mostly david ephgrave

I’m currently on the train to Edinburgh, about an hour away from my final destination (DRAMATIC) on what’s been a non-eventful yet comfortable journey. The trip has been all the more pleasant for the fact I was able to upgrade my ticket to First Class for an extra £20, which may be a false economy, but it’s been nice to have the luxury of more leg-room (I have two) and to be brought tea, coffee, orange juice and food for free (insert inverted commas where necessary). While this is the second time I’ve done the Fringe on my own, it’s still a strange feeling. The hardest bit is leaving my wife and home for a city that’s at its most exhausting and full-on at this time of year. If anything, the journey is like lowering myself into the shallow end of the pool and adjusting to the temperature, primarily due to the table of media types next to me, who haven’t been particularly overbearing, but are still niggling me nevertheless At least the scener...

Sometimes, I have very little patience with humanity; last night was such a time. I was travelling back from my preview in London when I found myself opposite a man on the train, who was displaying the sort of horrific eating habits you’re likely to be confronted with when on a train late in the evening (as Eric Clapton might put it). As is often my way, I decided to vent some spleen about him on Twitter, as apsychological release; here’s what transpired, compiled together for posterity; enjoy: 9:56PM: There's a guy in the second carriage of the 21:52 fast train to Cambridge who's eating crisps in a way that makes us all a part of it. 9:58PM: To compound the situation he's wearing headphones...and keeps wiping his face elaborately with the back of his arm after each & every crisp. 9:58PM: I won't lie: it's disgusting. 10:00PM: He just answered the phone by saying "Yow". He's also ge...

One thing I've learnt from collating my 2015/16 Tax Return is that receiving a chiropractic treatment costs the same as a train to Kettering. Both services come in at £37.00, which isn't cheap, particularly when one leaves you in incredible physical discomfort and anguish and the other is a chiropractor appointment. But which was the most indispensable? I definitely gained more from having my bad back looked at, as the trip to Kettering was for a gig that, while in a lovely building (a converted bookshop that doubled as a music venue, with guitars, mandolins and ukuleles on the walls), the show itself was very disorganised. It was run by a couple of secondary school students with their parents, for which I didn't get my expenses recouped and came out the other side feeling like the elephant in the room, because I wasn’t a teenager; I tend to walk into these things (when I don't catch the train).  It could have been worse. That £37 t...

Today’s been a long, yet productive day. It started with me rushing to get ready in time to be given a lift to Hitchin Station by my mum this morning to meet the 8:19 train to Peterborough (like 'The 8:15 from Manchester', only less of a Nineties kids’ TV affair). Glyn and I have always said we’d one day like to travel to the festival by train, rather than making our way up in a van or people-carrier that’s stocked up to the brim with props, luggage and the rest. So it was today for the first time for me, though I still had a large suitcase, a satchel and a couple of plastic bags to contend with. Even this was only possible after sending a suitcase full of electrical equipment, a projector screen and a stand in three separate packages couriered by two different companies; at time of going to press, the projector stand has arrived, with the other two parcels set to come tomorrow, all being well. (…and by “all being well” I mean, “Without them, there's no show....

I had no empathy for a joint of meat under a heat lamp at a Toby Carvery until I boarded the 18:23 train from King's Cross to Hitchin.  The temperature is unbearable. To make things worse, the train packed. I'm sitting by the window with the Sun's rays blaring in, eating a halloumi wrap, just to ramp the heat up. If I don't arrive at my destination in ten minutes, this will be my final blog post.  To think I paid for this 'luxury'. Do First Great Western have no quality control? Have the people in charge of the company never used their own service? There's a sweat patch spreading on my back that'll bear resemblance to the Turin Shroud by the time I get up to leave this heat trap. This isn't public transport, it's a kiln.   We're currently immobile at Welwyn North station. I've lost the will to live. I've also lost eight stone. I'm an emaciated Gollum lookalike. Oh well: no change there then.  

Someone has left an open packet of wine gums on the train; should I or shouldn't I?  They're sitting on the table by the seat in front, taunting me with their prospective juiciness. It's proving hard to resist. There'd be no effort involved; no fumbling with the tiny tin foil with my fingers. I could just reach over and pop one in my mouth. No gummy sweet tastes better than a free gummy sweet. I keep saying WINE gums, when that's not strictly true: these days, they're called FRUIT gums. When did this change come about? Did somebody sue them for trade descriptions? Surely no-one ever believed they had any actual alcoholic content. If they did, it would make for a cheap night out.  The reason for my late night train journey is I'm coming back from a gig in Brighton. I've been on the 'Laughing Horse Pick of the Fringe' bill for the past couple of nights. They've served as a little warm-up for my show, which starts tomorrow. I'm...

I suspect the woman on the train wasn’t as interested in the subject of flame-retardant materials as the man sitting next to her thought she was. ‎ This didn’t stop him ploughing on. It’s surprising how long someone can talk about non-combustible insulation without pausing for breath; in this instance, the duration of a train journey from King’s Cross to Hitchin, taking the slowest route. We’re talking forty-five minutes – or  he  was, more like. ‎ That doesn’t take into account when we were held at a signal (the red light being a sign for the driver and not for  him ). It seems Mr Asbestos was hell-bent on filling every inch of available airspace with fire-resistant drivel; completely oblivious to ‎ the monosyllabic interjections from his disinterested companion. ‎ (I've swallowed a dictionary.) ‎ That woman showed patience. It was probably imagining dousing him in petrol and setting him alight that got her through it. It certainly helped me.