mostly david ephgrave

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 ...

Unfortunately, we're unable to reopen Hitchin Mostly Comedy this month as we'd hoped, as we can't meet the current COVID-19 restrictions in a way that makes the event viable. Our official stance (with legs widespread). Fortunately, Hitchin Town Hall is  very keen to get us up-and-running again, as are we, but at the moment, too many problems stand in our way: the biggest being that the venue's current capacity is lower than our breaking-even point. While we're prepared to shoulder some losses just to get going again, it's just not practical if we can't cover our costs even when we're sold out. The event would also have to be run cabaret-style, with chairs & tables instead of rows to assist social distancing, but the smallest booking we could take is a party of six, which would limit interest immediately, which we can't afford when we're already on the backfoot. The good news is we're already discussing ways to make it work as soon as we c...

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...

Today I rocked my leopard-print facemask on the bus; trendsetter or cunt? The jury's out. In many ways, I tested this poser to the max by changing buses in Stevenage Town Centre. If there's one place you're most likely to be mocked or taken down for defying fashion norms, it's there. But despite sitting at the bus stop with the facial equivalent of Tarzan's loincloth covering my air holes for a good fifteen minutes, I remained unchallenged; after that, I'm invincible. I may as well visit the Kop in full Everton regalia without feeling I'm tempting fate. The reason I bought a leopard-print mask - along with a few others that weren't plain black - was to quash the conventional male wisdom of not standing out. While I may be prone to anxiety, I'm comfortable enough in my skin to risk not just buying things from the sedate men's sections of whatever shop without feeling I'm calling my manhood into question; moisturiser's moisturiser, for fuck...

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 found myself pondering the nature of the phrase 'work in progress' this morning. It's a statement that surfaces a lot in my job. Half of a stand-up's year revolves around previews and festival dates that lead toward Edinburgh that you mark as work in progress to alleviate expectation and prevent reviews from coming too early. Just chatting to a friend who attends a performance will usually involve the words, "It's not ready yet." But it suddenly occurred to me today that to ever remove the disclaimer is almost ludicrous as the idea that it's ever finished is a misnomer; the tweaking - like a playground bully with his victim's nipples - never ends. You can also apply the statement more broadly: life is, by its very nature, a work in progress; you're always chipping away at existence bit by bit, trying to change your ways for the positive and doing your best. And, to paraphrase Lenny Kravitz (as I often do), "It Ain't Over 'til Its...

Distance and space are helping me reframe the nature and mechanics of my relationship with my mum, with some startling realisations. It's a delicate process, as mulling over the detail can reopen the door to the pain of all the unresolved feelings in the face of someone who can only shut you down. So you have to tread with caution. But if you sidestep the exhaustion from begging to be heard, the overall picture is revealed. Put simply: my mum could have been kinder. She could have tuned in to my requests, which weren't outlandish, and shown interest in helping my future too. She had it in her power to exercise that choice, and to play a part in what lay ahead as well. But when given the option, time and again with as much calmness as I could muster in escalating circumstances, she stonewalled me and threw up barriers and actively chose the route that led to a future without me. That outcome was of her making - just like the acts of emotional abuse through my childhood were too...