My Booky Wook was one of the most revered and successful celebrity autobiographies of all time (not including the Bible or anything by Oprah). The honesty. Picking up where he left off in My Booky Wook, movie star and comedian Russell Brand details his rapid climb to fame and fortune in a shockingly candid, reso. A child's garden of vices, My Booky Wook is also a relentless ride with a comic mind clearly at the wheel. The bloke can write. He rhapsodizes about.
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Booky Wook 2: This Time It's Personal. Home · Booky Wook 2: This Time It's Personal Author: Russell Brand My Booky Wook · Read more · My Booky Wook. Booky Wook 2: This Time It's Personal. Read more My Booky Wook: A Memoir of Sex, Drugs, and Stand-Up · Read more. In 'My Booky Wook 2 This Time It's Personal', Russell Brand takes off where his international best-seller 'My Booky Wook' left off. Brand is sober and, after.
I look at the audience and they look at me and we ponder the same question together. A pornographically inappropriate gulp echoes through my oesophagus. I think Russell Brand is a very intelligent and funny man, and I liked the first book, but I found myself bored and distancing myself at a number of places in this book. This is my second time reading "My Booky Wook 2. From the Back Cover My Booky Wook was one of the most revered and successful celebrity autobiographies of all time not including the Bible or anything by Oprah. Free Operating system:
The moment of climax is like pulling a rip-cord that helps me to parachute down to earth after my on-stage Mr Fahrenheit excursion. Now that is a bloody good way to relax yourself after a gig, and I for one would like to commend not only Freddie, for his commitment to promiscuity and his ability to transform the experience into a thrilling pop hit, but also the unsung hero, the tour manager who had to source eighty lads up for a bumming so that Freddie could, in his own words, have a ball.
Kate and Sadie await in the tiny, musty, black-box theatre, black paint and atticy drapes, fag-burned seats and a lighting rig than can be adjusted by reaching upward sans ladder.
If you go and see a stand-up comedian or any kind of performer, let me tell you what they want: They need specific, positive criticism.
You know that bit where you talked about Freddie Mercury bumming Brazilians, that was heavenly — that is the sort of compliment you ought offer me should we meet and discuss this book. The top lot is a kiss. With me. Philip Green the Top Shop entrepreneur is bidding.
Would you like to come? Obviously I want to come. Your own personal jester.
Someone to make you smile in medieval style. Reach out and touch japes. So Ian is dispensed with — he was never gonna cut it with the in crowd, even the out crowd find him a bit annoying — and we order a cab.
Every so often, in the back of the cab, she receives a call on her ever-chiming phone. Utterly unfamiliar, we un-jam from the car. Me and Matt have exchanged a few glances, acknowledging the madness of our new circumstances, all the while trying to act normal.
Philip Green nobly decides to donate his kiss to Jemima Khan. It felt like the Standard was addressing me personally — And do you remember last night? Matt is not a recovering alcoholic and drug addict, so he disappears into chinking of glasses and glinting of sequins. I am, so I have to conduct this operation without an anaesthetic.
Terrifying though it is, I resolve to go and talk to her. I mean she is just a bird, right?
I have chatted up and seduced birds from south London before, and by jingo I can do it now. Denied vodka, I gulp down the intoxicating air and walk over to where she is, led by the glow. Any chair on which she sits becomes a throne ennobled by the presence of her arse. I approach and then, against all odds and everything my life has taught me until then, an anomaly occurs. The universe tears and light bursts through and falls upon me and her gaze follows, she parts the crowd around her like Moses and indicates with an eyelash that she wants to talk to me.
I follow her to an empty corner of the empty club. It is all empty now.
To have her attention is spellbinding. You have to go into overdrive to sustain normalcy, to be normal around her is a tremendous effort — she exists beyond her own being, photographed to endorse and beautify products. You could try something from the bible for wantaway onanists, The Game by Neil Strauss, but negging — the practice of saying something mildly negative to your target — seems disrespectful, and if you ignore her , the void you leave will be filled in an instant by a dozen willing suitors.
Somehow amidst the clanging of my mind, the overtures of her beauty and the accompanying social impact, I manage to be vaguely funny.
Matt and, of course, given the venue, Sadie come too. The cab is pursued by paparazzi on mopeds. Maybe ten of them, an unwelcome convoy, trail the cab like a dangling haemorrhoid. After a while it becomes bloody awful, relentless and, typically, attached to a tabloid perspective of yourself with which you whole-heartedly disagree, but for now it adds to the romance.
This gives me hope that we do have something to hide, but also makes me jealous of Matt as he gets to walk up the driveway with her. We are alone.
The rest of the evening was like a beautiful road accident. I passed in and out of consciousness, scored by sirens, sporadically lit by flashing blue and red light, time bending. I cannot recall a single word of the conversation that took place; for all I know we communicated in whale song. Drifting closer and closer together, my heart pounding, of course, but also my liver and lungs and feet.
Paul Simon thinks my vital organs may be a lost African tribe and considers recording a follow-up to Graceland in my colon. Playground fads are revisited: Kiss properly, stop thinking about pogs, you idiot, get on with this kiss, stop thinking how this is going to sound in a book and get on with the kiss. Ludicrously I say to her, Do you want to come back to mine … Kate Moss? We get a minicab — from a number I had in my phone.
A garret, digs.
Mismatched pans and a duvet that was there when I moved in. Picking up where he left off in My Booky Wook , movie star and comedian Russell Brand details his rapid climb to fame and fortune in a shockingly candid, resolutely funny, and unbelievably electrifying tell-all: Booky Wook 2.
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From the Back Cover My Booky Wook was one of the most revered and successful celebrity autobiographies of all time not including the Bible or anything by Oprah. Read more. Product details Hardcover: English ISBN Start reading Booky Wook 2: This Time It's Personal on your Kindle in under a minute. Don't have a Kindle? Try the Kindle edition and experience these great reading features: Share your thoughts with other customers.
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Please try again later. Kindle Edition Verified Purchase. Russell Brand has been in the news quite a bit lately with his new documentary that came out. Playing next 3: This is why this Kid spends long time in the shower Personal time difference volleyball attack.
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