(via Reddit)
There are British people who are cool, hard as it is to believe, and then there are people like me, who seem to be made of tweed.
This makes me so happy. Two of my favorite Englishmen.
EDIT: Ack ack ack. David Tennant is Scottish. BritainFail.(source: blogtor who)
Theory: Marcus Mumford (of Mumford & Sons) is the illegitimate love child of Stephen Fry and KD Lang.
Am I right?!
Jeeves & Wooster drinking game!
When watching the 1990s BBC television adaptation of the classic P.G. Wodehouse series, drink:
Every time Jeeves says, “I’ve taken the liberty.”
Every time someone expresses a desire to marry their cousin.
Every time Tuppy Glossop makes you physically ill.
Every time an actor is changed and you don’t even realize until halfway through the episode because they never bother to call the character by name until then.
And if you want to to get seriously fucked up: every time Jeeves says, “I think not, sir.”
“On YouTube, the highest compliment you can pay someone is to say you want to have their babies. And some people think that’s creepy, because it implies you want to do the rumpy-bumpy with them. But I mean it more in the sense that I would endure the intense pain of childbirth because I really like your art.”
-Paraphrased from Molly Lewis introducing her song “An Open Letter to Stephen Fry” at the Triple Door in Seattle, February 19, 2011.
Best part about this song? She was invited to perform it next month when the Harvard Secular Society awards Stephen Fry with some sort of fancy award. The Internet: Making Magic Happen.
Language is mother, my father, my husband, my brother, my sister, my whore, my mistress, my checkout girl. Language is a complimentary moist lemon-scented cleansing square or handy freshen-up wipette. Language is the breath of God. Language is the dew on a fresh apple. It’s the soft rain of dust that falls into a shaft of morning light as you pluck from an old bookshelf a half-forgotten book of erotic memoirs. Language is the creak on a stair; it’s a spluttering match held to a frosted pane; it’s a half-remembered childhood birthday party; it’s the warm, wet, trusting touch of a leaking nappy; the hulk of a charred Panzer; the underside of a granite boulder; the first downy growth on the upper lip of a Mediterranean girl. It’s cobwebs long since overrun by an old Wellington boot.
“
| — | Stephen Fry, A Bit of Fry & Laurie |
