mostly david ephgrave

This turning 41 lark is a bit of a funny one. While last year's birthday was one to be aware of, this year has made me a smidge more melancholy. Only a bit, though. I'm well aware of how these little emotional peaks and troughs fluctuate, and consequently, I try not to read too much into them. Reflection can be a poisoned chalice, and I've had a lot of reasons to look back lately, which were bound to affect me, so I'm trying not to overthink it. I try not to get too drawn into what doesn't matter now. The online world is a case in point. It only takes a quick browse of Instagram or Facebook to be confronted by at least three things that'll make you feel shit, particularly if you're not in the habit of carefully cultivating your social media presence. You start being bothered by stuff you'd never consider in real life.  "Why wasn't I invited to this terrible event I'd despise if I'd attended?" Why does everyone look so happy in this ...

Fuck me, I'm forty. The fateful day. The milestone's significant and inevitably a moment for reflection. It seems like only yesterday I was celebrating my thirtieth while on tour in the Netherlands and suddenly I'm a step closer to what's commonly regarded as middle-age...if I'm not there already. And all those gits who say "Life begins at forty" are conspicuous in their absence. I may speak to Citizen's Advice about a recount. Joking aside, I see my fortieth as a positive chance to sink more comfortably into my skin. For much of my life, I questioned my self-worth to the point that it made me unwell. The events of my childhood scarred me mentally and left me riddled with self-doubt and ill-equipped for a happy adulthood. The kid I could have been was drowned out by the role forced upon me and it crippled my progress. And so much energy was consumed in pretending I was okay when I wasn't. I had to bury the truth at all costs. It didn't matter h...

I'm forty in three months and very conscious of all the negative self-talk I still do. And I'm worried that if I don't address this habit soon, it will start to define me (if it hasn't already). That may sound melodramatic, but it's meant sincerely. The fug of depression frequently slows me down and affects my sense of self-worth. I work on this with therapy and meditation, but the recent fallout from a difficult familial relationship that I had little control over knocked me sideways while  filling me with enough projected responsibility  to feel like I'm rebuilding from scratch. Add my dad's death to this - along with the financial implications of my mum's unyielding approach - and it's like I'm running on empty.  I can't help but compare what my parents were doing at my age. When I was born, my mum and dad were 35 and 34 respectively and had been married for nearly thirteen years so they had time on their side to have a baby (though they w...

Today's birthday's officially known as "The one before forty"; shit it. I'm not entirely sure how I feel about it; I don't know where the time's gone. My thirtieth (which I spent on stage in the Netherlands, having Happy Birthday sung to me by a theatre-full of Dutch people who went into an inexplicable mass-chant afterwards) seems like only yesterday. And now I'm a year away from achieving the lifespan of John Lennon. Part of the problem with being an actor is for your first few jobs you're probably the youngest person in the cast, so you feel the need to age up. Then before you know it, you're somewhere in the oldest 25%. As long as I can spend the rest of my career cast in shows about the elderly, I can maintain the illusion of youth (though if my over-washed lockdown hands are anything to go by, I'll be making my living as an octagenarian hand-double). I even scuppered myself by choosing Glyn as my double act partner as he...

Today’s my thirty-seventh birthday and I don't want to worry anyone, but to stay on track, I need to release my equivalent to Double Fantasy in three years' time. This is another way of saying, “If I want to achieve as much as John Lennon did in his lifetime within the same time-frame, I need to get it all in before I turn forty in 2021; I’m nothing if not ambitious. I didn’t sleep at all last night, which was nothing to do with my impending birthday, though as the hours crept by, I inevitably found myself pondering today’s milestone and what it means to me. It’s a strange one to reckon with as, while I’m under no illusion I’m old, the fact I’m edging dangerously close to the next biggie - my fortieth - is a concerning. The past decade has flown by in the blink of a crow’s-footed eye, so who’s to say the next ten years won’t too? Is my brain set to the wrong shutter-speed or did I black out for a while somewhere down the line? This morning I had an answerphone message f...

I’m warning you with Peace and Love that Ringo Starr's 77 today. It’s extraordinary to think the most underrated Beatle is pushing eighty, particularly when he’s looked the same for a good decade or so; it seems constantly wearing sunglasses and that closely-cropped beard since the late-1980s has paid off. He’s a man who provokes frustration as, despite once seeming the most amenable Fab, these days he’s very hard to like; it’s as if he felt it necessary to take Lennon’s brashness after he passed away, along with his iconoclastic nature, famously slamming his old home town Liverpool, his fans for requesting signed pictures and often putting Paul in his place. While I find it hard to warm to modern-day Ringo, there’s one thing I know for certain: the suggestion he wasn’t a good drummer is a myth. His playing is about as distinctive as it gets; it wouldn’t matter what kit he's behind, you’d always know it’s him, yet for some reason he always ...

Today is Paul McCartney’s 75 th birthday; a fact which seems to have slipped below the radar despite the furore over the fiftieth anniversary of Sgt Pepper of late. Sadly, his constant presence at high-profile events in recent years seems to have resulted in a dip in popularity (and an increase in cynicism) particularly in the UK. He still sells concert tickets by the bucket-load, but there’s a sense this is purely because he’s the only living Beatle who co-wrote the lion's share of their material - which he trades on heavily live - but perhaps that’s where the interest in his work should end. As someone with huge respect for him as an artist, this makes me very sad. Only today, I stumbled across an internet poll that deemed him the third-best Beatle; the man who wrote Eleanor Rigby, Yesterday, Let it Be, Hey Jude, Blackbird, She’s Leaving Home, Here There and Everywhere, Helter Skelter, Golden Slumbers and You Never Give Me Your Money to name just a sizeable few; for...

