My Booky Wook: A Memoir of Sex, Drugs, and Stand-Up
Read My Booky Wook: A Memoir of Sex, Drugs, and Stand-Up Online
Authors: Russell Brand
Tags: #Performing Arts, #Entertainment & Performing Arts, #General, #Television personalities, #Personal Memoirs, #Great Britain, #Comedians, #Biography & Autobiography, #Comedy, #Biography
A Memoir of Sex, Drugs,
and Stand-Up
Russell Brand
For my mum,
the most important woman in my life,
this book is dedicated to you.
Now for God’s sake don’t read it.
“The line between good and evil runs not through states, nor between classes, nor between po liti cal parties either, but through every human heart”
Alexander Solzhenitsyn,
The Gulag Archipelago
“Mary: Tell me, Edmund: Do you have someone special in your life?
Edmund: Well, yes, as a matter of fact, I do.
Mary: Who?
Edmund: Me.
Mary: No, I mean someone you love, cherish and want to keep safe from all the horror and the hurt.
Edmund: Erm . . . Still me, really”
Richard Curtis and Ben Elton,
Blackadder Goes Forth
Contents
Epigraph
iii
vii
1
April Fool
3
2
Umbilical Noose 16
3
Shame Innit?
27
4
Fledgling Hospice 38
5
“Diddle- Di- Diddle- Di”
50
6 H
ow Christmas Should Feel 57
7
One McAvennie
65
8
I’ve Got a Bone to Pick with You 72
9
Teacher’s Whiskey 81
10
“Boobaloo”
86
11
Say Hello to the Bad Guy 94
12
The Eternal Dilemma 105
13
Body Mist
111
14
Ying Yang
122
15
Click, Clack, Click, Clack 131
16
“Wop Out a Bit of Acting”
138
17
Th
e Stranger
146
v
Contents
18
Is This a Cash Card I See before Me?
159
19
“Do You Want a Drama?”
166
20
Dagenham Is Not Damascus 179
21
Don’t Die of Ignorance 189
22
Firing Minors 201
23
Down Among the Have-Nots 216
24
First-Class Twit 224
25
Let’s Not Tell Our Mums 239
26
You’re a Diamond 261
27
Call Me Ishmael. Or Isimir. Or Something . . .
267
28
Mustafa Skagfix 283
29
A Gentleman with a Bike 295
30
Out of the Game 310
31
Hare Krishna Morrissey 322
32
And Th
en Three Come at Once
336
351
353
355
vi
Dear American reader,
Jolly well done, you have purchased this book in spite of: 1. Its seemingly childish title, and 2. The photo of me on the cover, thus proving that you are: 1. Prepared to take risks, and 2. A sexy, adventurous outsider. Congratulations, you are in for a giddy, wild ride through language, hedonism and amusing despair. Unless you bought the book(y wook) for a relative, and are now perusing it only to ascertain its suitability, or worse still, you are a shoplifter pretending to read before committing your crime.
If either scenario is true, then, be assured, it is suitable for your relative—unless they are crushingly naive or small-minded. And if you are a shoplifter, I’m in no position to complain as I, myself, have stolen many books. I’m not con-doning it, I just understand that you must be desperate, and at least you’re stealing a good book(y wook). Good luck.
Now, assuming that all who remain are good, honest consumers, I’d like to thank you. This book is mine, it’s all true, I wrote it, and while I’m proud of the book(y wook), I’m not proud of some of the chaos within. I am an En glishman and, as such, reserve the right to talk, and write, in a manner that vii
Author’s Note
may strike you as macabre or bonkers or crackers, nuts or weird; to avoid possible confusion, I have included a glossary so that you can understand what I have written. I only pray you can understand why I wrote it.
Long live the Queen, God Bless America.
Ta ta.
Russell
viii
“And that I walk thus proudly crowned withal
Is that ’tis my distinction; if I fall,
I shall not weep out of the vital day,
To-morrow dust, nor wear a dull decay”
Percy Bysshe Shelley,
“And That I Walk Th
us
Proudly Crowned Withal”
“When I was small and fi ve
I found a pencil sharpener alive!
He lay in lonely grasses
Looking for work.
I bought a pencil for him.
He ate and ate until all that was
Left was a pile of wood dust.
