There can be few cultures that would unthinkingly welcome into their fold a man dressed as I was in the macabre attire of a spandex scarecrow but the occupants of this pop up civilization offered me first food, then shelter and then, incredibly, hope that we can change the world.

Of course, this may seem like cock-eyed optimism given that physically the site resembles a Kenyan slum, all slung together wigwams, a Toy-Town medi-centre and a cardboard-igloo library, but whilst the visible structures may be flimsy they are held together by an invisible scaffold of ideals founded upon the thing the establishment fears most; the will of the people.

During my first accidental visit I chatted with an enthralling bunch, notably a beautiful group of teenagers, righteous and idealistic and interestingly mellow. I suppose they differ from the London teens that last month took a starkly contrasting course of action from the same impetus of frustration, in that while they may be similarly disenfranchised, they believe in the possibility of change.

Brianna who is seventeen, pagan-pretty and dusky, is attending college by day and occupying Wall Street by night like some heart wrenching cross between Pocahontas and Batman, said that young people are entitled to an education without being bound to a lifetime of debt. Whilst “Messiah” (there’s a lot of those names flying about, go with it; it’s a small price to pay for Utopia) literally danced into the conversation and self consciously, but touchingly, divided up and shared a stick of gum in a “Sermon on the Mount” brought to us by Juicy Fruit. You might think, that given her name, that was the least she could do, but we’re talking about a sixteen-year-old girl here. If Fox News and the Daily Mail are to be believed I’m damn lucky she didn’t shiv me in the guts and film it on her phone.

Here in Zuccotti Square these young people clearly felt safe, purposeful, included and behaved with charm, compassion and respect. Naturally I was impressed but more agitated than ever by my jogging outfit. Really, it’s terrible, I mean if we’re going to bring about systemic and meaningful social change, I want to be dressed for it.

The next day I returned to learn more, in a very fetching scarf with my friend Daniel Pinchbeck the brilliant writer, radical and ludicrously, yet truthfully titled “psychedelic Shaman”.

One of the movement’s significant principles is that there are no appointed leaders. That said, there are more experienced and pragmatic inhabitants to whom Daniel and I chatted. We were given a tour of the site and in spite of the lashing rain and gales, which I, of course regarded as the winds of change and cleansing rain, all we encountered were bonhomous and welcoming. Much more than I’d anticipated. Let’s face facts, one of the campaign’s few edicts is to provide the unrepresented 99% with a voice, had I, when I fitted into that demographic, chanced upon a touring celebrity I would have used that voice to tell him to fuck off, no matter how nice his scarf was.

Perhaps it is this ambience of inclusion, of acceptance and indeed of love that has brought #OccupyWallStreet such success. There is a remarkable absence of anger and resentment which is why the movement resonates so deeply. Is this movement’s implicit goal to reengage our humanity? To reach beyond the political, the national and other illusory, temporary concepts and into our true, spiritual nature?

Justin, our volunteer tour guide was smiling and patient, especially with my incessant questioning about where people go to the toilet; mostly in McDonald’s it transpires – I’m glad Ronald and the Hamburglar at last have a chance to atone for their mucky past and eery jocundity. The sense of cohesion and civic duty in the square, which many call Liberty Square, its former title, was something I found appealing. In my country, England, and across the world there is amongst older people an irritation at the breakdown of traditional values, a grudge against apathetic and uncaring youth, atomized and X-box agog, indifferent to their culture, abstracted from their land.

Here young men who would typically be drenched in spittle-flecked “Get a job” rage diligently join committees for sanitation, cooking and on site security. A voluntary conscription to the cause of change. A nation founded on ideals of harmony and responsibility, on representing the whole, built here in a privately owned square. The ownership of the Square, explained David, a seasoned and visionary activist, is important as the New York Real Estate Group who represent the interests of the powerful institutions to whom this movement is a threat, are now desperate to implement legislative change that will ensure the Occupation will be curtailed and not repeated. Clearly this is no simple undertaking as demonstrated when the suspicious attempts to vacate the Square for cleaning were abandoned. It is unlike Mayor Bloomberg to back down but David outlined this movement is unlike anything this country has ever seen.

