Having seen nothing of Fry as an actor, I tend to think of him as a novelist and memoirist first. He's not so damn bad at it, either, although he has an ugly habit of tacking mawkishly happy endings onto otherwise pleasingly savage novels. He's funny as hell, he's obscene, and he can write. Highly recommended.

In roughly chronological order, he's written the following:
  1. The Liar, a novel
  2. Paperweight, a collection of essays, rants, etc.
  3. The Hippopotamus, a novel
  4. Making History, a novel
  5. Moab Is My Washpot, a memoir
  6. The Stars' Tennis Balls, a novel
I can recommend all of the above except Making History, which is still on my new arrivals shelf. Those with tender sensibilities should be aware that there's sex in most of the above, and much of the sex is the kind without girls, so, like, don't say I didn't warn you.

Much later: I've since read Making History. It didn't change my life but it's good, up until the usual depressingly happy ending.

Even much later . . . er: Okay, he's got a new one called The Stars' Tennis Balls. We'll have to have a look at that . . . won't we?!