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. 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. Read My Booky Wook by Russell Brand for free with a 30 day free trial. Russell Brand has a compelling story. Booky Wook 2: This Time It's Personal.
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Author: Russell Brand Booky Wook 2: This Time It's Personal. Read more My Booky Wook: A Memoir of Sex, Drugs, and Stand-Up · Read more. 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. 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.
And that's part of the draw. Booky Wook 2: Start your free 30 days. It also suffered a Not quite as good as 'My Booky Wook', although maybe my view of it has been colored by too much information on Brand. Close Dialog Are you sure?
I was with Kate and Liam the other day and Kate wants to meet you. There follows a sort of a silence which I vulgarly interrupt with the sound of my own swallowing, which makes more noise than it usually would. I try and stifle it and just do a normal swallow.
A pornographically inappropriate gulp echoes through my oesophagus. I must say something normal and cool. The gig was at the Hen and Chickens on Highbury Corner in Islington, a fifty-seater venue above a pub, small and drab, where Edinburgh Fringe shows go to practise, where faded stand-ups go to die.
When the night comes, I arrive typically late and notice the place seems to have been dusted in majesty. Whatever it is, that unknowable, unnamable quality that these people bestow upon a place or a conversation or a clothing range was present at the Hen and Chickens.
As I attempt my unflustered entrance I cannot help but notice the static explosion of her perfection. A Geiger counter unhelpfully chirps within me as I see her deifying the bar with her elbow from the scorched corner of my reluctant eye.
Beyond the dreams of Pharaohs and Nazis there is an inaccessible gold that shimmers like a halo above Kate Moss. Is it her hair? Her aura? I try to drift past her nonchalantly, ignoring my own cacophonous swallows and ticks.
A recalcitrant orchestra of discordant twitches. Be normal. Hello Kate, nice to meet you, I burp. I can make it up with a gesture, I reason to myself.
I try a gentle backhanded greeting, a slow subtle sweep such as one might make when introducing a new range of lawnmowers in an Argos commercial. She nods and smiles and seems impressed enough — kindly neither she nor Sadie remark on the gin and tonic I sent hurtling from her hand, so a partial triumph.
I go to up der stairs now Mate Koss, I suavely announce, then step on a guide dog and make my way cautiously to the tinpot theatre up the rickety staircase. Towards the end of the set, which is mostly funny, if a little more self-conscious than usual due to her proximity in the tiny room — I might as well be performing on her shoe — I make a comment about coercive sex, obviously not an endorsement of the concept but some musing on the topic.
At that point Kate Moss gets up and walks out and goes downstairs. So when she saunters out of the upstairs room of the Hen and Chickens in Islington our tiny world stops. I try and continue the gig for about three more seconds before I have to address the forty-nine remaining people — fifty minus Kate Moss, but if you were to take the value of their collective presence, ninety-nine per cent of the room just walked out. I look at the audience and they look at me and we ponder the same question together.
Do you think she walked out then because I was talking about rape? No, no, that was very sensitively handled and comedically justified. Suddenly the forty-nine that remain are my chaperones, my indulgent aunties, my wing men.
I finish, bow and go backstage, like normal. The most natural thing to do, it seems to me, is to take heroin. This is no longer an option, so I generally like to have sex. Sex is usually quite captivating and distracting and, unlike the other option that people frequently suggest — a brisk jog — it ends in orgasm.
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. I hated my fucking bed: 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 metaphor for my own subjugation at the hands of the anti-fuck-Yanks. To make my surrender to conformity more official I was obliged to sign this thing see page 6. 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. I imagine them all lined up in bottles and glasses with malevolent intent, the bastards—I was now, at this time, doing a lot of monkey business.
I have always accrued status and validation through my indiscretions even before I attained the unique accolade of Shagger of the Year from the Sun —not perhaps the greatest testimonial to the good work they do at KeyStone , but sex is also recreational for me. We all need something to help us unwind at the end of the day. You might have a glass of wine, or a joint, or a big delicious blob of heroin to silence your silly brainbox of its witterings, but there has to be some form of punctuation, or life just seems utterly relentless.
Not without good reason do the French describe an orgasm as a little death. I hope death is like a big French orgasm, although meeting Saint Peter will be embarrassing, all smothered in grog and shrouded in post-orgasmic guilt. Part of my problem was that these holidays—incessant as they were—no longer seemed to have the required calming effect. They all seem to be dedicated not only to the fulfillment of professional objectives, but also to anchoring me to a terrain where my ego is manageable.
The nature of my early sexual encounters, which will be outlined in the pages to follow, had unraveled any mystique or sentimentality around my sexuality, and made it something quite raw and rude. To this day, I feel a fierce warmth for women that have the same disregard for the social conventions of sexual protocol as I do.
Just to shut everyone up, really, and for the same reason that I finally gave up drink and drugs—because my ambition is the most powerful force within me, so once people convinced me that my sexual behavior might become damaging to my career, I found it easier to think of it as a flaw that needed to be remedied. It was just before I started to dress cool Collins defines cool as Worzel Gummidge dressed for a bondage party —at this stage I was still kitting myself out in tight jeans and t-shirts, like a kind of urban beach-bum.
The physical process of getting there was one of the most ridicu-larse journeys of my life. It felt strange to be chatting up the air hostesses on the American Airlines flight, knowing that I was on my way to a residential treatment center for sexual addiction.
I got off the plane at Philadelphia airport, looked around at all the girls in the terminus and thought, Well, this is weird, and then got in the back of the cab. I had no idea of what to expect when I arrived. Bill Sykes, psycho, Mr. Bumble, bumbling, Fagin, an unforgivable anti-Semitic stereotype. The gentleman who saved me from the brown fangs of smack addiction was preposterously called Chip Somers, chipper summers, like an upbeat holiday.
I spoke to Travis—whose name indicates trust and growth—several times on the phone before setting out. I told him about the lack of control I was exercising over who I was having sex with.
It was a right lot of nonsense going on. I was pursuing hanky-panky like it was a job, like there was a league table that I had to be at the summit of.
The clinic, when we found it, was in the middle of this square in some quiet Philadelphia suburb. Over the road there was a church: Strange it was. Why no proper bells? I never went in but I bet it was a robot church for androids, where the Bible was in binary and their Jesus had laser eyes and metal claws.
I was greeted on the steps of the clinic by one of the counselors. Fucking hell, I thought.
How troublingly apposite that your mission in life should now be to save people from destruction as they pursue their natural instinct to spawn. At this point, the frog lady introduced me to a subdued and pinch-faced individual. Arthur will show you around, she said cheerfully. Arthur showed me round the kitchen with its horrible meaty American meals. I resented being called London.
There are eight million people living in London, and my identity, I hope, is quite specific. Cancel Remove. Playing next 3: This is why this Kid spends long time in the shower Personal time difference volleyball attack. Escalera al cielo - Ahn Jae Wook. Star Sports New Advertisement.. Muhammad Ali Everyone doubted this man, he only became the greatest heavyweight of all time. Report this video Select an issue.