What The Yellow Rubbery Fuck?

      Pursuant to the mention of Stephen Fry in some of the comments, I here post this excerpt from his fine first novel, The Liar, from 1991. Thirteen years?!?! Natch!

      Since the beginning of this, Adrian's third and final year, St Matthew's had put up with a television crew on the premises. Their technique, that of becoming part of the furniture, was working so well that they had become appallingly easy to ignore. They had lived up to the name of fly-on-the-wall and only the odd irritating buzz reminded the college of their existence.
      It was clear that the President did not want Adrian to forget them. He could not possibly allow anything of the Trefusis Affair to be seen on national television. Adrian's duty lay clear ahead of him. He had to find a way of doing or saying something tht would make the film of the meeting, or this part of it, unsuitable for family viewing.
      He took a deep breath.
      'I'm sorry, Master,' he said, snapping a pencil, 'but the point is that I won't sit here and hear my friend insulted, not if the accuser is the Director of Public Prosecutions, the Procurator Pissing Fiscal and the Witchfinder Fucking General all rolled into one.'
      A splutter of incredulity from a middle-aged Orientalist met this unusual outburst.
      'Donald has been called a criminal,' Adrian went on, warming to his theme. 'If I run down the street, does that make me an athlete? If you yodel in the bath, Master, does that make you a singer? Dr Menzies has a tongue like a supermarket pricing-gun.'
      'Twisting my words won't help.'
      'Untwisting them might.'
      'Well untwist these words, then,' said Menzies, forcing his copy of the newspaper under Adrian's nose.
      'What the yellow rubbery fuck do you think you're up to now?' said Adrian, pushing the newspaper away. 'If I want to blow my nose, I'll use a frigging snot-rag.'
      'Healey, have you run mad?' hissed Corder, a theologian, sitting next to Adrian.
      'Stick it up your heretical arse.'
      'Well!'
      'Explain it to you later,' said Adrian in an undertone.
      'Oh, it's a game!'
      'Sh!'
      'Splendid!' whispered Corder, and then sang out, 'Oh, do come on, Garth, get a sodding move on.'
      'Well,' said Menzies. 'I have no idea what childish motive you have for hurling abuse at me, Mr Healey. Perhaps you think it is funny. At the risk of being told that I have no sense of humour I am quite prepared to suggest that even an undergraduate audience would remain unmoved by the spectacle of a student insulting one more than twice his age. As for Dr Corder, I can only assume that the man is drunk.'
      'Piss off, you fat tit,' said Corder primly.
      'Mr President, are they to be allowed to continue in this fashion?'
      'Dr Corder, Mr Healey, let Dr Menzies have his say, please,' said the President.
      'Right you fucking are, Mr President,' said Adrian, standing up and immediately sitting down again. He had notices that the microphone boom was only a few inches higher than his head. If he kept standing up hehad a notion it would appear in shot and spoil the footage.
      'You have the floor, farty,' said Corder.

It's a shame to segment any part of the book like this, but if I followed through with the rest of this vignette, I'd be typing for longer than I currently can. As you can (hopefully) see, this is wonderfully funny stuff. It's even funnier, I think, if you know Fry and you can imagine the various different vocal inflections he might give to parts here and there (Fry has a very distinctive voice, and his sounds, especially, of frustration and incredulity are riotous). The prose becomes much more 'musical' read in such a way. Those of you that don't know Mr Fry: check him out in Wilde or Gosford Park or any number of films; most of you probably actually do recognize him as Melchett from Blackadder.