More Fool Me by Stephen Fry

 

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.