‘I’m sure I’ve read this before,’ said the Fawn, skimming through my review of Heroes in the week-before-last’s Speccie.
‘I’m sure I’ve read this before,’ said the Fawn, skimming through my review of Heroes in the week-before-last’s Speccie. ‘You can’t have done, we were away when it came out,’ I said. ‘Well, it seems very familiar,’ she said. ‘That’ll be because all my pieces start to resemble one another after a time. Same style. Same jokes. Maybe I should just give up now, before anyone else notices.’
But I can’t, obviously. Nor can Michael Wood, Griff Rhys Jones, Tony Robinson, Dan Cruickshank, Simon Schama, Stephen Fry, Lenny Henry, Gordon Ramsay or any of those zillion and one annoyingly ubiquitous media types. Different fame levels but the same problem. We all know, deep down, that we have appalling limitations and glaringly predictable tics, and that we’ve said all we’re ever going to say many years ago.
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