A year ago, Tim Minchin announced his intention "not to become an unbearable tool with a huge-tiny ego". He knows how dangerously intoxicating fame can be, how heady and addictive. "It's not that wankers become famous," he once said. "It's that fame makes you a wanker."
He had been that rare thing, one of the chosen few, who had traversed the divide from playing to an audience of mostly friends in a tiny club, and "rejected by pretty much every agent in Australia", to a star playing arenas with a 57-piece orchestra. The toast of London.
He loved it. It was all "so shiny". Ten thousand people rising to their feet to applaud him, being recognised in the street, the truly excellent wine, the smart, famous friends, the paparazzi and posh hotels, parties and premieres. The beautiful, "shaking and crying girls who can't believe they are touching me" in late-night bars in romantic cities. His face on billboards. "I mean dude, this is why you learnt the piano, so you could get attention, and here it is."
