Modern journalism, driven to previously unseen poetic heights by the task of describing Ben Whishaw
‘He skitters boyishly off into the afternoon, waving brightly. I realise too late I forgot to sniff him to find out if he has a personal odour.’
‘He has wiry features as though he had been put on the rack and pulled gently for a few minutes.’
‘Whishaw looks coyly at his ravioli.’
‘…the slight, floppy-maned, somewhat effete boy-whippet…’
‘He has a very low hairline which his thick brown hair erupts from, first going one way, then another, and then back again, with the overall effect looking weirdly like an enormous Mr Whippy ice cream.’"