The hippopotamus by Stephen Fry
Surprised I managed to finish it, what with juggling work and writing and some time for relaxation and mental health, but this month I read the above novel. And I am struck by the characterisation of The hippopotamus, and thus delved deeper into Stephen Fry’s writing psyche. But not that deepily; at least, not to the depths of a hippo with a cocktail on its nose. The main character of the book is poet and newspaper columnist (and hippo), Ted Wallace. It’s clear from the initial scene that he’s got an inflated sense of self importance as he gets fired and goes to stay with relatives. I had just been sacked from my paper, some frantic piffle about shouting insults from the stalls at first night. I love these creative descriptions of his editor, that, note, also describe his contempt: my wet turd of an editor had shrilled the kind of anile little runt who, in foyers and theatre bars the West End over, can be heard bleating into their gin and tonics I paus