Stephen Fry

Imagine waking up as Mr Stephen Fry. What a shock! Sloping into the bathroom and bumping your head on the doorframe as you go, you stand before the mirror. “Damn, blast and cockblob,” you say. “It appears I’m no oil painting but then again neither are many oil paintings.” “How nice!” you then blurt as your brain begins to engage. “My head seems to be veering towards the clever lane of life’s dual carriageway. With a brain the size of Norfolk and, oh look, feet just as big, I could be a real hit with the ladies.” You scratch your head. “Or the chaps, of course.” Whilst pondering whether to use your new-found genius and considerable personal charm for good or ill, you rinse your face in Moab (your washpot), flick the kettle on and pen two thirds of a novel as it boils. Eschewing a Fry-up, you breakfast on A Bit of Toast and Honey, dress (to the left) and begin your day. At 6am. You see Mr Fry didn’t get where he is tomorrow by lolling about. And you’re off: a meeting here, a voice-over there, an honourary doctorate to accept from Swansea through the considerable powers of video conferencing. A light lunch with Emma Thompson and Hugh Laurie is followed by an afternoon recording three episodes of QI, writing a column about iPods of the 18th century, making an audio recording of your own book, making the Queen laugh twice and presenting the BIFTAs. You spend the early hours winding down at a private members club so swish all the waiters are called Charles. Finally home at 3am, you record a high-quality podcast in your sleep. Soupy twist!