I’ve just read More Fool Me by Stephen Fry.
I finished the book – I don’t know why.
There’s oodles of self-mockery
Couched in torrents of post-hoccery,
Where processions of media dahlings
Murmurate like cantankerous stahlings
Especially at night, often in clubs,
Where one avoids hoi polloi snubs.
In rarefied air of this sort
One can visit the bog for a snort,
Meet actors, directors, all of the kind
While imbibing until dawn’s drunkenness blind
Afore a stumbling or taxi home
Or to one’s next work randomly roam.
Always a sense of the naughty boy
But planned by a promoter’s ploy.
A complex sort, our Stephen,
Whose path in life was oft uneven
Despite a comfy start in middle classes
Before he took to lads, ignoring lasses…
But that’s now a long time past
In memoirs already so vast
This is already number three
While the author’s fifty is yet to see.
No doubt there’s many more
O’er which fans will eagerly pore
But for me, this falls below a parity
Which demands purchase for charity,
Second hand, perhaps twice lived,
Experience cleaned, already sieved
But out of synch, bereft of rhyme,
One wonders if it’s worth the time.