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Silent Lynn.


I recently discovered that Jeff Goldblum’s middle name is Lynn. Everything else is now a footnote.

Since learning this, I’ve not known what to do with myself. It’s the type of trivia that can change a man’s life. It’s probably akin to dropping acid; once you’ve done it, you never truly go back. Part of you changes irreversibly forever. Or so I’ve read.

I’m not comfortable living in a world where Jeff Goldblum’s middle name is Lynn. It doesn’t seem right. I know I always have, as he predates me by twenty-nine years, but it’s different when you’re oblivious. You're not shouldering the burden.

It’s not just Goldblum that's been ruined, but Jeff Lynne. Now, I can’t think of one without the other. They’ve become an amalgamation in my head: a dinosaur-and-alien-fighting fly with ginger hair and a Brummie accent.

I once walked past Goldblum backstage at the Old Vic. That's two name-drops in one sentence. His middle name was Lynn then too, though I would never have noticed.
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