Heretofore, I have neither liked, nor ever employed, the term “asshat.” I hadn’t even the foggiest notion of what it might mean.
When I was reviewing films, I considered Fry to be a fair-to-middlin’ actor. His Oscar as Wilde was not particularly convincing, and his turn as the butler Jeeves in Jeeves and Wooster suffered next to Hugh Laurie’s impeccable impersonation of Bertie Wooster. Still, he was not an actual embarrassment to the craft. I mean, it wasn’t like he was Keanu Reeves.
In recent years, however, Fry seems to be carving out a second career for himself as a public embarrassment, emitting increasingly weirdsmobile would-be profundities. It is as if, having once frequented the British radio show I’m Sorry I Haven’t a Clue, he seems compelled to prove at every opportunity the truth of the show’s title to his own life.
Fry’s crowning achievement in cluelessness, thus far, is his pronouncement that no woman truly enjoys sex. And the proof of this is that he knows of no woman who frequents churchyards and public toilets, there to grab hold of some anonymous man, so she might drag him off to sexually ravage him in the foliage.