly level than usual. I sound like a timid Rod Stewart (though Rod was never known for his timidity; picture his trousers, for Chrissakes). While I'm glad the germs seem keen to vacate my system fast, I wish they wouldn’t do it in force via my nostrils every five minutes. The noise (and all that goes with it) is very embarrassing. To compound the situation, I ran out of tissues this morning, so my trip to my mum's house to walk her dog was made with a big box belonging to my wife filling out my bag. It made me feel suspicious, though I may have been over-thinking it. I was meant to do a gig in Kingston tonight, which, had it been yesterday, would ha...

Frustratingly, I appear to be losing my voice. This is down to a rapidly advancing cold, which can’t be helped, but the timing isn’t good. I was supposed to be going to a family member’s hospital appointment tomorrow, but have cancelled this, as I didn’t want to give anyone my lurgy, plus we’re meant to be recording the next episode of In Your Inner Ear in the evening. I then have gigs on Thursday and Friday for which being able to speak would be a bonus, as I’m not a physical comedian. Commedia dell'arte was never my forte. (Historical theatre reference.) This afternoon and evening I met with two friends, both of whom I was concerned I might pass on my disease to. Hopefully, I managed to keep sufficiently clear to avoid contamination. I met the second of the two at a pub that was noisy enough to bang the final nail into the coffin of my voice-box – and while I didn’t drink (save a medicinal glass of mulled wine), the environment still ...