Stephen Fry
MORE FOOL ME
Contents
List of Illustrations
Chapter One
Catch-up
Very Naughty, but … in the Right Spirit
Moral or Medical?
The Early Days
Notes from a Showbusiness Career
Living the Life
Dear Diary
Postarse
Illustrations
Follow Penguin
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Stephen Fry is a leading light in film, theatre, radio and television the world over, receiving accolades in spades and plaudits by the shovel. As a writer, producer, director, actor and presenter he has featured in works as varied and adored as the movie Wilde, the TV series Blackadder and Jeeves and Wooster, the sketch show A Bit of Fry and Laurie, the panel game QI, the radio series Fry’s English Delight, Shakespeare’s Globe’s celebrated 2012 production of Twelfth Night (as Malvolio) and documentaries on countless subjects very close to his heart.
He is also the bestselling author of four novels – The Stars’ Tennis Balls, Making History, The Hippopotamus (the writing of which is described herein) and The Liar – as well as two volumes of autobiography – Moab is My Washpot and The Fry Chronicles, publishing in five unique editions, which combined to sell over a million copies.
In his early thirties, Stephen Fry – writer, comedian, star of stage and screen – had, as they say, ‘made it’. Much loved in A Bit of Fry and Laurie, Blackadder and feeves and Wooster, author of a critically acclaimed and bestselling first novel, The Liar, with a glamorous and glittering cast of friends, he had more work than was perhaps good for him.
What could possibly go wrong?
Well, as the 80s drew to a close, he discovered a most enjoyable way to burn the candle at both ends, and took to excess like a duck to breadcrumbs. Writing and recording by day, haunting a never-ending series of celebrity parties, drinking dens and poker games by night, in a ludicrous and impressive act of bravado, he fooled all those except the very closest to him, some of whom were most enjoyably engaged in the same dance.
He was, to all intents and purposes, a high-functioning addict. Blazing brightly and partying wildly as the 80s turned to the 90s – AIDS became an epidemic and politics turned really nasty – he was so busy, so distracted by the high life, that he could hardly see the inevitable, headlong tumble that must surely follow …
Containing raw, electric extracts from his diaries of the time, More Fool Me is a brilliant, eloquent account by a man driven to create and to entertain – revealing a side to him he has long kept hidden.
Praise for Stephen Fry’s memoirs:
‘Dazzling, breathtaking, exquisite, virtuoso writing. A remarkable book: funny, witty and astonishingly revealing about the complex soul within’
Mail on Sunday
‘Deliciously gossipy and very funny’
The Times
‘One of the most poignant, funny, intelligent, frank and horribly addictive books you’re likely to read all year’
Sunday Telegraph
‘Extraordinary, affectionate, engaging, cunningly planned and so crammed with incidental delights’
Simon Callow, Guardian
‘One of the most extraordinary and affecting biographies I have read. I can’t wait for more’
Daily Mail
‘Oh dear, I am an arse. I expect there’ll be what I believe is called an "intervention" soon. I keep picturing it. All my friends bearing down on me, and me denying everything until my pockets are emptied. Oh, the shame.’
Also by Stephen Fry
FICTION
The Liar
The Hippopotamus
Making History
The Stars’ Tennis Balls
NON-FICTION
Paperweight
Moab is My Washpot
Rescuing the Spectacled Bear
The Ode Less Travelled: Unlocking the Poet Within
Stephen Fry in America
The Fry Chronicles
with Hugh Laurie
A Bit of Fry and Laurie
A Bit More Fry and Laurie
Three Bits of Fry and Laurie
Fry and Laurie Bit No. 4
Dedicated to Jo, my Personal AsSister and subject of ‘simply the best decision I ever made in my entire life’. In grateful thanks and with profuse apologies for all the extra work that this will bring …
The fool doth think he is wise, yet it is the wise man that knows himself to be the fool
As You Like It, Act 5, Scene 1
The past won’t sit still for a moment
Jonathan Meades, 2014
Illustrations
Chelsea. Oh dear.
Chelsea – seems a waste of time to take trouble over tying a bow tie but neglecting to shave properly.
Kim Harris, Chelsea.
Kim in Draycott Place, taken by self (I solved that Rubik’s Cube too but months after my father cracked it).
Kim Harris in our Chelsea flat.
My beloved parents …
My personal AsSister doing what she does better than anyone.
In 1986, I spotted a house for sale in classic west Norfolk brick. Reader, I bought it.
From P.G Wodehouse.
From P.G Wodehouse.
Chelsea: Pipes are hard work. P.G Wodehouse signed photograph evident. As is Rubik’s Calendar, which is just showing off.
Chelsea flat, at work on something. You can just see the signed photograph of P.G Wodehouse on the left.
(All author’s collection)
Rowan’s inexplicable ability to find something more interesting than me.
Attempting a carol. Christmas Day, Norfolk, 1987.
(From the collection of Jo Laurie)
Chelsea – damn, I wish I still had that pullover.
(Author’s collection)
All the details are on the clapperboard.
