As a comedian, film star, television presenter, author, boyfriend of Katy Perry, ‘Shagger of the Year’ (copyright The Sun), self-harmer, recovering drug addict and sex addict, I think everyone must have an opinion on Brand. But even those who cannot stand Brand must acknowledge his talent.
My Booky Wook is a paradox: an easy difficult read. His writing style is familiar to those used to his stage delivery, full of archaic grammar and regular usage of ‘were’ instead of ‘was’, but it’s a pacy tale full of funny stories which helps you race through it. Unfortunately, many of the stories concern his own abject humiliation, which means you spend as much time cringing at his latest self-inflicted embarrassment as laughing at the humorous way the tales are told.
He mentions in the book that his greatest asset has been to use his own disgrace and degradation to make people laugh, and it’s a winning combination, although the depths to which Brand has sunk often make reading which is uncomfortable at best, painful at worst. Even lighter tales, such as being locked out a flat naked, turn nasty when in the course of the ensuing he spits in the face of his girlfriend.
This isn’t a book for those interested in celebrity spotting. The likes of Jimmy Carr, David Walliams, Steve Coogan, Tess Daly and a few others get mentions, but Brand would rather talk about the lessons he learned from someone who relapsed in the same drug treatment centre as him as the hookers, the conquests and his own career.
It may have a daft title, but My Booky Wook is one of the most revealing and honest books I’ve read for a long time. Whether you come away liking Brand any more after the reading the book is for you to decide (you’ve got to admire the Big Brother reference I slipped in at the end there…).
So, rating time:
#61 My Booky Wook, by Russell Brand (Hodder & Stoughton) - 8/10
Next up: Men from the Boys, by Tony Parsons (HarperCollins)
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