The Ode Re-Travelled

I have recently re-acquainted myself with Stephen Fry’s wonderful opus, ‘The Ode Less Travelled’. As a poetry lover and a longtime admirer of Mr Fry, it comprises almost perfect reading matter for me. But this time round – probably because I wasn’t scurrying around doing Stephen’s bidding (there are lots of enjoyable poetry exercises scattered through the book) – I noticed with some sense of satisfaction that practically all the poems quoted as illustrations of great verse at work are by writers that I number among my favourites.

Part of this satisfaction, if I’m honest, stems from the knowledge that Mr Fry is widely regarded as something of an expert on language and literature, and would be deemed to have excellent taste – if my taste runs parallel to his in some small way, I too must have good taste – yes?

But even more, it confirms the relationship I have enjoyed with Stephen for more than twenty years now. A purely non-reciprocal relationship, I hasten to add: I have never been privileged enough to even meet Mr Fry. But I have loved his work since the eighties when I emerged from my Monty Python-induced comedy blinkers to discover the ‘new’ generation of entertainers, including Dawn French and Jennifer Saunders, Ade Edmondson, Rik Mayall, Ben Elton, Rowan Atkinson, Hugh Laurie – and Stephen Fry.

Stephen stood out for me even then, and even against the backdrop of such talent. Not because he was so obviously so much more talented, no – but because one of the first things I knew about him was that he came from Norfolk, my home county. At that stage, not having read ‘Moab is My Washpot’, I was blissfully ignorant of the fact that Mr Fry was not what we Norfolk folk (or should that be Nor-folk?) would term a native. Not even close. In East Anglia you are only accepted as indigenous if your family has resided in the region for at least four generations. I can proudly boast of a Norfolk heritage (with the odd dash of Suffolk) going back to 1650 or so.

But the Frys actually moved into the area during Stephen’s childhood, making them one of those interloping families my parents complained of. Taking over houses real Norfolk people could have lived in, taking up places at our local schools (although even there Stephen failed me by being sent away to school).

I was educated two miles from the Suffolk borders, meaning that we were a mixed race school – mixed race in this context meaning that the Norfolk boys would challenge the Suffolk boys to challenges such as who could pee higher up the wall. All that changed when a handful of Londoners appeared: suddenly the local boys all became East Anglians, united against the common enemy.

The local girls had a different challenge – biology being what it is we were never going to win the urine-up-the-wall contest anyway – who could be the first to pull a Cockney? Since my husband is from Whitechapel (I met him much later – he wasn’t on offer then) I think that challenge may have had long term consequences for me….

As has the erroneous impression that Stephen Fry is a ‘local boy made good’. He has rectified the situation by choosing to champion Norfolk, I have to admit. But more importantly, Stephen has provided me with hours and hours of entertainment, laughter, thoughtful ponderings and sheer enjoyment through his acting, comedy, presenting, writing…..
So for that, and for sharing my love of Keats, Yeats, Tennyson, Eliot et al, I thank you Stephen.