mostly david ephgrave

I recently discovered that Jeff Goldblum’s middle name is Lynn. Everything else is now a footnote. Since learning this, I’ve not known what to do with myself. It’s the type of trivia that can change a man’s life. It’s probably akin to dropping acid; once you’ve done it, you never truly go back. Part of you changes irreversibly forever. Or so I’ve read. I’m not comfortable living in a world where Jeff Goldblum’s middle name is Lynn. It doesn’t seem right. I know I always have, as he predates me by twenty-nine years, but it’s different when you’re oblivious. You're not shouldering the burden. It’s not just Goldblum that's been ruined, but Jeff Lynne. Now, I can’t think of one without the other. They’ve become an amalgamation in my head: a dinosaur-and-alien-fighting fly with ginger hair and a Brummie accent. I once walked past Goldblum backstage at the Old Vic. That's two name-drops in one sentence. His middle name was Lyn...

Whilst sorting through some paperwork this morning, I stumbled across mine and Glyn’s original notes to decide a name for Mostly Comedy. I’m not surprised I still had them, as I’m a natural hoarder. It takes me years to get rid of anything. If it weren't for the obvious hygiene implications, I’d have every piece of toilet paper I’ve ever used, neatly filed away. I say “neatly”; they’d be festering in a bin bag in my garage. (Let’s move away from that train of thought.) It struck me how quickly we'd settled on the name. It only took one side of A5 paper. Mostly Comedy was clearly the best choice; Mad Half Hour Comedy Club sounds like something presented by Pat Sharp. I’d been toying with the word 'Mostly' for a few years. It started life as an adlib at the end of a solo acoustic gig. I'd signed off my set by saying “I’ve been mostly David Ephgrave”. If the show hadn’t been recorded, I would have forgotten the phrase. Mostly David Ephgrave becam...

I switched on BBC Breakfast this morning, to watch a presenter drop two AA batteries on to the studio floor, to see if they bounced. I was delighted my TV Licence Fee was being put to good use. There was method to her madness. She wasn’t just filling time. It was meant to be a way of finding out if they had any charge left, though I still think putting them in a device and then seeing if it works is preferable. An empty battery bounces and a full one doesn’t: that was the crux of the item. I won’t bore you with the science; partly because I can’t remember it, and partly because it didn’t work. When she tried it, they both bounced identically, wasting five minutes of Charlie Stayt, Naga Munchetty and 6.8 million viewers’ lives in the process. Why didn’t she test it privately first, thus saving a lot of embarrassment? She even advised us not to try it ourselves, in case they leaked. So, if the theory worked, we weren’t meant to use it. ...

I like to think of Shazam as just one stressed and overworked person, frantically flicking through their iTunes library. No sooner have they correctly identified a song, than another call comes through. The workload is tremendous. By setting up the service, they created a rod for their own back. They used to love music, but now it just makes them uptight. To do it so quickly would take considerable talent. I could probably name every Beatles song from a few bars (smug face), but that means being familiar with 214-ish tracks. Imagine having to recognize any recording ever made. We're talking Aswad, B*Witched, Chumbawamba, everything . How it works is a mystery. I’d look it up, but I don't want to destroy the magic. I once managed to convince it that me playing my acoustic was a song by ELO though, which is a small source of personal pride.

For the last few days, I’ve been helping myself to apples from a box left outside one of the houses on St. John’s Path in Hitchin. Either someone nice lives there, or it’s the Wicked Queen. It’s a sad indictment of the world we live in, that I first felt mistrust. ‘What have they been laced with?’ I thought to myself. I sunk my teeth into one, expecting a suspicious almond aftertaste. Thankfully, there wasn’t. It tasted of apple. Perhaps they wanted to lull me into a false sense of security, by waiting until I'd started taking them before adding the cyanide. Poison isn’t cheap. (Not that I'd know myself.) Leaving out fruit for passersby is a lovely, selfless thing to do. Why can’t more people be like that? I might pop a note in the box to thank them. Would it be impolite to also ask for sandwiches?  I've just remembered that apple pips contain cyanide anyway. I'm terrified.

Imagine one of The Eggheads giving you a hug. It would be cold, emotionless and terrifying. The cuddle would have an alarming functionality. It would also be a good opportunity to check whether they have a pulse. They don’t strike me as a particularly tactile bunch. Why waste time showing affection that could be spent spouting trivia? Not to spice up conversation, but to show superiority.   Picture an Eggheads dinner party, with each one vying for attention. You’d spend the duration in fear of being shot down or corrected. The atmosphere could be cut with a knife. The show revolves around a depressingly stark concept. The Eggheads presumably get the same fee whether they win or not. The Challengers only get money if they beat them. All under the helm of a constantly fluctuating host. The presenter being determined by whether Jeremy Vine or Dermot Murnaghan is less pissed on any given night.  (I once wrote a tweet to that effect that was favourited by Vine himself...

Jon Snow’s socks go all the way up.  At least that’s my theory. He certainly loves showing them off. No Channel Four News trailer would be complete without a bit of gratuitous ankle. It’s like he’s trying to mesmerise his audience. Perhaps he thinks his footwear will soften the blow of any shocking stories. Either that, or he’s under the misapprehension that he’s a cheeky Victorian woman. It’s a desperate attempt to impress personality on proceedings; a way of saying ‘I may be a newsreader, but I’m just like you’. He may as well wear a t-shirt with 'I’m Not As Think As You Drunk I Am' emblazoned on the front (though I doubt the C4 producers would allow this). I bet it’s more than just a pair of socks. I suspect he’s sporting a stripy, one-piece body stocking under that suit. Let’s hope we never find out. I doubt my heart could cope with it.   Jon Snow's socks have their own Facebook Page. Check it out .