My Booky Wook by Russell Brand

I'm incredibly sentimental about animals. It's the only opportunity I get to occupy the moral high ground: when I got clean, after chatting with some Krishna conscious devotees, I gave up fish as well. They said if you put death into your body you will emit death, but I'm mostly in it for the high ground. "You're vegetarian?" comes the inquiry. "Yes." Then the inevitable, "Do you eat fish?" This is where they catch a lot of people out: the inquisitor is already at this stage anticipating a "Yes" and loading up with, "Ah, well, you're not a proper vegetarian then are you because fish are incredibly sensitive and some of them write haikus." That's why I have to stifle a smug grin when I reply, "No. No, I don't eat fish because it's cruel to them, the lovely little things." And on particularly smarmy days, "If you put death into your body you emit death." Even as a junkie I stayed true - "I shall have heroin, but I shan't have a hamburger." What a sexy little paradox.

-My Booky Wook

Russell Brand is an excellent subway companion - too good, almost. There was more than one day last week that I was loath to get off at my stop because I didn't want my time with Brand to come to an end.

Of course, I only had him in book format, but that was pretty good as far as those things go. (If I'd traveled with the real Brand, I think we can all assume there's no way I would have made it to work without some kind of rannygazoo* ensuing.) My Booky Wook is an eye-poppingly candid account of Brand's rocky childhood in Essex, his ascent into the world of show business, and his simultaneous descent into full-blown heroin addiction. He also deals with his slightly too, ah, spirited pursuit of ladies, which results in a stint in a New Jersey sex rehab. You can see how one might regret having to close the book every morning.

Russell Brand is one of those people I just knew that I'd like - I mean, just look at that hair. How can you not love him a bit?** He stole the show in the (mediocre, in my opinion) Forgetting Sarah Marshall, but I didn't really feel compelled to read his memoirs until I watched The Big Fat Quiz of the Year (search for 2006, 2007, and 2009 on YouTube if you need a laugh - and have a fair amount of time at your disposal). He's just so clever, so cheeky, and especially such a delightful teammate to Noel "King of the Mods" Fielding. (The Goth Detectives. I rest my case.)

"You just give us 48 hours and we'll get the job done - if we weren't so bloody miserable."

I don't think I have much of anything in common with him - but it doesn't matter, because the man can really tell a story, and My Booky Wook captures his distinctive voice perfectly. It's an affecting memoir, really. He tries to make light of things often, but at a certain point you can't help but go, wait, his father's taking him to a strip club in Southeast Asia? He's cutting himself while someone is calling 911 (well, 999)? Clearly things were not ship shape. He's told at one point, right before choosing to go to rehab, that in six months he will be in jail, a mental institution, or dead. It does not seem like an exaggeration. He did some things that I found horrible (or horrifying), but it is a testament to his charm that I still can't help but like him. He's really a singular man, in the end.

Up next: Working on Keats, as I indicated in the previous post. I imagine it will be slow going, and I may take a break as I'm traveling next week, and I can't bear to lug this 600-page behemoth on a plane.

*A Brand word if I ever heard one. Well, a Wodehouse word really, but Brand really has a flair for language. It means nonsense, incidentally.

**I'm sure tons of people have jerky things to say about his hair - I know not everyone shares the love. Tough for them, I suppose.