Other protestors took the time to educate me on the matters that had brought them to the square. One purple haired, perfect skinned occupant told me beneath the billow and crack of the turbulent tarpaulin that in 2009 24% of American families with children were at some point too poor to buy food. Hunger. It doesn’t get more basic than that. Another lad, black and bright eyed with spectacles that I suspect-acle didn’t have glass in them, informed me that 50 million Americans do not have health care. Perhaps that’s why his glasses weren’t finished.

Of course these problems are not unique to America, they are the symptoms of a global epidemic, said a lady who was there speaking on behalf of the Mexican Zapatista movement using the already iconic “Human Mic” system in which staccato sentences are truncated and repeated by the crowd. A charming and inspiring instant cultural artifact.

A Scotsman there told me that he considered this to be America’s class awakening, that the 99% are a contemporary proletariat existing in opposition to an oligarchical 1%. A business class that have been steadily waging a clandestine class war through market deregulation and psychopathic economic exploitation. The surprisingly sanguine Scot told me that now this exploitation is reaching critical mass, too many families are affected, too many people are losing jobs, too many people across our planet cannot put food on their family’s table for this behavior to continue unopposed.

As I listened, Johnny, a wild-eyed wolf man drummer, continued the burgeoning rhythm, a slow, comforting nocturnal heartbeat.

Later, leaving the McDonald’s lavvy (the staff were lovely and friendly and seemed to really like the protestors; recognizing perhaps whose interests were being represented) we exploited corporate facilities further by questioning Bill, a seasoned campaigner, in Dirty Ron’s boutique brand, Pret a Manger.

Bill has been an activist for many years primarily with the early campaigns to bring awareness and justice to sufferers of HIV and AIDS. He said there were similarities with the #OccupyWallStreet movement in terms of the bureaucratic obstacles and official reluctance, but that this huge issue of social inequality, of unbearable economic disparity has a veracity and velocity that was difficult even for those on the ground floor to anticipate.

Daniel Pinchbeck proposes that we are entering an era of profound change of consciousness. That capitalism has provided our civilization with the machinery of mass communication and with it potential global union.

It occurs that the relentless charge of vagueness leveled at this movement may be it’s great strength. The reason there is no candid agenda is because a spiritual shift this seismic is initially difficult to legislate.

I think another attractive distinction that #OccupyWallStreet has is that unlike a lot of pious “Lefty” movements it’s a riot down there – I mean in the sense of “fun” not the kind of riots I was arrested at as a boy. Why, I met a fellow in a skin-tight stars and stripes gimp suit, all covered with scribbles and slogans. I’m not ashamed to admit that in the giddiness of the moment I quite forgot myself and unzipped his mouth and planted a kiss on his full lips. Only after did I ask his sexual orientation which he described as “open minded”, the perv.

As I was leaving, my outfit compromised once more by the addition of a freely given plastic poncho (it wasn’t really a poncho it was a sack, I had to chew my way out of it to make a head-hole, even then I was hardly Clint Eastwood but I had to do something about my hair. Plus my ascot was by now ruined) a bloke I spoke to, a former US government employee, a Doogie Howser Deepthroat, told me of the fear the movement had generated amongst politicians. #OccupyWallStreet has no recognizable funding, an anomaly the government does not know how to address. Typically public protests are funded by non-profit organizations that are easy to hound, and behind them foundations that would yield to political intimidation. But this amorphous, righteous, global collective is impossible to buy, too popular to repress and too peaceful to oppose militarily. Those in power for the first time in two generations are being confronted with something they don’t understand, and they are afraid.

