I’m not sure that I have yet had the chance on this blog to fully express just how much I heart Stephen Fry. I feel about him like young people feel about Justin Bieber or Robert Pattinson. OK, maybe not quite like that but, without wishing to sound like one of those people who is desperate to prove they liked someone before you did, I have been a fan for many years and was definitely on the bandwagon before he attained national treasure status.
However, before last month the only time I had seen the Frymeister in person was in the first class carriage of a Virgin Pendolino to Euston (I got on at Liverpool Lime Street and he at Stafford). This was a very nerve-wracking experience because I spent the entire journey in terror that he was going to show himself to be a graceless oaf and all my long-held illusions would be shattered. Fortunately, he was perfectly charming and even returned the slightly demented smile I gave him on my way back from the toilet.
When a smattering of live dates were announced to coincide with the release of The Fry Chronicles, the second volume of his autobiography, there was no way I wasn’t going to be there and so it was that I found myself spending successive Monday evenings in the company of the divine Mr F in two of London’s finest Halls, the Royal Festival and the Royal Albert. Both evenings covered similar ground although the first felt more like a formal book reading, with a lectern and a number of lengthy extracts from the tome in question, and the second a more relaxed affair, complete with armchair and chaise longue.
The book, which I have now read, begins with our hero being released from prison and ends with him on the verge of both TV stardom and a cocaine habit. I can think of no other showbiz autobiography in which the writer is so hard on himself, but he seems determined to show all aspects of his personality: insecurities, inadequacies and all. It is sad to see how uncomfortable he is in his own body and the extent to which the outwardly confident persona hides a deep self-loathing. He hinted at this in the live shows, telling of the difficult relationship he has with sugar in all its forms. However, the highlight for me was hearing the story, complete with impression, of his first meeting with Hugh Laurie, to whom the book is dedicated and with whom he felt an instant “collaborative love”.
The Albert Hall shows were much-hyped due to the Twitter factor but, despite a veneer of interactivity, the questions submitted by his “disciples” mainly served as prompts for anecdotes from the book. Not that this is a bad thing – to be honest, I was a little concerned at the prospect of someone who suffers from low self-confidence taking to the stage without any real idea of what he was going to talk about. I was surprised by how nervous he appeared – that thing he does where he pushes his fringe out of his face was much in evidence – and how moved he seemed to be by the reception he received. I suppose you can have people telling you you’re a national treasure, but every so often you need to see it to believe it.
