mostly david ephgrave

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...

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...

The other day, I dreamt about my dad, who passed away a little over two years ago. These dreams don't happen too often, but when they do, it can be difficult. It wasn't until I woke up that I remembered he was gone. In it, I'd bumped into him in a shop like Wilkinson, where he was browsing with a friend. I was in a bit of a hurry so it was more of a quick hello than anything. I may even have been a little brusque because I needed to get away. It was as I'd left the shop that I remembered there was something important I needed to tell him, but on turning back, I found I could barely lift my legs. The more I tried, the less I moved. I knew if I didn't hurry, he'd be gone, but it made no difference. It was like swimming against the tide. When I woke up, sadness hit me. The mundanity of the situation in the dream was bittersweet. I felt guilty for being irritable even though it wasn't real. It's not hard to decipher the meaning of my jelly legs. The prison o...

Today was my aunt's funeral. The first word that springs to mind when I think of her is "kind". She loved her family to bits and they doted on her. She married my dad's brother in 1965 and it was clear they loved each other inside out. And even though I saw her less as the years went by, she always made me feel at ease at family events. And as the woman who's put up with a male Ephgrave the longest, statistically speaking, she deserved a medal (he says in jest). The service itself was lovely. She'd played an active part in its planning, which made it feel more intimate. COVID restrictions meant only thirty people could be there, which must sting, but I was glad to be among them. And it was good to see my uncle and my cousins even if it was in the worst circumstances; it always strikes me how the Ephgraves have a look and sound about them, with shades of my nan and grandfather - and of course my dad - on every face. Inevitably, my thoughts turned to him today. ...

From September 2010, every month for two years, Glyn and I would carry four 4.5' square rostra 176 yards from Glyn's dad's chip shop to Mostly Comedy's then-venue The Croft before/after each gig, in all weathers, for a step in the venue floor to render them invisible when we put them in place. It was an utter ballache. Nine years on, these chunky wooden bastards still bug me. The Croft's stage was hardly the Palladium. And when I say "all-weathers", I genuinely mean all-weathers. The worst was snow, although it's not like a sunny day made it any more enjoyable. Not only were the rostra heavy, but they were also very cumbersome. They were wide and a nightmare to keep purchase; it was like holding a butter-coated tombstone with clammy hands. Navigating from A to B was akin to a scene from the Eric Sykes / Tommy Cooper film The Plank with equal slapstick; my knuckles practically dragged along the floor at the end of Orangutan-like arms by the end of our j...

If there's one thing that brings me joy, it's watching my dog shoot around the garden. It's simple, uncluttered enjoyment for him and me. As a breed with poor recall, I never let him off the lead on a walk, but in the garden, he's free. He zips about like a nutter while I chase him, and by the time he's reached his limit, if you stand by him, you can literally hear his heart beating; it can't be healthy. The fact my dad loved seeing it too adds to the moment. The first time I brought Elwood over, he demonstrated his version of warp speed to my dad's delight. "You couldn't have a better dog" was how he put it, and Elwood's long since proved him right; he's a shaft of pure sunlight bursting past the bad bits. I'm writing this in the garden as we speak, watching Elwood sniff the air on a windswept day. Behind him, the only daffodil to break through the earth yawns open like a tiny, floral firework. The fact there's just one is appr...

Today, I found myself thinking about the changing seasons, now that Autumn draws near (not that you'd know it from the weather) and how this relates in a sense to my new house. (That's the first time I've called it that, without any caveats, which is progress.) Seasons are an obvious way to chart passing time that's illustrative of rebirth and development. They roll on endlessly, outside of our control, leaving us to adapt to them; when it gets warmer, short sleeves are prevalent, and when it's brass monkeys, out come the Winter coats.  Personally, I'm standing on the edge of real change. After twenty-one years in Hitchin (or essentially my adult life), I'm moving to a village outside it, into the closest thing to my family's spiritual home*. My grandparents bought the house in the late-1940s / early-1950s and raised my dad and his brother here, with my dad moving back when my parents separated when I was a kid. And now here I am, making it my home with ...

Today would have been the last performance of my Edinburgh show about my dad, Good Grief. While I'm sad that I couldn't do it this year, if there's a Fringe to go to in 2021, I'll be up there with it; I don't bow out of potential debt that easily. Joking aside, it's strange how it all turned out. Like many people, I've watched the content of my diary vacate en masse thanks to the pandemic. I went into the office for the first time in weeks on Thursday and consulting my wall planner was like enjoying a visual joke, as nearly everything I'd planned didn't happen; no Bath Comedy Festival, no Brighton Fringe, no previews, no Edinburgh, and only two Mostly Comedys since January. I might as well have not put it up and saved money on Sharpies and Blu Tack in the process (and we're talking big bucks). I know I'm not the only one that's facing uncertainty, but there's still so much up-in-the-air. We're currently discussing with Hitchin Tow...

