As I’ve mentioned on here a few times, I used to be friends with this guy, Andrew Doyle: Andrew’s now a big-shot TV presenter in the UK, but he was one of my undergraduate teachers at Wadham College, Oxford around 2003-04. He was a graduate student writing a dissertation on Richard Barnfield and Shakespeare, and I was an undergraduate drinking and making incomprehensible performance pieces. We had a cute vibe, I think—we were both interested in theater, and his intuitive understanding of the gay bits of the Sonnets (which, if I recall correctly, we discussed over wine in my college dorm room) was refreshingly free from the fustian sexlessness that my undergraduate education sometimes seemed designed to reproduce. He had some earnestly gauche ideas about Foucault (“it’s like a cult, Jos!”) which I found attractive, and I used to tease him for not being out to his parents. I have only the fondest memories of our friendship, and I had, yes, a sort of half-articulated crush on him, which I think he knew and quietly enjoyed. But perhaps he didn’t.
Why Is Andrew Doyle So Afraid of Conversation?
Why Is Andrew Doyle So Afraid of…
Why Is Andrew Doyle So Afraid of Conversation?
As I’ve mentioned on here a few times, I used to be friends with this guy, Andrew Doyle: Andrew’s now a big-shot TV presenter in the UK, but he was one of my undergraduate teachers at Wadham College, Oxford around 2003-04. He was a graduate student writing a dissertation on Richard Barnfield and Shakespeare, and I was an undergraduate drinking and making incomprehensible performance pieces. We had a cute vibe, I think—we were both interested in theater, and his intuitive understanding of the gay bits of the Sonnets (which, if I recall correctly, we discussed over wine in my college dorm room) was refreshingly free from the fustian sexlessness that my undergraduate education sometimes seemed designed to reproduce. He had some earnestly gauche ideas about Foucault (“it’s like a cult, Jos!”) which I found attractive, and I used to tease him for not being out to his parents. I have only the fondest memories of our friendship, and I had, yes, a sort of half-articulated crush on him, which I think he knew and quietly enjoyed. But perhaps he didn’t.