Russell Brand

Hello, I’m Alfie. No, I am not Alfie – my actual name is Gareth. And were it not for a barmy last minute pre-trip decision to visit an untested local barbers, I would still be Gareth. As it is, Russell has dubbed me “Alfie”, a time-traveling WWII machine-gunner – a new persona that has caused much hilarity among our silly group.

I blame this barber because it is all his fault. Seemingly unwilling to understand the term (much used in his profession, I would imagine) “trim” – he attacked the back of my beloved head of hair and left me with a bloody great big flippin’ wedge . It’s like a cliff face, it’s scary. So you can visualise this better, think back to that fleeting craze at primary school when all the bully boys had steps shaved into the back of their noggins (my mate Gary had “GAZ” scrawled into his – which, in an early example of my, now much derided impressionable character, I did actually beg my mum to allow me to have) – well, just like that.

To cap things off, this “haircut” cost me £14 and because I’m such a tit, I tipped the guy three quid – one for every inch of much-missed precious volume. I hate getting my hair cut. “Like you’ve just stepped out of a salon” translates for me as crippling disappointment and the realisation that I’ll be spending the next two weeks in the shadows. Well, I’m Alfie for now and until this one particular section of my hair grows back, I shall remain him. Ironically, the internal agonising that this hair-butchery has caused me will probably result in my stupid bonce being too nervous to grow hair for the next 5 weeks – the exact duration of this trip.

I must admit though, despite the mockery and self-loathing, being Alfie does have its moments. On Thursday, after the hugely successful gig in New York, a large crowd of adoring fans gathered to have pictures and cuddles with ol’ Russ. As I made my way to the bar for a little drinky, a lone female voice from the periphery addressed me – “Alfie? Is that you Alfie?” – my heart sank. “Oh no”, I thought, “is this my life now?”. As it turned out, the girl had already had a picture taken with Rusty Boots and now, probably for a bit of a laugh, wanted one with me – Alfie. I detest having photos taken, I always look like a right twit. But I thought, “Well, if it’s Alfie she wants, it’s Alfie she should get”. I committed to that photo with all the passion and giddy energy of a young George Formby.

So I think I’ve reached a turning point with this new personality of mine. Gareth would never have agreed to that photo – I’m warming to Alfie. In any case, I know a dog called Alfie and people seem to like him, he’s nice.

Posted in Diary