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.