I tried to apply a practical mind today by doing some gardening to prevent my incoming directionlessness mindset from scuppering my day. The current circumstances, both personally and on a wider scale, feel like the perfect storm for low mood and lethargy. Meanwhile, I'm standing at Ground Zero, steeling myself against my depressive susceptibility (like Gandalf, dosed up on citalopram, screaming, "YOU SHALL NOT PASS"). At least I'm prepared for this, having spent years attempting to carefully manage my mental health to varying degrees of success. The pandemic, however, has left many people who've never considered what's a healthy strategy to stave off depression and anxiety, ankle-deep in a river of faeces, sans paddle. And that precise location, for those of you familiar with the app what3words, is fuckwit.johnson.shame. The change of scenery from laptop to garden definitely helped, as did focusing on a physical task. It's like when I disappear for an ho...

I spend a lot of time ruminating over the events of my childhood and those surrounding my dad's death. It returns, repeatedly, without choice. That's the nature of trauma from emotional abuse. And the impact when it's at its worst is frightening and can put me at risk. Recovery's often a case of one step forward, two steps back. You occasionally make leaps apparently from nowhere, though progress is fragile, particularly when you've been conditioned to take the blame, or made to feel your pain's only real if the person who causes it can see it. I hope this doesn't sound conceited, but yesterday, as I lay in the garden mulling it over, a statement came fully-formed in my head. And though I'd heard it before, at that moment, it had clarity:  "It's not your fault. You did your best. And if your dad were here, he'd see it." I can't understate what a massive shift this is. And last night, I had a glass of wine to celebr...

I lost my dad a year ago today; I don't know where the time's gone. He's never far from my mind though. And nothing I do could have happened without him. Because, as he once poetically put it, "You can't even wipe your own arse".  I'm inevitably feeling a little fragile. There's a dull, heavy ache in my body and the need to take things gently. Anniversaries seldom hold much weight for me as I know the date's arbitrary, but this one's a little different as it marks the first year gone. The first full cycle. And that's not easy to consider, however matter-of-fact I try to be. I visited the cemetery today where he's buried, as I often do, and took my dog with me. It was probably due to the hot weather more than anything, but when we arrived at the grave, my dog sat down at the foot of it and made himself comfortable, chewing the grass. It seemed like a good idea, so I joined him (minus the grass bit). We sat there together, by m...

It's fair to say we're living through a difficult time, and while it's hard to know what's ahead, it worth taking the opportunity to take stock of where we're lucky. I know I couldn't manage without my wife, and how fortunate I am to have her. We've been together for fifteen years and married for a little under six, and she's my most ardent supporter. Being with me isn't straightforward and comes with its challenges, but she stands up to them and makes things better. If I hadn't had her to help me through the mental health mess I was in when we met, I wouldn't still be here today. I know I wouldn't. And that comes with a lot of pressure, but she's still with me (the fool) and, despite it all, we still have a lot of fun. And while it may be soppy, I'm grateful for our dog. He brings a spark to my day and fills it with energy and positivity. He came from Wood Green Animal Shelter a little over a year ago and is a perfect fi...

Today, I received word that my dad's gravestone has been laid, along with a photograph to prove it (not that I was in any doubt). It's these things you can be a little unsure how you'll react to; it was like seeing his coffin at the funeral or carrying his ashes casket at the burial. There's a sense of finality and actuality that can be a little unsettling if don't prepare yourself for it. But any time I worry, I remind myself that it's just my dad and I love him, and I needn't be afraid, because there'll never be a reason to be frightened when he's nearby, ever. When the paramedic asked if I wanted to see him when I arrived minutes after he'd died, I faltered for a moment. But I quickly mentally corrected myself, because I knew I had a responsibility to him as my dad, and because I knew he'd need me. He told me more than once towards the end that I made him less afraid when I was there, so I was glad there was a way I could acti...

I'm not entirely sure if this photo's of my dad on holiday in Butlins in 1963 or me in Dreamboats and Petticoats. Barry Ephgrave (far left). Either way, it looks like a great place to be, and I love the undercurrent of causing trouble to it. I dread to think of what went on on that trip as the seven of them look let off the leash, so it's probably best that pictures can't speak. Let's just say they played a few rounds of Bingo then went home for an early night. Until recently, I'm not sure I'd seen any pictures of my dad as a youngster before my parents' wedding in 1968 when he was twenty-two, so it's been nice to stumble across them as I sort through things at his house. Seeing them is also marked by the thought that the building I'm in is where he came home to as it was where he grew up, which makes it more pleasant. It's nice to see so much of his personality intact in these pictures too, as it's like a welcome reminder ...