What does any self-respecting thirty-six-year-old who was given £30 in Amazon Gift Card vouchers for his birthday spend them on? Special Edition remasters of two of Paul McCartney’s best 1980s albums Tug of War and Flowers in the Dirt, that’s what. You’d think this many years into the game my interests might deviate, but apparently not; the man who first bought Flowers in the Dirt on cassette from Wembley Market in his early teens is buying it again in his mid-(don’t you dare say “late”)-thirties on a different format; give it another twenty years and I’ll be paying to have the album implanted into my head. Yet again, I prove where my allegiance lies; I didn’t use the vouchers to buy the 50 th Anniversary remaster of Sgt Pepper- even if that was essentially another Macca-led project; I spent them on his less-celebrated yet often as interesting solo work. A lot of people would sniff at that statement, but only because they’re comparing the man’s la...

I’ve noticed #DisneylandParis25 is trending as a sponsored hashtag on Twitter to mark the park's twenty-fifth anniversary; I was there for its first birthday: I’m older than Steamboat Willie. I remember three things predominantly about that holiday: (1) it rained a lot, (2) my mum wouldn’t go on any ride except The Adventures of Peter Pan (which was the tamest option there, save a park bench on Main Street), and (3) my dad and I kept going on the Haunted Mansion repeatedly every day because it was great. People might knock Euro Disney, particularly in its early days when it was a lot more basic, but I loved it. I was so excited to be there, having always wanted to go to Disneyland as a kid. There was no way the bad weather (or the fact it was in France) was going to ruin it for me. It’s testament to how much I’d wanted to go that so much of it is still so vivid in my head; it was my first experience of a theme park and was a pretty good initiat...

My dad told me today that my nan would have been 100 this weekend if she were still alive.  This seems hard to fathom; it certainly beats my personal milestone of turning 35. My nan was a lot of fun and we were very close. I have quite a few vivid memories of her, despite her passing away when I was very young. I used to follow her around her house and she used dote on me and encourage my creative whims. I was a big fan of Rod Hull & Emu at the time and desperately wanted an emu of my own (in a puppet sense), so she helped me make one, using a sparkly sequined blouse for the body and a pair of tights for the neck and head. It was surprisingly effective despite our limited means, and did the trick until my parents tracked down a proper puppet, which I think came from a friend (Bernie Clifton?). She also helped me finish off all of the chocolates from my advent calender in just one sitting; she was a bad, yet playful influence.  It's all about anniversaries at the moment....

I briefly met up with my mum, my dad and their friend Anne today for a quick drink to mark my mum’s seventieth birthday. I’m sure she’ll be pleased that I've committed her age to the internet, though to be fair, she uses the line ‘I’m nearly seventy’ so often as an excuse to not do something that it’s become a running joke. I sent her a text yesterday to remind her she only had twenty-four hours left to roll out her catchphrase before it became inaccurate; I’m that kind of son. Pushing my gentle teasing aside for a moment, my mum is one of the most youthful and active ‘nearly / actually seventy-year-olds’ I know. Her job is demanding, yet she approaches it with energy and humour, and is clearly very good at it. She’s an organiser and a problem-solver; traits I think I picked up from her myself. She’s also - dare I say it? - funny and easy to talk to. I wonder if she’ll lend me fifty quid? I’m proud of her for all she’s achieved. I’m also grateful for her support. I ...

I spent the morning of my thirty-fourth birthday (which is today) walking my mum’s dog. It was a nice way to spend it. He’s always pleased to see me and he’s good company. I tend to walk him most Thursdays, but I haven’t been able to for the last few weeks, due to other commitments. I think he still remembered me, though he’d probably give the same enthusiastic reaction to anyone who turned up at the door. He’s not much of a guard dog, that boy. I began the day by running for the bus. This is always a good way to start. By the time I sat down, I was sweating copiously. I was surrounded by teenagers on their way to school; all far more comfortable in their own skin at that moment than me. How can this be the case, when I’m in my mid-thirties? The more I tried to control my perspiration, the worse it got. I looked like a human water feature. I managed to get my secretory glands in control by the time I got off, which was a relief. I didn’t wa...

Today, I briefly forgot my own birthdate. I was arranging a meeting with a friend, trying to find a time that was good for both of us. We threw a few options back and forth as we flicked through our diaries, nearly reaching a stalemate. In a last-ditch attempt to resolve the issue, she suggested the fourteenth of May. It was only on checking my phone’s calendar that I realised it was of significance.  THIS IS THE BEGINNING OF THE END. At least it had come up out of context. Its personal import wasn’t at the forefront of my mind. It’s still a concern; if there’s one 365 th of the average Earth’s orbit I’d expect to be ingrained on my memory it’s this. I shouldn’t need a device to remind me. Isn’t this the sort of thing you’re meant to look out for? I hope it’s not a sign of decline. It’s more likely a result of tiredness: my brain has been fried by writing. Whatever the reason, I may invest in a Dymo Labeller. I’ll also buy a ...

I’d pull the same face as the Queen if I’d seen so many Trooping The Colours. She’s attended all bar one since her reign began, plus a good few before. That’s a lot of times to watch the same procession. The novelty must have worn off in the late 1950s. It’s not much of a birthday celebration if it happens every year. No wonder she has two of them. It must be hard to feign interest. The last eighty-eight years must be a blur of red, gold and black. They probably all roll into one. The faces beneath the bearskins may have changed through the decades, but not so much that she’d notice. I bet she longs for variety a little once in a while. If a guard’s hat falls off or a horse shits in the square it must feel like a blessed release. Here's hoping Prince Phillip adds his own sotto voce commentary to spice things up.