A poster over at Gear Diary has cloned the electrons of Stephen Fry’s now globally-famous cri de coeur about smartphones and other like pocketable devices.
Go read it here.
Thanks to Jim Moat for the email tip.
Yeah, you still can’t get it from Fry:
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And for those of you (which probably includes Fry himself) who doubted I’ve read his novels, here’s one of the many bits I scanned and carry around with me in my PDA (currently a wretched Palm LifeDrive):
Jane’s house found itself somewhere near Onslow Gardens. There was money in her purse, no question, courtesy of her Uncle Michael no doubt, and, like every rich, ignorant girl these days, she passed herself off as an interior decorator.
“People saw what I’d done with the flat,” she said, as the taxi drew up outside a standard South Kensington white-pillared portico, “and asked if I could help them out too.”
The interior lived up to my ripest expectations. Hideous flouncing swags for curtains, raw silk instead of wallpaper, you can picture the whole sham shambles for yourself, I’m sure. Barbarically hideous and as loudly wailing a testament to a wholly futile and empty life as can be imagined. Just how fucking idle, just how rotting bored, do you have to be, I wondered, to sit down and dream up this kind of opulent garbage? She was standing in the middle of the room, eyebrows raised, ready for my gargles of admiration. I took a deep breath.
“This is one of the most revolting rooms I’ve ever stood in all my life. It is exactly as hideous as I expected, and exactly as hideous as ten thousand rooms within pissing distance of here. It’s an insult to the eye and fully as degrading a cocktail of overpriced cliché as can be found outside Beverly Hills. I would no more park my arse on that sofa with its artfully clashing and vibrantly assorted cushions than I would eat a dog-turd. Congratulations on wasting an expensive education, a bankload of money and your whole sad life. Goodbye.”
That’s what I would have said with just two more fingers of whisky inside me. Instead, I managed a broken, “My God, Jane . . .”
“Like isn’t the word . . . it’s, it’s . . .”
“They tell me I have an eye,” she conceded. “Homes and Interiors were here last week, photographing.”
“I’m sure they were,” I said.
“You should have seen the place when I moved in!”
“Such a sense of light and space,” I sighed. Always utterly safe.
“Men don’t usually appreciate such things,” she said with approval, moving to the drinks table.
“Fuck you, you mad, sad bitch,” I said inside, while “Even a man couldn’t fail to be knocked out by this skilful, tasteful blend of the ethnic and the domestic,” said my cowardly outspread arms.
— The Hippopotamus by Stephen Fry; pgs. 21-22
Right then. Hurry off and go buy his books. They are hugely funny, witty, and intelligent.
Previously in this blog:
Someone Bop Stephen Fry On His Noggin, Dammit