Why We All Follow Stephen Fry
If World War Three were to break-out tomorrow, I’d want to hear about it first from Stephen Fry.
If World War Three were to break-out tomorrow, I’d want to hear about it first from Stephen Fry.
Why? Firstly, he’d make the devastating news somehow merely quite interesting. And this would calm me. Let’s say, for example, I’m walking down Windsor high street on April 1st, in the morning of course, looking toward the pale skies over Eton and Stephen accosts me gently, (as he would) and tells me World War Three started officially at 10 a.m. Big news, to be sure.
The little prickle of suspicion that I’m being filmed as part of some April Fool’s Day send-up show will be assuaged by one look at that famous, genuine face. You see, he’s one of us. His teeth will not be bleached whiter than whale bones, his hair will seem either a bit too long or a bit too short depending on which series of Q.I. I’ve been watching, his jacket will be a little too wide in the shoulders and hang out the front because he is taller than me, (and probably you) but he will be gracious enough to stoop to make eye contact.
His eyes will be appropriately tired and his septum will still be gloriously bespoke. Even if he has recently travelled up the Amazon searching for endangered dolphins, he will be U.K. pale. Thus physically, he will have set the stage. He will be ready for me to say: “What?” He will make an incisive snap judgement on the probable level of my intelligence based on no more than this exchange. And he will be right. Compared to him, I am a moron. But so are most Prime Ministers. I take momentary comfort in that. And so should you.
This is the key to Stephen Fry. He is smarter than you, he knows how to properly construct a sentence, he doesn’t say ‘comprising of’ and ‘should of’ and he knows not to end a sentence with with.
He is England as she was, the school system when she actually educated, the BBC when it really mattered. Courtesy and manners are safe in his keeping while he waits for the rest of the world to come asking for them back. I’d want him to be the pilot of my Lancaster bomber and the voice in the control tower bringing me home.
So, after my impressive “what?” Stephen will smile benignly, and say, “Old chap, there’s absolutely nothing to worry about immediately, but there will be a spot of bother hereabouts soon enough. Perhaps it’s a good time to pop yourself back to Putney on the first available conveyance.” I could handle that. Christ, imagine if it were Lenny Henry I’d run into instead…
