Booky Wook 2: This Time It's Personal
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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. Brand’s performances in Arthur, Get Him to the Greek, and Forgetting Sarah Marshall have earned him a place in fans’ hearts; now, with a drop of Chelsea Handler’s Chelsea Chelsea Bang Bang, a dash of Tommy Lee’s Dirt, and a spoonful of Nikki Sixx’s The Heroin Diaries, Brand goes all the way—exposing the mad genius behind the audacious comic we all know (or think we know) and love (or at least, lust).
way that most skilled showmen can only dream of. One of the charges often levelled at Jade was that she was just a normal girl with no trade or practised skills. Well, people didn’t care, and our heroes are not prescribed to us, we have the right to choose them and the people chose Jade. Fame has long been bequeathed by virtue of wealth and birth, and this was the first generation where it was democratically distributed by that most lowbrow of modern
a jaunty hobby, skylarking around: “What ho! Pip pip, tally-ho, let’s get some money and knock up a picture show.” The Americans make films methodically, industriously. They’re not overwhelmed by the “magic of the movies”, it’s a job. Adam Venit, Sandler’s Ming the Merciless-looking agent, who also looks after Sacha Baron Cohen and Dustin Hoffman, is exemplary of this mentality. “This ain’t my first rodeo, kid,” he once said to me when I complimented him
seduction of a woman. All in all we were enjoying the benefits of my new-found, hard-won fame. When I got back to London I was invited to dinner with charmmonger Neil Strauss, writer of The Dirt – the Mötley Crüe book – and The Game. A further advantage of success is getting invited out to dinner by famous strangers. I was intrigued to meet Neil because The Game is the Koran (let’s take a risk, I mentioned the Bible a page ago) of womanisers everywhere. This
through a copy of Jane Eyre? Why don’t you put on Mrs Mills and do a jitterbug? Do some sums? Stare into your terrifying future while I wank.” Or, if you don’t want to interact with them you can furtively eavesdrop on some other poor sod’s excuse for a hobby. Now that’s what I call voyeurism; you’re a voyeur of someone else’s voyeurism, you’re watching someone else watching and masturbating. What if someone else starts watching, that’s Wormhole Theory for you
a bit where she’s sitting with my cat and he doesn’t care that she’s all mysterious and wonderful. I know he’s a cat but he should recognise that she has transcended the everyday. To be in her presence in my house doesn’t make sense, it is a baffling fusion of the real and the imagined. It’s like looking into the garden and seeing Vegas Elvis mowing the lawn, or going into the kitchen and finding Elvis in the Elvis Comeback Special ’68 suit cooking up