As I walked home to my 1% apartment I felt incredibly hopeful, the benevolence and enlightenment of the Zuccotti tribe alleviated my feelings of hypocrisy, at least for now. Looking back through the media trucks and flash bulbs it was apparent that they have colonized more than the formerly anonymous square, they have colonized the international agenda. All about the surveillance cameras observe, the police look on.

The Occupy Wall Street movement is already a success on the most basic of principles; it’s own simple objective as stated in its name has been met- Wall Street is occupied. At least Zuccotti Park is, this once architecturally banal plaza, framed by silently thundering corporate tombstones, is becoming both the graveyard of a deceased economic dogma and the cradle of the revolution.

America is awake and with it the American dream has awoken.

London Hackney Empire, Thu 30 September
Live interview with Jonathan Ross

Following dates feature onstage interview with Matt Morgan

Edinburgh EICC, Tue 05 October

Newcastle Tyne Theatre, Wed 06 October

Manchester Opera House, Thu 07 October

Bristol Hippodrome, Fri 08 October

Birmingham Alexander Theatre, Sat 09 October

Further info and booking details at Ticketzone

And for those of you in the US Russell will be doing a NY Times Talk Tuesday, October 12 at 6:30PM  at The Times Center, 242 West 41st Street

New York, NY 10018. Book here

More US Booky Wook promo info coming soon

In these shows he’ll be interacting with the audience as he shares his thoughts on the subject, which will be filmed for an ongoing documentary project

There are still a limited number of tickets available for both performances
Book here for Oct 27
Book here for Oct 28

Having just spent the best part of ten days in New York City between a hotel room in Soho, the surprisingly well stocked grocers across the street and the Radio City Theatre, our sudden drive through the expansive cornfields of Iowa is more eerie than it might ordinarily be.

Beautiful as it is, I look at the lonely houses scattered through the maze of maize and primarily wonder if perhaps I am metro-polised – a word I think I may have just made up for being institutionalized in cities.

The come down after a night as glittering as the VMAs is palpable. Even as a non-performing member of the team, the focus and dedication it requires means that mental readjustments are needed. I can only imagine how these are multiplied by the high of live performance and without the option of getting blind drunk after.

To be honest getting the tone of the material right this year was a little tricky. At times we were treading a comedy tightrope fit for Pink’s circus.

It’s a particularly precarious gig because of the odd atmosphere in the room and Russell’s admirable desire never to compromise. Prevalent concerns produced by these elements are these kind of questions: Which celebrities will handle a gag ok? Will the audience have the concentration to appreciate this joke? Does my bum look big in this skirt? Sorry that was just me.

Deciding what material to actually include is a bit like that moment when you have to decide what shoes to take on holiday. You know one pair will inevitably spend the entire break in the suitcase, it’s just bloody difficult to predict which ones before you go.

The dressing room prior to the show has the air that I assume is generally reserved for that of a pro boxer. By then the preparation is done, it’s just the psychological battle at this point. Russell calmly paces the room deeply inhaling as the team offer words of positivity. Finally there is a knock from the floor manager and it is time. A quick hug from the gang and he is off, wandering out into the abyss of a live nation. Rather him than me.

Backstage, in our little room we call the ‘dog basket’ the team huddle round an unnecessarily small TV with the collective nerves of a parent at the first school play. It’s odd to watch a man exit a room and immediately appear on TV, it’s especially hard to comprehend that on the other side of that grubby blue-tacked wall is the bonkers glam of the VMAs. There he is though, our very own Essex boy up on the stage effortlessly carrying some pretty weighty focus.

Meanwhile, back in the basket our odd co-operative silently lip sync his lines and cheer laughs like he’s scoring goals. Gareth and I look at one another grinning and realize he is comfortable out there – the show is in safe hands. Russell is a man uniquely at home in mind-boggling conditions, the added chaos of Kanye just made him more at home. I glance around at the traveling sitcom he has assembled as a team, there is a communal surge of relief and, might I add some really appropriate shoes.