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Why I am made up for Hugh Laurie


Hugh Laurie

Hugh Laurie

Dan Steinberg

Hugh Laurie

I seem to have followed Hugh Laurie’s career almost from the off. Not from his Cambridge Footlights days and all that pish, though I watched too frequently a film capturing that period, called Peter’s Friends, in which he starred (with Stephen Fry). Mind you, it was the only film in the island video shop at the time.

Before that, I’d seen Fry and Laurie on a show called Saturday Live, as gauche young comedians, then I became a fan of their eponymously named television series (featuring one of my favourite sketches about a jeweller offering a customer an Opal Fruit — long story).

I read Hugh’s excellent thriller The Gun Seller, watched him in American mega-series House, and note that he has a new blues album out.

On top of that, he is, like most quintessentially English gentlemen — Hugh Grant, David Niven, James Bond and indeed Ian Fleming; I could go on — naturally of Scottish descent.

And now he’s the male face of L’Oréal, and you can watch a fabulously self-deprecating video of him declaring himself to be Gerard Butler before make-up, and adding: “Inside I’m a model. I model the spirit.”

This column says: go, Hugh! Even with your obscene range of talents, your fame and riches, we’re still rootin’ for ya.

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