Booky Wook 2: This Time It's Personal
Page 19
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Chapter 15
Come on, Darling, We’re Leaving
It must’ve been with the best intentions that my bedroom had been filled with helium balloons of purple, silver and black on the night of the VMAs. One of my loving friends or my mother, I’ve never asked, in a display of myopic altruism had sought to inappropriately celebrate my triumphant return too soon after I’d left. How could they have known it would be inappropriate? I didn’t even know yet, but I soon would. My ceiling was obscured and ribbons hung like stalactites in a satin world. With the deft elegance of eight finger-Nijinskis I danced my name across the keypad: R-U-S-S-E-L-L-B-R-A-N-D and the letters fell into the digital self-harming device that is Google and turned the ignition to begin the short journey from my blissful ignorance. Google was in generous form and up gurgled a toxic slick of headlines depicting the night’s events:
MTV host insults George Bush – Republicans outraged
MTV host insults Jonas Brothers – Christians outraged (but will forgive him)
MTV host insults cast of Twilight – undead remain indifferent
Second by second the grisly gang of headlines grew as I sat submerged and solitary beneath the deflating balloons, slowly descending like Portuguese men o’ war.
In the hours immediately after the VMA Awards the fifth-most Googled thing in the world was “Russell Brand” – people all over the planet were asking, “Who the fucking hell is Russell Brand?” “Well, I am,” I glumly thought. The seventh-most Googled thing was “VMA host” as people queried furiously, “Who was that English jerk?” “Erm, it’s me actually.” Way down at thirty-seventh was “Russell Brown”. I like to think that might have been me as well.
I felt the anonymity draining from my face and I sank into the relief that, with heroin gone, only sleep can give.
After a few twitchy hours I tentatively padded down the stairs that Diana Ross used to glide down like a swan into a terrifyingly bright new day. The omens were bad. Among my friends there was a sepulchral hush. Nik sat quietly thinking in the kitchen, Gabby solemnly polished. Nicola and Sharon surveyed the view like birds of doom, and Jack and Gareth were watching YouTube footage of my beloved friend Noel Gallagher being attacked on stage at an Oasis gig the previous night. It was horrible to see Noel, a proud and brilliant man, felled by a lunatic shove. He is a British hero, a flag-bearer for our people. In the gallows gag we cooked up to soothe us we imagined this travesty had been conducted by Americans enraged by my performance the previous night: “Anti-British hostilities spilled over yesterday when Oasis guitarist Noel Gallagher was shoved from the stage in a reprisal for Russell Brand’s scandalous attacks on American president George Bush and our cherished Jonas Brothers.”
We laughed by way of medicine. Comedy served its most beautiful function of alchemically transforming leaden pain into glistening laughter. The conversation that Jack, Gareth and I had that morning formed the basis of thirty minutes of stand-up. Nik brought in some of the death threats that were being emailed in the hundreds. The confederacy of dunces were waging digital war. Our laughter formed a shield and comedy protected me from fear and death as it had my whole life. Whenever I am most alone, it comes giggling in, sensing the absurdity, the mad stupidity of our hubristic concerns when the guillotine knowingly hovers, waiting to administer the last laugh. “Who sends a death threat?” we chuckled. Death is coming, threat or no threat. If you really want someone to die all you have to do is wait. How too can you be sufficiently moved by words said during an award show on your television set to patiently type out a death threat? The same people that doze through wars, pestilence and famine leap to their feet, ready to spill blood at the chime of a dissonant joke.
“Thanks for showing me these, Nik, by the way,” I said. Nik has always, ALWAYS had a strict policy of not passing on the many letters offering sex and photographs that women send of their own vaginas pleading with me to enter and offering maps and instructions, lest they should disrupt me. But for these blood-curdling vendettas he’s prepared to buck the trend. We chuckled at how to write a death threat on an Apple laptop: first you’d have to turn it on, perhaps momentarily pausing to enjoy the mellifluous cyber-jingle that accompanies the lid opening. “Ah, what a beautiful sound.” Then immediately set about typing “YOU FUCKING CUNT” – and believe me they did usually write in capitals, I suppose on a computer your own excrement isn’t an option, although I expect they’ll soon have an app for that. These death threats formed the basis of my next stand-up tour, Scandalous, but for that fledgeling show to fly we’d need further controversy. Tick tock, tick tock. For now though we had enough to be getting on with.
