mostly david ephgrave

It's common sense really, but today I felt the value of starting the day positively. I took the dog out first thing - well, what classes as first thing for me - which I do most weekdays and, despite the rain, we both enjoyed it. The only downside to dog-walking is I often find myself thinking about difficult conversations from the past that still niggle. It's the mental equivalent to coming up with the perfect witty retort days later when the moment's passed. I try to catch my rumination when I notice it and actively change the subject as I know it's unhelpful. I'm getting better at this, though it's an inexact science. While it's good to take the dog out, deciding to play the drums as soon as I got home was the real win. Changes in my routine since lockdown has seen me slow down a bit and put on weight I'd like to shift, but it's always difficult to find the right exercise to suit my back problems and - let's be honest - lethargy. Old Me spent m...

For a long time, I've had a complex about giving presents. I often leave gift shopping until the absolute last minute, not because I'm lazy but for fear that I'll choose something that isn't good enough and cause offence. I get extremely anxious about it and second-guess my judgment. I can trace this paranoia to two events. One Mother's Day when I was twelve or thirteen, I decided to write a song for my mum and record it on my four-track recorder so she could have a nice version to keep. I spent a few days methodically preparing a demo, recording guitar parts and then overdubbing vocals and percussion. It wasn't my finest work, but I took the time to get it right. I can still remember the moment I played it to her. We were in my bedroom when I gave her a card and the tape. As she ripped open the package to reveal the cassette, I felt tense. I put it into my Hi-Fi and we listened in silence. Suddenly, the whole idea felt wrong. She looked irritable. And her respo...

My main focus for the past few days has been organising and promoting the on-sale dates for July's proposed return of Hitchin Mostly Comedy (provided the Delta COVID variant doesn't keep us on ice) and editing the second and third episodes of The McCartney McAlphabet. Unsurprisingly, sales for Mostly have been cautious. I suspect they'll pick up once we know the Government's plans for 21st June onwards, but even bearing that in mind, the low take-up is concerning. I worry our seventeen-month closure could play havoc with a momentum we may never get back. And while we're prepared for our return to be a slow build, there's only so much we can juggle low figures when the club's not a cheap thing to run, and one too many loss-leaders will spell closure for us. (What a happy cheery chap I am.) The podcast, however, is lots of fun. Our first two episodes are now up , with number three being edited and four at planning stages. I'm really happy with how the fir...

The other day, I dreamt about my dad, who passed away a little over two years ago. These dreams don't happen too often, but when they do, it can be difficult. It wasn't until I woke up that I remembered he was gone. In it, I'd bumped into him in a shop like Wilkinson, where he was browsing with a friend. I was in a bit of a hurry so it was more of a quick hello than anything. I may even have been a little brusque because I needed to get away. It was as I'd left the shop that I remembered there was something important I needed to tell him, but on turning back, I found I could barely lift my legs. The more I tried, the less I moved. I knew if I didn't hurry, he'd be gone, but it made no difference. It was like swimming against the tide. When I woke up, sadness hit me. The mundanity of the situation in the dream was bittersweet. I felt guilty for being irritable even though it wasn't real. It's not hard to decipher the meaning of my jelly legs. The prison o...

I attended Katie Coxall's funeral online today and was glad to be a part of it. She died suddenly of cancer on 7th May at just fifty and had such vibrant energy it's hard to process she's gone. Just the loss of her on Twitter is akin to that of a Trump-like silence, only shit. And that's as far as the two can be compared in the same sentence. Katie's tweets had an intelligent bluntness the Great Orange One could only dream of (if a brain that compromised can even dream in the first place). Katie's talent was as vast and keen-eyed as her dark sense of humour. She was a creature of many hats (if creatures wear hats): an inspired illustrator with an instantly recognisable and brilliantly unique style, who was also a fantastic comic poet. Her sets at Mostly Comedy as mushybees back in the day were tear-streamingly funny. An audience member would hold a large pad aloft and turn the pages at her instruction to reveal a macabre illustration of a celebrity to which Kati...

We recorded our first More Than Mostly Comedy interview of 2021 last night with James Acaster, pulling the largest number of live viewers of a Zoom show to date. It's mad how far James' reach has extended since we first met at our second-ever Mostly back in October 2008. That said, if anyone from those days was going far it was him. He was a one-off from the start. While I get the impression he's a tough self-critic and would no doubt dismiss those early sets out of hand, his distinctive and now much-imitated delivery was there already. That unique turn-of-phrase, which must just be him, was well-established, as was his slightly formal dress sense. I've never known a chap his age own so many pairs of corduroys. (Says the man who just used the word, 'chap'.) What's nice is he's remained loyal to the club, despite his stellar career leaps, often returning when he can. So when I asked if he'd be free for an onstage interview in the autumn, and he wasn...

I may have just received my best review. "Three stars." How's about that then, ladies? You heard it here first. Nothing abnormal about my internal beanbags. And they're not my words, they're the words of a professional radiologist. Just think how many testicles they've observed in the course of their career, the lucky buggers. And my pair get top marks. Well, when it comes to normality at least. Well done me. Those are nine words I'd happily see scrawled on the wall of a public toilet referring to me, even though I'd admit to being surprised by the formality. It's not the place you'd expect such a dry tone to be in evidence. Though I suppose it depends on where the toilet is. I'm sure you get a higher class of graffiti than usual in the gents' at Trinity College, for example. It's worth clarifying I didn't get this write-up out of the blue. Last week, I had an ultrasound after noticing a possible lump. Ever since I convinced my ...