‘More
Fool Me’ is the third volume of recollections and anecdotes from Mr Stephen
Fry; adored quiz person, writer, national treasure, General Sir Anthony Cecil
Hogmanay Melchett, KCB.
Much
of the success of a memoir, I think, depends on interesting content, and the
ability to follow when shorthand and nicknames are used. Unfortunately for dear
Mr Fry, on this occasion both elements work against him. This book covers his
life as a media darling, a time of great success and joy for him, but not very
exciting for everyone else. His first two volumes tell the story of his
childhood and university years, both of which are inherently interesting.
However, his time in the eighties and early nineties is little more than a long
list of name-checks and endless meals at the Groucho. It is so disappointing,
as even Stephen Fry can not pull it off and make it a good read.
It
starts well. He writes with warmth about his childhood again, and goes over all
the ground covered in the two preceding volumes. He only actually gets down to
business on page 69, when he lists all the major establishments in which he has
snorted cocaine. Everything prior to this, he reassures the reader on several
occasions, can be read in more detail elsewhere.
The
next part of the book is a soul-searching analysis of a life maintained in the
media whilst filled by a desire to consume large quantities of a Class A
prohibited drug. He does this well, and some of his reflection is quite
charming. However, he continues to make excuses to the reader that he is
working hard not to sound like a luvvie. All that does is make him sound even
more of a luvvie.
After
another one hundred and fifty pages or more, the anecdotes begin to drift, and
it seems like he ran out of time, because spliced on are the pages from his
diary from 1993. The diary is a long list of nicknames, details of excessive
evenings in London clubs, and stories about people who are only known to their
friends in show business. There is a limit to how many ways a person can record
evenings of cocaine and vodka and make them at all fun.
What
is the reader looking for in book three of Mr Fry’s memoirs? Considering his
life and the great successes, something in depth about the wonderful success of
‘Blackadder Goes Forth’ would not go amiss. It is only found here in the
photographs. Alternatively, some insight into the making of ‘Peter’s Friends’
would also be welcomed, but is absent.
People
also want to know about the birth of ‘QI’, but the timeline does not stretch
that far. I think it will be testing even the most patient of readers if
another volume appears that skates briefly over these successes in the way that
this one has done.
Should
Stephen Fry be blamed, or is it the fault of the pressure from publishers for a
Christmas hit? It is a shame, as he remains the wonderful charming man that he
has always been. The chance to record him at his most creative has pretty
conclusively been missed – or skipped.