I called Noel to see if he was OK after his altercation, and his reaction to the incident was a further affirmation of the manner of man he is. Far from responding with bawdy, macho posturing, he spoke of the hurt and confusion engendered by the attack with tenderness and intelligence. He is, lest we forget, which we could because he often revels in braying like a twerp, one of the great artists of our time and one of the best popular musicians in history.
I was glad Noel had taken it so well because I was traumatised by my experience. Yes, me and my mates were joking about it, but my head was not a nice place to be when the laughter stopped.
This is a selection of some of my favourite death threats received in the immediate aftermath of the VMAs. I should also add that there were some life threats, “Continue to live,” they’d say. “Take your vitamins” – but they’re less fun than the death threats – see for yourself. The first indication that you’re dealing with an imbalanced character often comes in the form of their name. This is from “Yankee”.
From: Yankee
To: Russell Brand
YOU PIECE OF SHIT!!!!!! WHO THE FUCK DO YOU THINK YOU ARE?
Presumably the question is rhetorical, though he could be asking me to confirm his assertion that I am a “piece of shit”. That’s the thing with Yankee, you can never be sure.
Who do you think you are? Telling US who to vote for? You ignorant piece of shit!
Here Yankee addresses the matter at the problem’s core. He doesn’t like being told who to vote for, particularly, as he emphatically states, by a “piece of shit”. In this next stanza, though, Yankee delves into metaphysics, and this is where his thesis becomes confused.
Why don’t you drop dead and die?
Well, the reason is that the question is tautologous. You cannot “drop dead” and then “die”. The dropping dead prohibits the subsequent dying. Unless what Yankee is requesting is a Hindu-based double-death in which I drop dead, get reincarnated as a mouse, then die again, but this seems needlessly complicated and if that is what he wants he should make it clearer in his death threat.
“I’ll NEVER vote for Obama, EVER!!”
This is my favourite sentence as I like the capitalisation of NEVER and EVER as it provides rhythm, plus it implies that between Yankee writing NEVER and EVER, someone tried to persuade him to vote for Obama again.
“I’ll NEVER vote for Obama …”
Erm, Yankee, it says here he won’t raise taxes …
“EVER!!!!”
Yankee lets himself down with a rather humdrum ending.
“You better hope I never see you, if I do, I’ll kill you.”
Well there’s a chance encounter I’d like to avoid. What concerns me most is that the death threat has no expiry date. I wonder if it still stands. I wonder if the raging fire still blazes in Yankee’s angry heart? It’s a good death threat but personally I prefer this one from Patrik, AKA Bully Defender. Very kind of him to include an alias, I think.
“Erm, if you don’t know me as Patrik – perhaps you’ll be aware of my work as … Bully Defender?”
“Wow! You’re THE Bully Defender? Sir, it is an honour. How oft I have rehearsed this moment in my dreams …”
He commences …
From: Patrik – AKA: Bully Defender
To: Russell Brand
It’s an engaging opening gambit; succinct – good use of capitals, as if he’s screaming it into his baffled laptop, plus it’s personal – he thinks to address me as “Russell” not just “Piece of shit” like Yankee. That’s what makes Patrik AKA Bully Defender a far superior death threatener. He errs somewhat in his next demand by assuming that all people are of the same mindset as him and that I can be goaded through literary means that he himself finds provocative.
“Stick to figuring out your own pathetic government!”
Patrik AKA Bully Defender somehow arrived at the conclusion that I would be fiercely protective of the British government and that his accusation that they are “pathetic” would rile me. Well, Patrik AKA Bully Defender, I’ve never voted in my life and have no allegiance to any government of any nation. I am an anarcho-Marxist-spiritualist revolutionary, so you’ll have to insult me on the basis of that creed, but before you can do that you’ll have to work out what it means, which is more than I’ve ever been able to do. Back to the death threat:
“Stick to figuring out your own pathetic government and your precious Queen!”
