Stephen Fry - Moab is my washpot

When I think Stephen Fry, I think funny, fat English-man. Blurred around the edges were the words ‘gay’ and ‘bi-polar’, but these were strictly rumours I considered unsubstantiated, at least in my mind. Apologies now to Fry who is most certainly gay, no rumours going on there. And if his autobiography Moab is my Washpot is true (and let’s face it, people often can’t be trusted to tell their own stories) then there’s indeed a bit of gumption in the bipolar stuff too.



Having picked up the bio in a second hand book swap in Kolkata, I admit it was a ‘well there’s nothing else half decent here’ decision. At the very least I expected a bit of a laugh.

What I got was the story of a confused, emotional, angst-ridden, intelligent boy/adolescent with a very proper English upbringing, complete with very improper behaviour. It might be a bit of a cliché, the private school boy gone bad, but Fry tells the tale without any of the ‘poor me’ that often accompanies similar tales. Going a step further, Fry takes pains to emphasis his behaviour is all his own doing, and that he was from a loving, stable family with parents who cared, siblings who stuck by him, and teachers who tried to reach out to the obviously struggling kid he was.

Following him as he attends a Hogwarts like boarding school, complete with the magic of reminiscence, it’s easy to picture where the arrogant little so-and-so is going to end up. In love. In unrequited love. In unrequited, forbidden love with another boy at his all-male boarding school. Ouch.

With a minimum of name dropping, and a solid dose of humility, Fry manages to tell the story of his life-less-ordinary in a way which makes it seem, well, ordinary. Except of course he isn’t ordinary. He’s brilliant, funny, famous, intellectual, oafish, avuncular (special nod to John Howard for that term), camp, roguish and – interesting.

The kind of guy you’d like to have at a dinner party I reckon (at least now his fingers aren’t so sticky).