mostly david ephgrave

Today, I sorted out and donated the money we collected for the charity Mind in exchange for the Mostly Comedy badges we gave away at our Festival last week. Delicate mathematics. As with our collection to mark Time to Talk Day at January’s show, it was great to see how generous people can be, with a fair few fivers, tenners and even twenty pound notes (twenters?) thrown into the bucket. This time we made £204.73, which was a pleasing byproduct of a festival that was a resounding success, and an encouraging sign of solidarity and understanding for a topic that’s often much-maligned and misunderstood; somehow, a comedy club is the perfect place to raise awareness of the subject of mental health. It makes me wish I had something I could give away in Edinburgh so I could take a similar collection at my show; I’m not sure what my venue’s policy would be, but it would be great if I could, particularly as my own experience of mental illness features heavily in it. When I p...

I need to fill a blank postcard with something arty this week, and I've no idea what. This commission is for a good cause. A few months ago, I received a Tweet from someone asking if I'd submit a postcard's worth of artwork for a local exhibition in aid of Bliss, a charity which provides vital information and support to families with premature babies. The postcards will be exhibited and sold, with all proceeds going to Bliss. My only setback is the fact I can barely write, let alone draw. Thankfully, you can also submit a collage or a photograph. The only stipulation is it has to be something related to Hitchin. I'd like whatever I do to be appropriate and show thought. I also want it to be appealing enough for someone to buy it. I think I've stumbled across a solution which may seem like a cheat. My wife's taken some lovely pictures of Hitchin. I'm sure one of them will do the job. I won't take credit for it. I'm not that sneaky. It may seem like I...

I just paid a cheque into my account that was so big, it was almost at novelty-charity-cheque proportions. It was about ten inches long and five inches wide (I’m still talking about the cheque). It was the sort of thing you'd pass to Terry Wogan from the midst of a studio audience. Just holding it in the queue made me feel self-conscious. It was large enough for me to put off taking it into the bank for a week, because I didn’t want the cashier to pass comment. I’d hoped to deposit it in a machine, thus avoiding any human interaction, but a quick recce revealed an insufficient slot. I had no choice but to submit my outsized money face-to-face. The scale of it was the tip of the iceberg. To compound my embarrassment, it was a cheque for £1. Here’s the receipt, to prove it:  I’m probably the only person on the planet to receive a cheque of equal monetary value to the cost of the paper it’s printed on – and then cash it. I love my life. ...

Minutes later, the baby crawled into the dog’s gullet, never to be seen again. It seems a strange scene to immortalize on a commemorative plate. Who'd want it on their wall? Not many, judging from the fact I found it in a charity shop. I bet the original owner couldn’t wait to get rid of it. How did the artist manage to convince his subjects to sit still for long enough to paint them? It’s a nightmare scenario. No sooner would the baby settle than the dog would move and vice versa. They must have got through a lot of plates. Imagine the length of the walk the dog went on to provoke an extended yawn. Think of the lockjaw. Did he have tetanus? Maybe the kid was a canine dentist. Perhaps the dog crawled down the baby’s gullet. I could be over-thinking it.

Is it me, or is this bear reclining a little too provocatively? Flirt. It probably is just me. I need to get out more. I don’t find it sexy, by the way, just perplexing. Why would anyone want a seductively posing ornamental bear? She appears to be in the midst of a sultry game of single-player draughts. Why is she wearing a skirt, a necklace, but no top? This bear is pure filth. The fact she’s wearing some clothing, rather than none at all - as she would in the wild – somehow makes it worse. A bare bear wouldn't be sinister. All in all, it’s a confusing concept. I doubt anyone will buy it. Not at £6.50.

Browsing the kids’ section of various charity shops this morning for a costume for the play I'm in made me feel very suspicious. I don’t know why. I could have been a young(ish) parent on the lookout for a new (old) outfit for my child. Even though I wasn’t, I still had a valid excuse - and yet I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was up to something nefarious. It didn’t help that I wasn’t looking for anything specific. Just something small, that would barely fit. It didn’t even matter if it was for a boy or a girl, as long as it made me look ridiculous. I just hadn’t factored in also looking stupid while I bought it. The worst shop of all was the British Heart Foundation. The man behind the counter eyeballed me as I walked around the store. His expression when I finally swooped on the toddlers’ section was priceless. ‘Thought as much’ it said. ‘I bloody thought as much.’ I felt like a man who’s gone into a newsagent to buy porn, then pretends to browse other magazines bef...

Yesterday, I saw the world’s most confident statue on sale in Garden House Hospice. Look at him standing proud amongst the bric-a-brac. It’s like he owns the shelf. He wears the expression of an ornament that thinks he won’t be without a home for long. He is the master of all he surveys; the dead men’s shoes, the non-prescription glasses, the VHS; everything . He is the King of Objet D’art. You could buy him, but you’d never, ever own him. The staff probably didn’t even put him on display; he scaled that cabinet by himself. Despite his obvious bravado, I’m suspicious. Surely he can't be that self-confident. He wound up in a charity shop. He may once have had pride of place on somebody’s mantelpiece, but he doesn’t anymore. Perhaps he made a personal bid for freedom. He probably felt infinitely superior to everything in the household.   Arrogant little tit.

Yesterday, I had one of my classic awkward moments; the sort of thing that could only ever happen to me. I was walking through town when I spotted a guy standing by a crossroad near a set of traffic lights. As our eyes met, he gave me a little wave as if he knew me; I didn’t recognize him, but waved back out of politeness. No sooner had he got my attention than I noticed clipboard in his hand and realised my mistake: he was a charity worker, looking to sign people up.   It’s worth clarifying that I have absolutely nothing against giving money to charity; I just don’t earn enough to commit to a monthly payment. “Could you spare a couple of minutes, mate?”. “I’m afraid not", I replied. "I’m in a bit of a rush." This was the truth. “Go on”, he pressed. “Just a minute .” “I really can’t. I’m sorry.” I kept walking, but to no avail. “Just a couple of seconds, then. Surely you can spare that?...

The other day when passing through King’s Cross Station, I spotted a man in a hospital gown and full clown make-up who was collecting money for charity. Or so he said. Problem is, that was all he said: “I’m collecting money for charity ”. He didn’t feel it was necessary to tell us which one. Apparently, wearing a zany outfit at odds with his location was the only validation needed. No need for signs or identity badges. No need to even announce which organization he was collecting for . That's not playing fair (other than the obvious fair / clown connection). I’m sure that in their early days, the National Socialist Party were a little strapped for cash. I bet the BNP have been known to organise the odd raffle or two to increase their funds. That doesn’t mean I would want to contribute. Collecting money on the street is sometimes a bit of a grey area. It can be a good way of raising awareness of a cause (and of taking ...