Right. You’ve crossed a line there. Sir, you can say what you will of me, and attack my government if you must. BUT WHEN YOU BESMIRCH THE NAME OF ELIZABETH REGINA, YOU MAKE A POWERFUL ENEMY, Bully Defender! If that’s your real name – which I doubt! What a twit. I don’t care about the Queen either. She’s just a little old lady in a shiny hat – that we bought her.
My favourite death threat, however, comes from the charmingly named “White Boy”, not just because of the racism implicit in his name but also because he was almost alone among the death threateners in that he included a subject heading in his emailed death threat. Plus his use of capitals for EMPHASIS was second to none.
From: White Boy
To: Russell Brand
Subject: FUCK RUSSELL BRAND YOU NEED TO GET THE FUCK OUT OF MY COUNTRY, YOURE A FUCKING ASS-HOLE A FUCKING PIECE OF SHIT, I’M GOING TO KILL YOU, GO HOME BITCH BOY!!!!!!
The thrust of the sentiment that follows in the main body of the text has actually been addressed in the subject heading: 1. He doesn’t like me. 2. He’d like me to go home. 3. He’d like to kill me. 4. He considers me to be a “bitch boy”.
He needn’t have written another word, he’d done all he needed to in the “haiku of hate” that is this thorough and articulate headline. But he did and here it is:
YOU LITTLE UGLY FUCKING CUNT.
That is so rude it’s almost erotic. The artist Francis Bacon’s dad used to whip him as a boy in the stables where he grew up – this led Francis to have a lifelong homoerotic attachment to being beaten by burly men. If I’d heard White Boy’s vehement swearing when a child I wouldn’t be able to cum now without it.
YOU NEED TO STAY THE FUCK OUT OF MY COUNTRY!!!
Well that’s becoming clear. It was clearly addressed in the subject heading; in a way the demand for extradition is repetitive. Also I note, he’s sticking with capitals. This whole letter is being bawled into a screen.
PUNK RUSSELL FAG BRAND YOU NEED TO WORRY ABOUT YOUR GOVERNMENT INSTEAD OF MINE.
I quite like the nickname “Punk-Russell-fag-Brand” and am thinking of employing it as a nom de plume. I am more troubled by the idea that as an Englishman I’m not entitled to address any non-domestic political matters. I only said George Bush was a retard – thank God I didn’t go with the “John McCain is a war criminal” routine.
YOU MORE THAN LIKELY SUPPORT MUSLIMS THAT DESTROY THE WORLD
This is my favourite line from the whole death threat. The sentence appears to have been constructed from a multiple-choice quiz in a lifestyle magazine:
Q Does Russell Brand support Muslims that destroy the world?
A. No
B. Unlikely
C. Likely
D. More than likely
E. Definitely
I like that he went for “D. More than likely” as opposed to “E. Definitely”, as this indicates that White Boy doesn’t like to make knee-jerk assumptions about people where there is room for doubt.
‘“Why don’t you go for ‘E. Definitely’”?
“No! I don’t like to be too judgemental.”
Also implicit within this statement is the idea that White Boy has no problem with Muslims who don’t want to destroy the world, and I’m viewing that as hugely positive. Although I’m still not entirely clear about which particular Jonas Brothers joke he regarded as tacitly supportive of the 9/11 attacks.
SO I’M GONNA FUCKING KILL YOU FUCKING FAG BRAND COS YOU’RE SO FUCKIN UGLY REALLY NO SHIT YOU’RE FUGLY
He’s freestyling now. He’s really found his voice. Over the course of the death threat he’s really grown as a writer. That’s what makes him first among all those who threatened to kill me that day. His energy, style, commitment and passion. In fact, I was so moved by White Boy’s death threat that I did something I seldom do. I decided to reply.
From: Russell Brand
To: White Boy
Dear White Boy,
Initially, I assumed your letter was a covert homoerotic advance. If it is, be assured, sweet one, that I’d gladly accept. As long as I’ve got a lap, you’ll never need a place to sit down, you big, beautiful, white brute.
Yours with everlasting affection (and, dammit, erection)
Bitch Boy
In spite of the laughs and the camaraderie those first few days after the VMAs were terrifying. The American press and paparazzi lurked at the gate like jackals sensing there’d soon be a corpse to snack on.
