Stephen Fry's memoirs. They're all the tweedy, nicotine-saturated, cocaine-fueled, manic-depressive, pleonastic, poofy glory one would expect; I've said it before, but if he weren't 20 years too old and 100% too homosexual for me I'd totally marry him.
That post settles it: I'll need to read that too
ETA: Which one are you describing. Moab Is My Washpot
or The Fry Chronicles