It was the happiest pencil sharpener
I ever had”
Spike Milligan, “2B or not 2B”
April Fool
On the morning of April Fools’ Day, 2005, I woke up in a sexual addiction treatment center in a suburb of Philadelphia. As I limped out of the drab dog’s bed in which I was expected to sleep for the next thirty wankless nights, I observed the previous incumbent had left a thread of unravelled dental floss by the pillow—most likely as a noose for his poor, famished dinkle.
When I’d arrived the day before, the counselors had taken away my copy of the Guardian, as there was a depiction of the Venus de Milo on the front page of the Culture section, but let me keep the Sun, which obviously had a Page 3 lovely.
What kind of pervert police force censors a truncated sculpture but lets Keeley Hazell pass without question?* “Blimey, this devious swine’s got a picture of a concrete bird with no
* Keeley Hazell is a topless model who appears on Page 3 of the Sun newspaper. Page 3 is a crazy concept whereby for no discernable reason a national newspaper prints a photograph of a young woman showing her tits. I’d object, but I’m too enamored with the boobs.
Th
e Sun is a Murdoch-owned right-wing populist paper, which appeals primarily to working-class white men, but has such a strong cultural presence that it is relevant to people who work in media and politics. Amusingly, they often attribute a comment on the day’s events to the Page 3 girl of the day, right next to her lovely, naked body, e.g., “Becky thinks the global recession has been brought on by economic immigrants coming into our country—‘If they come here they have to work and contribute,’ said the twenty-two-year-old from Oldham.” That sort of thing.
3
RUSSELL BRAND
arms—hanging’s too good for him, to the incinerator! Keep that picture of stunner Keeley though.” If they were to censor London Town they would ignore Soho but think that the statue of Alison Lapper in Trafalgar Square had been commissioned by Caligula.
Being all holed up in the aptly named KeyStone clinic (while the facility did not have its own uniformed police force, the suggestion of bungling silent film cops is appropriate) was an all too familiar drag. Not that I’d ever been incarcerated in sex chokey before, lord no, but it was the umpteenth time that I’d been confronted with the galling reality that there are things over which I have no control and people who can force their will upon you. Teachers, sex police, actual police, drug counselors; people who can make you sit in a drugless, sexless cell either real or metaphorical and ponder the actuality of life’s solitary essence. In the end it’s just you. Alone.
Who needs that grim reality stuffed into their noggin of a morning? Not me. I couldn’t even distract myself with a wank over that gorgeous slag Venus de Milo; well, she’s asking for it, going out all nude, not even wearing any arms.
The necessity for harsh self-assessment and ac ceptance of death’s inevitability wasn’t the only thing I hated about that KeyStone place. No, those two troubling factors vied for su-premacy with multitudinous bastard truths. I hated my fucking bed: the mattress was sponge, and you had to stretch your own sheet over this miserable little single divan in the corner of the room. And I hated the fucking room itself where the strangled urges of onanism clung to the walls like mildew. I particularly hated the American gray squirrels that were running around outside—just free, like idiots, giggling and touching each other in the early spring sunshine. The triumph of these little divs over our indigenous, noble, red, British squirrel had become a searing 4
April Fool
metaphor for my own subjugation at the hands of the anti-fuck-Yanks. To make my surrender to conformity more offi cial I was
obliged to sign this thing (see page 6).
I wish I’d been photographed signing it like when a footballer joins a new team grinning and holding a pen. Or that I’d got an attorney to go through it with a fine-tooth comb: “You’re gonna have to remove that no bumming clause,” I imagine him saying.
Most likely you’re right curious as to why a fella who plainly enjoys how’s yer father as much as I do would go on a special holiday to “sex camp” (which is a misleading title as the main thrust of their creed is “no fucking”). The short answer is I was forced.
The long answer is this . . .
Many people are skeptical about the idea of what I like to call
“sexy addiction,” thinking it a spurious notion, invented primarily to help Hollywood film stars evade responsibility for their unrestrained priapic excesses. But I reckon there is such a thing.
Addiction, by definition, is a compulsive behavior that you cannot control or relinquish, in spite of its destructive consequences. And if the story I am about to recount proves nothing else, it demonstrates that this formula can be applied to sex just as easily as it can be to drugs or alcohol.
Having successfully rid myself, one day at a time, in my twenties, of parallel addictions to the ol’ drugs and drinks—if you pluralize drink to drinks and then discuss it with the trembling reverence that alcoholics tend to, it’s funny, e.g., “My life was destroyed by drinks,” “I valued drinks over my wife and kids.”