It's a measure of how appalling things have been in my personal life since my dad's death in May that I haven't posted here for the best part of three months, and was barely writing here before that either. I stopped because I found myself stuck in a loop with nothing new to say, or at least nothing I felt I could express freely without making my circumstances worse.  Being honest, this hasn't really changed, and I don't feel much more secure than I did back then, and this is largely thanks to the sustained behaviour of someone from whom I'd expect the opposite treatment if how they are related to me bore a resemblance to their conduct around me. But the stark reality I'm coming to terms with is the person I needed never existed for me or anyone else. They used to read my blog regularly, "So I know you're okay", which makes me wonder whether they noticed I'd gone silent, or why reading I was struggling didn't make them any kinde...

Today we buried my dad's ashes at the church in Woolmer Green where we had his funeral, opposite his old school and the pub he drank in regularly, in the same grave as his parents. The service was brief but pleasant, in the presence of his close family, and I had the responsibility of lowering the casket at the opportune moment. Doing this was hard, inevitably, but it also meant a lot to be the one to do it, and I hope it would give me dad comfort to know the task went to me; I love and miss him unceasingly and he's always on my mind (look out, Willie Nelson), and he told me not long before he died that I made him less afraid, so I hope I helped. There's one conversation we had in his last few weeks that was pertinent. Like many men, we didn't express the depth of our feelings until the last moment, but they could still be summed up in a few words. At the time, my heart ached as we navigated difficult topics knowing there wouldn't be a second chance. But I ...

I'm trying to find a little pocket of calm in a difficult time of change. It isn't easy. I have to accept I won't be able to reason with the person at the root of it because they're in denial. So I have to come to terms with their behaviour again. I now know this was inevitable, but it's still upsetting, particularly when I consider how quickly they apparently decided to abandon me for good. I miss my dad: the other day, I had a crisis and my first thought was to ring him for advice, then I remembered a beat later this wasn't possible. Coming to terms with the fact the conversation's over is such a horrible part of grief; I get out of a friend's car at the same spot he used to drop me off at and he's on my mind; I reach the end of a pack of coffee filters I bought when he was still alive and have the morbid thought that he went first. The other night I had a dream about him, and it was only the next day that I realised it wasn't the f...

I'm at a bit of a loss over what to do next, due to the lost momentum in my work-life and the emotional difficulties of my current situation. The cancellation of Edinburgh was nigh-on unavoidable, but while going ahead was already on a knife-edge because of my dad's death, the removal of the project I'd kept at least one eye on throughout the latter stages of his illness took away the opportunity to deflect some of the pain with work; doing it was something he was very much behind too, so taking it out of the diary was an extra wrench. I also pulled out to give myself time to rebuild, following the stress of my dad's deterioration, although the month that followed offered little opportunity. I have moments when I honestly don't know how to deal with what's being thrown my way. A disagreement over the principle behind what my dad didn't know when he wrote his Will looks set to drone on indefinitely, with the other party unwilling to acknowledge event...

I'm not having the best of times at the moment, as is evidenced by the radio silence, but it's fair to say that people's kindness has helped. The nature of things right now is such that when I just checked my email to see the guy I sold my dad's electric bike via GumTree (solely to raise money for Edinburgh) is still having problems with it so I'll need to refund the balance (thus lessening what's now been repurposed as the Edinburgh cancellation fund) I wasn't surprised, though at the same time I felt a little bit like pulling my hair out; the issue with the bike was entirely unintentional on my part, which he knows, but that doesn't mean I can leave it at that; when I'm down on money I still to pay for my cancellation my cancelled Edinburgh run anyway, it's a situation - albeit a totally unavoidable one - I could do without. But then I could do without it all at the moment. I'm still trying to process the loss of my dad and the fact I ...

If there was ever any doubt that I look like my dad, this photograph lays it to rest. I found it today while visiting his house to set up a location for my promotional image for Edinburgh (for which all will be revealed shortly). Each time I'm there, I see something that either makes me smile or makes my heart catch in my throat; it's like an exercise in getting closer to him, to be hit by the fact he's now so far away, and I hate that. It's not the first time I've seen a picture where our resemblance is so obvious, but it's still nice to be reminded of it. It looks so like the younger me in my band days, it's ridiculous, even down to the flares, which I used to wear despite the fact it wasn't the 1970s. It's a comfort to know we share this, though I just wish I could take to him about it. I talk to him quite a lot when I'm there on my own. I say how much I miss him and how I wish things weren't as they are, and try to explain the ...