mostly david ephgrave

Tonight's venue had no mic, which is a setback when you've only just recovered from losing your voice.  It would actually have been a hindrance, regardless. A comic doesn't just use a microphone to be heard; it's also a prop. Without it, you feel naked. You also start suffering from that age old actor's quandary: "What should I do with my hands?" Not being amplified is particularly annoying with my material, which relies on being thrown away. It's supposed to sound naturalistic. When you project it, it comes across false and pre-prepared. It's the same when I'm working with Glyn. I've lost count of the times we've been booked to play a venue that hasn't taken into account that we're a double act, and therefore need two mics. I have a vivid memory of anuno-microphono mixed-bill gig in Edinburgh; every other act could sit back on their material, while Glyn and I had to shout and gurn to get ou...

Every nose-blow at the moment is like a small, yet potent explosion.  My cold is going through its various stages very quickly. Yesterday, I had next-to-no voice, so we had to cancel recording IYIE. Today, it's gradually found its way back to existence, though at a quieter, more gravelly level than usual. I sound like a timid Rod Stewart (though Rod was never known for his timidity; picture his trousers, for Chrissakes). While I'm glad the germs seem keen to vacate my system fast, I wish they wouldn’t do it in force via my nostrils every five minutes. The noise (and all that goes with it) is very embarrassing. To compound the situation, I ran out of tissues this morning, so my trip to my mum's house to walk her dog was made with a big box belonging to my wife filling out my bag. It made me feel suspicious, though I may have been over-thinking it. I was meant to do a gig in Kingston tonight, which, had it been yesterday, would ha...

Storing squeezy honey next to barbecue sauce is an accident waiting to happen. This photo is a waste of web space. I never used to think they looked alike, but in the dingy light of my food cupboard the similarity is striking. It would only take a momentary lapse in concentration for my mug of redbush tea to end up with a distinctly South American tang, or my plate of chips to taste like a swarm of bees have sicked up on it. I’m all for experimenting with flavour, but there's a limit. Every time I reach for one or the other, I intend to put it back on a different shelf, but then forget about it. It’s like my subconscious craves living on the edge. The risk of calamity makes it all worthwhile; you should see me on Heroin. Don’t let it be said that I didn’t have any warning. Only with a foul taste in my mouth will I finally learn my lesson. Then I’ll make one of those foreboding ‘never retrieve a Frisbee from an electrical substation /...

Frustratingly, I appear to be losing my voice. This is down to a rapidly advancing cold, which can’t be helped, but the timing isn’t good. I was supposed to be going to a family member’s hospital appointment tomorrow, but have cancelled this, as I didn’t want to give anyone my lurgy, plus we’re meant to be recording the next episode of In Your Inner Ear in the evening. I then have gigs on Thursday and Friday for which being able to speak would be a bonus, as I’m not a physical comedian. Commedia dell'arte was never my forte. (Historical theatre reference.) This afternoon and evening I met with two friends, both of whom I was concerned I might pass on my disease to. Hopefully, I managed to keep sufficiently clear to avoid contamination. I met the second of the two at a pub that was noisy enough to bang the final nail into the coffin of my voice-box – and while I didn’t drink (save a medicinal glass of mulled wine), the environment still ...

How’s a man supposed to bitchily tweet about a group of affluent, well-read, highbrow yet style-bereft individuals if BBC2 decides not to broadcast this week’s University Challenge? It’s like the goalposts have shifted. Until today this was my weekly ritual. However good or bad my Monday may have been, I could settle down in front of the television at around 7:30pm to 8ish to mock a handful of people who are more intelligent, yet more self-conscious than me. It’s not much to hold on to but it’s still something. It helps me keep a sense of perspective; however bad I feel about myself, there’s always somebody out there with a worse haircut; in the case of the contestants of this Paxman-fronted vehicle, at least eight of them on any given week. I’m also capable of choosing an appropriate jacket. Tonight, my weekly mental leveller was removed, to make way for a Simply Nigella: Christmas Special. This simply (Nigella) isn’t good enough. It's not a M...

Some might say that posting a video clip of you and your double act partner dancing as elves is a bit of a cop-out for a blog post, and who am I to argue? Still, if you've spent two weeks rehearsing solidly - and grown a woman's body in the process - it would be a waste, not to make the most of it. Personally, I think it's our facial expressions that make it.

Today, I thought I’d share another one of my old band Big Day Out’s more obscure songs, Smiling On. It didn’t feature regularly in our sets, or on any of our CDs, but it was a fun song to play when we did it. It’s gentler and more introspective than a lot of the stuff we’d perform at our gigs, without quite falling into ballad territory. Listening to it now, I’m struck by its simplicity – and while the lead vocal irritates me, I like the groove of the main riff. While I always thought it was a bit ‘throwaway’, Roger King (who ran the local music fanzine Live Circuit) used to say it was his favourite Big Day Out song. Its funny how these things stick in your head. It goes to show you: one man’s meat is another man’s poison (or insert another maxim that makes sense).