My Booky Wook: A Memoir of Sex, Drugs, and Stand-Up (15 page)

On holiday in Clacton with

Mum, inexplicably blond.

I’m in my aunt and uncle

Janet and Jimmy’s garden.

Ferrets were nearby—

that’s why I’m confused.

Dr. Dolittle.

Disgusted by the shoddy quality of St. Nick,

I contemplate atheism.

My beloved Nan.

Topsy. My mad hound imagin-

ing scoffing dosh, the twit.

Oddly, the ICF refused me entry.

An imaginative haircut,

which I still regret.

I’m suspicious of Baden-

Powell—these clothes

suck. I never

got any badges either.

If you look into that rabbit’s eyes you can see it’s planning a Woundwart-style attack. I cut my own fringe.

This is the exact

moment when I

decided to act gay

to attract girls. It

took fifteen years

to produce results.

Cleverly doctored report for subsequent drama school auditions

RUSSELL BRAND

• Just get on the train without a ticket

• Avoid the inspector by remaining mobile

• When eventually you are apprehended by an inspector or the police, confidently give the name and address of someone you know but don’t like. IMPORTANT, it must be a corresponding name and address, don’t make one up, also don’t give away that it is an enemy’s address by saying, “That bastard Stephen Reynolds, number two Wallace Road”—you’ll arouse suspicion.

You may as well have these tips an’ all, Tip 3:

• Pretend to be Spanish—“No tengo un ticket, lo’siento.”

Tip 4:

• Pretend to be mentally ill—“The ticket offi ce was shut

and when I tried to use the machine my willy done a burp.”

Tip 5:

• Pretend to be dead—just lie there.

This time I used good old Tip 2, the police wired the info through and it all checked out, so I was released and that arsehole Stephen Reynolds got another ten-pound fine.

Penny didn’t want me to come to her house but I used charm and relentless pigheaded per sis tence to persuade her. I’d pursued her with poetry and promises, neither of which were original or true, for months. I tackled the nobstacle course with such dogged aplomb that when night fell I was allowed to sleep in her 120

Body Mist

bed top to toe. I spun gags and yarns till she let me turn round, I painted verbal pictures and begged until she kissed me, I lied and danced and evoked the spirit of Pan till reluctantly she removed her bra, I used tears and emotional blackmail to secure the immolation of her knickers. We were naked, and cautiously I went down on her. She whispered, “Russell, put a condom on,”

and—this is how much of an idiot I was—I bellowed, “YES!

Thank God Dean and Jimmy made me take one.” This, I suppose, indicated that 1. My pursuit of her was a topic of conversation, which it was. They thought I was like Adrian Mole in his ineffectual wooing of Pandora, and 2. That I was a bit imma-ture. It was romance though that compelled me, not lust; I wanted to lose myself in a woman, to have an ally, a partner, a girlfriend. This sweet and touching perspective on women was about to be challenged. V

121

14

Ying Yang

Perhaps it was in seeking to cope with this sudden upturn in my sexual economy—this huge shift in the quality and quantity of available women—that I developed my “cloak of love” identity.

“How did you do that?” I hear you ask, all aquiver. Well, first I got myself this cloak. It stretched from the top of my head to the tips of my tiny toes, like a curtain, and I used it to veil myself and my true intentions, right in it, as I stalked the corridors of Italia Conti.

It were very helpful, that cloak of love. What I liked about it, and what I love in general about inventing catchphrases or jargon or nomenclature is that sometimes other people are forced to say the ludicrous words you’ve come up with. There was a teacher who used to do an impression of me. Adam his name was. “Ooh, c’mon girls, get into my cloak of love.” (Instigating a trend that continues—of making me indistinguishable from Janet Street-Porter. Good, I like her.)*

Most of the girls at Italia Conti had graduated from the school course (for those aged up to sixteen), which meant they’d

* Janet Street-Porter was an innovative youth TV producer and performer whose London accent and large teeth made her a target for misogynists and anti- dentite bastards (Sein-feld).