mostly david ephgrave

While last night didn’t involve much sleep, it did feature an exciting dream in which I helped build what would be best described as a cross between an intricate slide and an epic theme park ride with a small team of people made up by my subconscious. (Time to get the psychiatrist from Return to Oz on speed dial.) The twists and turns were so intense I can still picture its complexity through the fug that comes with waking up to find what made sense while unconscious was almost completely wiped from my memory. Like many others, I’ve had dreams in the past that were so thrilling, the writer in me thought they would make a great film even when in the midst of them, only to find my mind's recycling bin had been emptied when I woke up; what a bastard the brain is. I don’t know why I was involved in the building of the thing, other than to say that in the dream I didn't question it ; this, despite the fact the plotline seemed to suggest ...

Today, I had a terrifying moment when I looked in the mirror and realised I look like a dark-haired Noel Edmonds. No-one on the planet wants to discover that; except for Edmonds himself, unless he grapples with his own self-esteem. At least when he had a goatee, I was safe; now he sports that bizarre mascaraed-in affair, I’m doomed. I may as well surround myself in boxes and open a theme park at Cricket St. Thomas. ( TRIVIA .) …Noel Edmonds though; fuck’s sake. Not Noel. Not helicopter-flying, cancer-defying-device-inventing Noel. Not the man whose face adorns every second fruit machine in the country. He’s a person with very few redeeming features; at least Hitler could paint. I guess this outcome was inevitable. I was suckered in by his suaveness at an early age. I even bought the Mr Blobby single on vinyl, for Christ’s sake. How could I pride myself in my taste in music and own a copy of that? It wasn't even for charity; at least Deeply Dippy came with an alibi...

It's with a small sense of pride that I note that Phil Collins, Adolf Hitler and a beardless Noel Edmonds are currently among my top thirteen results on Google Images. Now that, my friends, is what I’m talking about . It eclipses the time the most popular Google search about me was ‘David Ephgrave gay’ by far. I can rest, safe in the knowledge that my online presence rubs shoulders with the Trio of Evil that is the shout-singing gated-snare-loving drummer from the film Buster, the most reviled figure in recent history – and Adolf Hitler. To be fair, this situation is indirectly of my own making. The photos of Collins and Edmonds have featured on my blog, and the Führer photo (actually Bruno Ganz in Downfall) is a result of a Twitter comparison to Tim Wonnacott on Strictly Come Dancing. I may have brought my internet bedfellows upon myself, but I'm going to revel in them. Who cares if I'm never employable again?

No-one knows what Jeff Lynne’s face looks like. It’s the greatest mystery of the late 20 th / early 21 st Century; something the fantastically talented singer / songwriter, producer and multi-instrumentalist couldn’t even answer himself. When he burst on the scene in 1970 as a member of Roy Wood’s band The Move, the trademark ginger beard and afro were already present. By the time they’d morphed into ELO, he’d discovered his love for sunglasses. Since then, he’s never looked back (unless turning left or right). He’s maintained the same stylistic choices for forty-four years. Until I see evidence to the contrary, I wouldn't be surprised to learn he'd had facial hair since birth. Perhaps he kept the look to protect his anonymity. All he has to do to keep a low profile is remove his glasses and straighten his hair. Shave off the beard and he’d be unrecognisable. Noel Edmonds adopts a similar approach, to less success: run a razor across his ...

If you think Noel Edmonds’ shirts are bad, just imagine his wallpaper. It doesn’t really bear thinking about. I mean, think about it. Entering his house must be an attack on the senses (like being surrounded by a wall-to-wall colour-blindness test). You’d be at an instant disadvantage. This is Noel’s home turf; he's adjusted to the sensory overload long ago, while you’re gazing into virgin territory. He’d also be perfectly camouflaged. It’d be hard to tell where the wall ends and his shirt begins. It would be like being plunged in total darkness, while he stalked you in infra-red goggles: if it wasn’t for the high-waisted jeans, you wouldn’t stand a chance. (I think I’ve confused him with a lion. It's probably because of the beard.) If you look beyond Noel Edmonds’ shirt rather than directly at it, you’ll see a three-dimensional dolphin. (No-one has ever said that before, so well done me.)

Why do some people insist on wearing t-shirts like this? I understand that taste is subjective; one man’s idea of what constitutes fashion may differ wildly from the next. Let’s be clear, though: while style is certainly a matter of personal opinion, if you choose to walk a round with an outsize painting of a wolf on your chest, then yours is the wrong personal opinion . The same goes for having a wolf-themed tyre-cover on the back of your 4x4. I’ve got nothing against wolves, per se. They certainly have their place – but that place isn’t on another man’s chest. I’ve never seen a coyote wearing a t-shirt with a man on it; why would the other way around be acceptable? To be fair, I’ve seldom seen a wolf dressed in anything – save the occasional bit of sheep’s clothing. I’m generally not one for wearing clothing with pictures on it – or worse still, text.  I can’t really comprehend why you’d want t...