(Author’s collection)
Quiet, dignified downtime. Eilean Aigas, Inverness-shire, 1995.
Everyone always anxious to sit next to me on the Jeeves and Wooster set.
(Author’s collection)
Hugh, perfectionist as he is, always stays within his character: a drivelling poltroon from dawn to dusk while Jeeves and Wooster was being filmed …
(From the collection of Jo Laurie)
Official publicity still for Jeeves and Wooster. I remember it as if it were twenty-five years ago. (BBC photo library)
Filming Jeeves and Wooster at Farnham, 1989. Sister Jo visiting the set.
Giving Charlie Laurie his daily vodka and yoghurt smoothie. Christmas, 1988.
It’s that butch look. Christmas, 1988.
Newborn Charlie Laurie, adoring godparent, 1988.
My butch look, 1987.
My butch look, 1987.
(All from the collection on Jo Laurie)
Hysteria publicity show, 1991. (ITV/Rex Features)
Backstage at Hysteria benefit show. Sadler’s Wells, 1989. (From the collection of Jo Laurie)
Reading at, I think, a Hysteria show. (Author’s collection)
(See over) I know what you’re thinking, and you’re to stop it, January 1991. (Getty Images)
Self, Ben Elton, Robbie Coltrane, Griff Rhys Jones, Mel Smith, Rowan Atkinson. (Getty Images)
An idiot and an imbecile.
Ready to lay down their lives for my country.
A blithering idiot and a gibbering imbecile.
(All BBC Photo Library)
Radio Times 1988 Christmas edition: Saturday-Night Fry feature. (Immediate Media)
Hugh, Jo and I. (From the collection of Jo Laurie)
With sister, Jo. (Getty Images)
A signing at a Dillons bookshop. London, 1991. (ITV
/Rex Features)
Hugh’s warmest, most approving look, 1991. (ITV/Rex Features)
A profile of a liar for the publication of The Liar, 1991, with sister Jo. (Tatler Condé Nast)
Tourrettes-sur-Loup – my best audience. (From the collection of Jo Laurie)
Tourrettes-sur-Loup – picking on someone my own size. (From the collection of Jo Laurie)
Hugh and I revealing our weekend recreational identities. (BBC Photo Library)
Mandela Birthday Concert, Wembley Stadium, 1988. About to perform in front of 80,000 people. Not in the least nervous. Oh no. (Getty Images)
I felt comfortable and ALIVE.
Incredibly, I still have that shirt. Haven’t burnt it or anything …
(BBC Photo Library)
Self and Hugh wining, dining and pointing at Sunetra Atkinson. (From the collection of Jo Laurie)
A bit more Fry and Laurie. (BBC Photo Library)
Cap Ferrat with Mrs Laurie.
Cap Ferrat, 1991 – Charlie Laurie, by this time, rightly, bored of my attempts to amuse.
Stripey me.
(All from the collection of Jo Laurie)
Self and self the National Portrait Gallery. Maggi Hambling’s completed work.
Next to Maggi Hambling charcoal portrait of me commissioned by the National Portrait Gallery. Do NOT mention the hair.
(Author’s collection)
Maggi Hambling’s National Portrait Gallery picture of me.
(National Portrait Gallery, London)
Taking pleasure in red wellies: life gets no better, 1990. (From the collection of Jo Laurie)
The American Peter’s Friends poster.
Peter’s Friends publicity shot. From left: Emma, self, Hugh, Rita, Alphonsia – it’s clear I’m thinking about the Time Out critic.
Full cast of Peter’s Friends, 1992. From left: Rita Rudner, Ken Branagh, Alex Lowe, Emma Thompson, self, Alphonsia Emmanuel, Imelda Staunton, Tony Slattery, Hugh, Phyllida Law.
(ITV/Rex Features)
Publicity still for Hysteria, 1992. I have no words. (ITV/Rex Features)
Self. (Getty Images)
Labour Party fundraising gala. Beside Dickie Attenborough and Melvyn Bragg.
Sir Paul Fox, the Prince of Wales, self, Alyce Faye Cleese: premiere of The Man Without a Face.
With Alyce Faye Cleese at The Man Without a Face premiere.
(Author’s collection)
Publicity for Comic Relief, April 1991 – m’colleague, Hugh Laurie and Emma Freud, self, Jennifer Saunders, Tony Slattery. (Getty Images)
Note where I’m playing from. Total duffer. Inverness, 1994. (From the collection of Jo Lauire)
Jo and my third nephew, the most excellent George.
Carla Powell checking to see if my beard is real. It is.
(Author’s collection)
I can’t quite explain why I’m sitting like that: I’m going to say in order to keep the jacket smooth … (Getty Images)
Chapter One
There is nothing very appealing about showbusiness memoirs. A linear chronology of successes, failures and blind ventures into new fields is dull enough. And then there is the problem of how to approach descriptions of collaborators and contemporaries:
‘She was adorable to work with, incredibly funny and always intensely cheerful and considerate. To know her was to worship her.’
‘I was captivated by his talent, how marvellously he shone in everything he did. There was a luminosity, a kind of transcendence.’
