This is just a delight to watch, like pretty much everything with the Stephen Fry brand embossed on it like a box of fancy delicious chocolates from a swank bougie store. Perhaps not the most apt metaphor, but you get my point.
My admiration for Mr. Fry knows no bounds: his humor in the face of ego-obliterating depression, the television he’s acted in, written, or made (QI, Black Adder, Fry& Laurie, Jeeves& Wooster, etc.) his books* — whether read in print format or listened to on audio while taking long walks along the lakefront and trying to come to grips with your own fucked up dishrag take on life– his podcasts, his lectures, his proud and unapologetic atheism, his evident glee in science and technology and human fucking progress, his facial tics, his charity work….
Watch this. It makes my heart sing. Even though I think he has gotten too skinny and I don’t fully understand why he’s sporting James May’s hair–
–still. Amazing. Wonderful. Genuinely happy-making.
*Moab is My Washpot, his early autobiography, is staggering in its scope, its humanity, and its sadness. But for class-A fiction that makes you ponder modern history, human cruelty, science, morality, nationalism, queerness, love, insecurity, and alternative teleologies, it doesn’t get much better than Making History It’s maybe not a lighthearted beach read, but it is a tremendous book.