If the sight of Stephen Fry poncing fatly about in his cream-coloured trousers rolling long words around in his mouth like an unpopular child at a spelling bee doesn’t make you want to bite your own tongue off and mail it to him in frustration, then you’re obviously dead in the brain.
Oh, I’m sure he’s lovely, but it’s blurbs like the one for his latest book - Stephen Fry in America, a collection of chortle-filled anecdotes about rolling around the US in a London taxi cab for his latest TV series (See? Even his chosen mode of transport is annoyingly whimsical) - that give the big man a bad name.
This is “Britain’s best-loved comic genius” sharing his “unique humour, insight, and warmth” about the American people, says the press release - well, only in the sense that I share my unique humour, insight and warmth after six pints of Fosters and a very bubbly curry.
Verbal flatulence and cravats do not a national treasure make. America - provided you ship him back once a year for the Baftas - you can keep him.
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