‘She always had time for her fans, no matter how persistent they were.’
‘What a perfect marriage they had, and what ideal parents they were. A golden couple.’
I could there be describing actors, TV show presenters or producers with total accuracy, leaving out only their serial polygamies, chronic domestic abuse, violent orgiastic fetishes and breathtaking assaults on the bottle, the powders and the pills.
Is it right of me to be searingly, bruisingly honest about the lives of others? I am quite prepared to be searingly, bruisingly honest about my own, but I just don’t have it in me to reveal to the world that, for example, producer Ariadne Bristowe is an aggressively vile, treacherous bitch who regularly fires innocent assistants just for looking at her the wrong way; or that Mike G. Wilbraham has to give a blow-job to the boom operator while finger-banging the assistant cameraman before he is prepared so much as to think about preparing for a scene. All these things are true, of course, but fortunately Ariadne Bristowe doesn’t exist and neither does Mike G. Wilbraham. OR DO THEY?
The actor Rupert Everett in his autobiographical writings manages to be caustic in what you might call a Two Species manner: bitchy and catty. The results are hilarious, but I am far too afraid of how people view me to be able to write like that. Very happy to recommend both his volumes of autobiography/memoir to you, however: Red Carpets and Other Banana Skins and The Vanished Years. Ideal holiday or Christmas reading.
So I now must consider how to present to you this third edition of my life. It must be confessed that this book is an act as vain and narcissistic as can be imagined: the third volume of my life story? There are plenty of wholly serviceable single-volume lives of Napoleon, Socrates, Jesus Christ, Churchill and even Katie Price. So by what panty-dribbling right do I present a weary public with yet another stream of anecdote, autobiography and confessional? The first I wrote was a memoir of childhood, the second a chronicle of university and the lucky concatenation of circumstances that led to my being able to pursue a career in performing, writing and broadcasting. Between the end of that second book and this very minute, the minute now that I am using to type this sentence, lies over a quarter of a century of my milling about on television, in films, on radio, writing here and there, getting myself into trouble one way or another, becoming a representative of madness, Twitter, homosexuality, atheism, annoying ubiquity and whatever other kinds of activity you might choose to associate with me.
I am making the assumption that in picking up this book you know more or less who I am. I am keenly aware – how could I not be? – that if one is in the public eye then people will have some sort of view. There are those who thoroughly loathe me. Even though I don’t read newspapers or receive violent abuse in the street, I know well enough that there are many members of the British public, and I daresay the publics of other countries, who think me smug, attention-seeking, false, complacent, self-regarding, pseudo-intellectual and unbearably irritating: diabolical. I can quite see why they would. There are others who embarrass me charmingly by their wild enthusiasm; they shower me with praise and attribute qualities to me that seem almost to verge on the divine.
I don’t want this book to be riddled with too much self-consciousness. There is a lot to say about the end of the 1980s and early 1990s, and you may find the way I go about it to be meandering. I hope a chronology of sorts will emerge as I bounce from theme to theme. There will inevitably be anecdotes of one kind or another, but it is not my business to tell you about the private lives of others, only of my own. I consider myself incompetent when it comes to the business of living life. Maybe that is why I am committing the inexcusable hubris of offering the world a third written autobiography. Maybe here is where I will find my life, in this thicket of words, in a way that I never seem to be able to do outside the bubble I am in now as I write. Me, a keyboard, a mouse, a screen and nothing else. Just loo breaks, black coffees and an occasional glance at my Twitter and email accounts. I can do this for hours all on my own. So on my own that if I have to use the phone my voice is often hoarse and croaky because days will have passed without me speaking to a single soul.
So where do we go from here?
Let’s find out.
Catch-up
I have a recurring dream. The doorbell sounds at three in the morning. I struggle out of bed and press the entry-phone button.
‘Police, sir. May we come in?’
‘Of course, of course.’ I buzz them in. A series of charges
that I cannot quite make out are chanted at me like psalms. I am arrested and cuffed. It is all very hurried and sudden but entirely good-natured. One of the policemen asks for a photograph with me.
We cut, as dreams so cinematically do, to a courtroom, where a much less sympathetic judge sentences me to six months’ imprisonment with hard labour. He is disgusted that someone who should know so much better could have committed so foolish a crime and present so ignoble an example to the young, impressionable people who might errantly look up to him. The judge wishes the sentence could be longer but he must abide by the guidelines laid down by statute.
To the sound of mingled cheers and jeers I am conducted down to the police cells and into the back of a van, which is delightfully decorated and exquisitely supplied with crystal, ice buckets and an amazing array of alcoholic drinks.
‘Might as well get lashed, Stephen. Last drinks you’re going to have for some while.’
I’m at the prison. All the convicts have turned out to greet me. Their welcome is deafening and not in the least threatening.
A vast dining hall. I sit to eat in a huge wide shot like Cody Jarrett as played by James Cagney in White Heat. And then we see me in mid-shot, as cool and unruffled as Tim Robbins’s ageless Andy Dufresne, taking my tray to the table.