mostly david ephgrave

What was the first thing my dad said to me today when I walked up the street toward him as he chatted to one of his neighbours? Was it, “Hi Dave”, “Hello” or “How are you?” No. It was, “ You’ve put on weight”. Who cares if it’s something I'm self-conscious about, that general etiquette dictates you don’t point out? With my dad, you head straight for the nub of the matter: do not pass go and do not collect £200. So it was that I was thrown headfirst into a conversation about the side-effects of the tablets I'm taking; so thrown off-kilter by the inappropriate observation, all I could say was, “Thanks for pointing that out.” When it comes to this stuff, my dad has form. The most legendary example of unfiltered Barry Ephgrave among my friendship group has to be the time we went on holiday with a few of his workmates and my friend Chris, when I was a teenager. We were eating in a chip shop when I accidentally put so much ketchup on my food I wondered out loud if should get...

The other day, I walked past some men doing building work, presumably for the council, when a car sped past us that contained people who clearly knew one of builders in question. “Do some work, you fat cunt”, shouted one of the car’s passengers to the chap he knew. “Wanker!” replied the builder. There’s nothing quite like approaching your job with pride and professionalism. At least it wasn’t the workman who’d dropped the c-bomb, but I’m not sure his one-word exclamation was much more appropriate. He also bellowed it at the top of his voice after taking a deep breath from the diaphragm; he may not have grasped the etiquette to the situation, but at least his cuss was well-supported. It’s fair to say people’s standards are slipping. Take the guys in the car, for example. I’m pretty sure I haven’t ever shouted “cunt” out of a moving vehicle - or a stationary one either - in my whole lifetime, and I grew up in Stevenage when I woul...

This morning, I was forced to listen to the hairdressers beneath my office discuss a male friend going to A&E because he’d inserted “a whole champagne bottle up his arse”. (I wasn't actually forced; I switched my fan heater off to hear the outcome.) You learn a lot when you rent an office above a salon. Some of it you wish you could unlearn quickly. Apparently the bottle was “up there for a day and a half”. I can’t help but question the logistics. I also doubt the stylists’ testament: you couldn't get the whole bottle up. How did he manage to assume a position to slide it in there in the first place? Presuming he didn’t have assistance. Was he then forced to stand for the duration? Why the hell didn’t he see a doctor sooner? The urgency of the situation would negate the embarrassment. Particularly if he didn't take the cork out first. His chosen object sets the mind boggling. There are plenty of other household items and implements he could have used...