Look what a sexy dishcloth Hugh Laurie has become. That bristling, tufted thatch, aloof to the emasculating strictures of shaping mousse*. That care-lined garage door of a forehead unfurling a jutting brow from beneath the furrowed awnings of which two bulging, blue eyes, at once prone and puckish, squint out at an inscrutably glib and Instagrammy world as if to say: “stop it you appalling cretin, you don’t need to take a photograph of that, that’s just food.” The sweeping, sinuous slopes of that languid upper lip – slopes now clad in bulletproof iron-grey gorse. Also there’s a chin and some other stuff and sometimes a stick.
*Though devastatingly, the House directors did apparently apply a substance Laurie calls “head pepper” to conceal a creeping bald spot.