Nik subtly and with as little fuss as possible organised LAPD police protection as some of the death threats seemed as though they might be acted upon. (Although my secret dream of meeting White Boy has still yet to be realised.) Through this challenging time Nik and I adopted the demeanour of outlaws who knew the final bullet could be in the chamber. We were like Butch and Sundance awaiting the final showdown. The fear was never addressed or expressed, but there was a looming dread, a sense that all our hard work could’ve been squandered in a few misjudged moments. Adam Venit, my agent and the most powerful person in our circle, came round and from his advice we gleaned that my previously unstoppable trajectory might have encountered its first obstacle. “Well, Russell, now everyone in America knows who you are. And not all of them like you.”
Failure is destructive to relationships, like death. Some of the friendships in the group suffered. Me and Matt quarrelled ourselves into silence and our working relationship became untenable. This was a concern as we still had a weekly radio show to consider. Sharon and I became incestuously jagged around each other and decided we needed space. Nik and I never spoke of our fear that the gamble might not have paid off, that we might have to return to England chastised, back to the comfort of John Noel’s patriarchy, and admit that we were wrong; that we couldn’t handle it alone. I had a new perspective on America. My naive excitement at the land of the free was tarnished; the coastal Utopia had closed like a lobster claw, squeezing me into the barren heartlands where all they had for me was death. No more pretty girls and applause – here is the prejudice, aggression and damnation of which you read, the other America. I yearned for England as only an Englishman can. I wanted to be home in London, East London, Upton Park on a Wednesday night in the rain watching West Ham lose 2–1 with ten minutes to go, having pissed away a 1–0 lead. I wanted the grim, grey normal things. To get the District Line home to my nan’s in Dagenham and fuck a bird called Stacey or Tracy or Kasey, or all three, stinking of chips with glittery lips and glottal stops at bus stops, but the bus don’t stop, it never arrives.
This is where you are defined. Here in the machine. Not with success and its transitory glow but when the cogs grind. When your enemies are about you grinning, with blood on their teeth. The British press gloated and chugged. “Brand commits career suicide,” they yawped, passing the blade and enticing me to consider the real thing.
Man, I hate failing. Failing to chat up a girl, or a joke twisting in mid-air like a struck gull and falling before the laughter lands. I don’t have a wife. I don’t have children. This is my wife, my life, my children. I need them to laugh. Sometimes on stage I tell them I love them, and I hope they know it’s true. They must know it’s true, they must feel it. Somewhere inside them they feel the yearning of a man who has nothing else, nowhere else to go. The only home I’ve ever known, up there in front of them; skewered in the spotlight is where I live, the only place I’ve ever lived. If I can’t do that any more, if the laughter stops, I’ve got no other option. There is no plan B, no safety net, no exit strategy. The way back is obscured by the smoke from all the burnt bridges.
“Let’s go home to England,” said Nik. We could just keep things simple, rethink, regroup, lie low for a while, just do some small gigs and the radio show. Stay out of trouble. Me and Matt weren’t talking, so I asked Jonathan Ross if he’d do it with me. So it wasn’t all bad, he’s the best broadcaster in the country. What could possibly go wrong?
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Chapter 16
Opportunity Sucks
When you first become famous, you see how other famous people, your new famous friends, handle paparazzi – abruptly and aggressively – and you think, “I’ll never be like that. I shall fashion myself in some new fame strain where with perpetual gratitude I accept the intrusion of the press and paps as an inadvertent consequence of success.” And for a while you stick to it. You joke with them and pull daft faces, you’re polite and tell them of approaching kerbs and obstacles as they backward gambol, cheeking and snapping. Then one day you grow tired, the novelty fades like a once lurid transfer on a kid’s elbow. “Fuck off and give me some space,” you think. You then realise that what you’d assumed to be your “oh so different, oh so Gandhi” novel take on handling the press was just the naive first step on the journey to behaving like everybody else. They too probably initially felt grateful and hubristically joshed and preened, but for them as for you, as for me, the day came where you want your privacy back. As Jonathan Ross told me at Mount Fame’s corpse-strewn foothills, the privacy was gone and, like Captain Oates, it “may be gone some time …”