Product Description

'My biggest problem is that I've lived an autobiography rather than a life.'

Russell Brand's scandalous reminiscences were always going to have a literary flavour. But nothing you've heard him say on stage, radio or TV can prepare you for the impact of this beautifully written memoir.

From his troubled childhood in Essex and his addictions to drink, drugs and sex, to his giddy rise through the world of entertainment, this is not simply a story of fame but of redemption, achingly and hilariously honest throughout.

Product Details

• Amazon Sales Rank: #78 in Books
• Published on: 2007-11-15
• Released on: 2007-11-15
• Number of items: 1
• Binding: Hardcover
• 352 pages

Synopsis
'My life is a series of embarrassing incidents strung together by telling people about those embarrassing incidents.'Russell Brand's scandalous reminiscences were always going to have a literary flavour. But nothing you've heard him say on stage, radio or TV can prepare you for the impact of this beautifully written memoir. From his troubled childhood in Essex and his addictions to drink, drugs and sex, to his giddy rise through the world of entertainment, this is not simply a story of fame but of redemption, achingly and hilariously honest throughout.

About the Author
Russell Brand is a comedian, journalist, TV and radio presenter and actor. He has won numberous awards including: Time Out's 'Comedian of the Year', 'Best Newcomer' at the British Comedy Awards, 'Best TV Performer' at the Broadcasting Press Guild Awards, 'Most Stylish Man' at GQ's Men of the Year Awards, and the Sun's 'Shagger of the Year.' This is his first book.

Excerpted from My Booky Wook by Russell Brand. Copyright © 2007. Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
On the morning of April Fools' Day, 2005, I woke up in a sexual addiction treatment centre 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 counsellors 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 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 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 counsellors; 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 acceptance of death's inevitability wasn't the only thing I hated about that KeyStone place. No, those two troubling factors vied for supremacy 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 grey 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 divas over our indigenous, noble, red, British squirrel had become a searing metaphor for my own subjugation at the hands of the anti-fuck-Yanks. To make my surrender complete I was obliged to sign this thing (opposite).

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 . . .

Customer Reviews

Alternates between depressing and hilarious
This is a tricky one to review. In some ways the book is excellent as it's filled with interesting stories written in just the way you would expect Russell to write them (whether he actually did I don't know). It's mainly a description in more-or-less chronological order of Russell's childhood and then his increasingly severe drug, drink and sex addictions. The stories centred around his antics through drama school and then during his attempts to make TV programmes, perform stand up comedy and generally become famous are mostly pretty entertaining.

However, be warned that this book isn't a barrel of laughs. Admittedly, the bits that are supposed to be funny generally are, but there's also a lot of fairly shocking stuff going on and a lot of incidents that don't show Russell in a very good light. I know that this is deliberate and all part of his style, but I'm not sure that I really like the guy any more to be honest. There's just too many people he mistreated and too many crimes he has committed.

If you're interested in the man behind the act, or if you're a fan, then you'll probably enjoy this book. However, if you're expecting a stand up routine in print form then give this one a miss.

Not bad
I read this and found myself liking Russell. However he does tend to use a lot of words to say very little at times. Basically the story was, I grew up with lovely mother, feckless father who walked out, hated my step father,kicked the dog, got into drugs,got famous, went into rehab... What saves this book from being a turgid rehash of too many other 'celebrity' autobiographies is Russells intelligence, wit and likeability.
I think that it may have been written a little prematurely. Russell is too young and gauche to write a rich, meaningful testement of his life. Which is hardly suprising as he's probably got another 40 years or so to live, love and learn...

A brilliant read - but if you want real tales of derring do and sexual bravado...
Brilliant book - funny in all the right places without being light reading, you really feel like you go on a journey with Russell and there are no doubt exploits that haven't been included in this that would make the highlights of your average autobiography.

However it's not a story many can empathise with - Russell is a one off, a whirlwind of constant indiscretion and someone it's often hard to love. I read another book recently - first draft of Ashley Hames' 'Adventures of a Sex Reporter' which is toe curlingly frank in it's uncut, uncensored take on the eclectic range of sexual exploits that normal everyday folk get up to, all written from the point of view of a very average man.

Hilarious, awful and somehow more touching than Russell's endless stream of bedpost notches. Worth a read.