Nicely Fryed

Last Thursday, we, my husband and I wot, got nicely Fryed at Stephen Fry's final performance at the appropriately lavish-to-the-point-of-being-laughable Civic Theatre in Auckland.

As 'Lord Snot' on The Young Ones.

M and I have been fans of the big man for many a year, read most of his entertainingly confessional books, rolled on the floor at his masterful rendition of P.G. Wodehouse's comic genius Jeeves, and watched all of his host-with-the-most-and-more performances on QI, without ever feeling over Fryed, as it were.

Not a bit of it, in fact. Rather, at one point a few years back I was not content with all this arms-length contact and felt I simply must write to the man directly and at a length rather longer than an arm, to put to words my overwhelming sense that we were, Stephen Fry and I, practically one in the same person in our sufferings of artistic angst and chronic self-doubt, never mind the differences of sexuality and sex indeed, we were both attracted to men, weren't we? We were and indeed still are.

Such was my need to tell Stephen how alike we were, I even convinced myself that he would benefit from knowing of my microscopic existence on the other side of the world and duly penned said letter and tracked down a possible address to which to send it.

Alas for Fry, and for the world, I never quite found the courage to send the tragically long lament that would probably only have found its way into the void anyway.

But seeing and hearing my twin in all important respects perform live this week, while not quite as intimate as a personal letter followed by an earnest reply requesting an ongoing lengthy correspondence and eventual meeting, it was closer than I've ever gotten before and dare say am ever going to get in the future - though one can hope. And for that, I must say, I am very much obliged. Nicely Fryed indeed.