Russell Brand

I’m still on holiday with Nik. I’ve “gone native” in several ways. I have become firm friends with Praba who attends my every need, the hotel refer to him as a butler but as we all know butlers have to be played by Stephen Fry and Praba is a diminutive, adorable, cheeky Hindu gent who has no discernible chemistry with Hugh Laurie. He brought his son, who is four months old, in to see me. The beautiful chap survived meningitis and now throbs with robust health that only those who’ve cheated death ever attain. I fantasise about liberating myself from the tyranny of luxury, the shackles of room service – which we all know is satisfying – but so flimsy, unlike the satisfaction of a soaring ribbon of incandescent light dancing through your heart, connecting you to all other life and God herself.

As you can tell I feel spiritually awake and as a result have taken to wearing a sarong. I’d say that my sarong is a harbinger of enlightenment, a quickening. If I tie a scarf about my head we can probably establish a utopian-socialist, one-world super-state in time for elevenses’. The monkeys in my garden are a source of great joy. They turn up on a whim, when I asked when I’d next see them Praba informed me that it is “difficult to predict the monkeys roster”. He is a good man so I overlooked this insubordination. He is a fella who conveys a great deal of love and through either his culture, faith or some genetic accident seems closer to truth than me; his ego being merely a utensil that binds the elements of his being, rather than a bloated overlord burping out sulphuric demands. The monkeys and their tiny hands make me chuckle. When they see me with a banana they clock it and tentatively approach. In rapid motion they resemble nothing I’ve ever seen, demonic, rustling deities in the foliage, inviting worship with their grace and valour. When they are still and fingering a fruit this magic evaporates and they are like us, greedy little idiots with jittery eyes and nervous thumbs with no aim but consumption. Praba tells me they sometimes come in the room and nick things they cant possibly need – like mobile phones. That is a senseless crime in anybody’s book – who they gonna call? Ghostbusters? I’d hate to return to the room and chance upon a skittery ape, wearing me jim-jams and screeching down the blower at my Mum, who far from being baffled would likely nod at my newfound articulacy. Atavism is the fear I have of a monkey in my room. It is for this, the ancient recall of discarded instincts that Tom and Jerry’s housekeeper lived in such terror. Actually I don’t think she worked for them directly – Jerry hated her and Tom didn’t have the means to meet her, doubtless insultingly low, wages. That woman should be paid a kings ransom for the shit she tolerated from them stupid pair of dickheads. Particularly Tom who when he invariably got his thumb whacked would scream in a man’s voice. Cats don’t yell like that, or have thumbs. In fact, now that I think about it Tom and Jerry was riddled with inconsistencies and half-truths. The dog next door could talk. Frankly I’m considering disregarding it as a lifestyle guide until someone at Warner brothers gives me a bloody good explanation.

Nik has taken some photos of me which will appear here soon, I look a twit so be gentle and I have written a piece about Jade which will appear here later. God bless her.

Now, I’m off outside for some monkey magic and possibly to turn back the evolutionary clock to a time where we weren’t so hung up on the little things like inter-special love-making and dressing up monkeys like little prostitutes and forcing them to do a chorus line. And they call it progress.

Hare Krishna

Posted in Diary