Russell Brand

By Producer Jack

And so our latest foray in the land of plenty came to a close, and whilst we have cherished the opportunity I have to admit there is relief with the absence of abundance. Somehow back in London I am again in the comfort of the journey rather than the confusing final destination that is Hollywood.

During our latest trip, much to the dismay of Russell I revealed my half-baked future plan for a vegetarian pie shop brilliantly (I alone think) called ‘Jack’s Meatless Pies’. Whilst this is a genuine ambition, I think the announcement came partly out of an innate resistance to our lavish surroundings. Not that this is any slight on our ambition; it’s just that Hollywood can sometimes be very blatant in its belief that happiness is financial.

Fitting then that this last trip should conclude with an Independence Day white themed party hosted by Puff Daddy at the biggest plot of real estate in Los Angeles. I wonder what our simian ancestors would have made of such a humble do? “Well I guess now we’re warm and fed, and you my missus are impregnated – why not us invest in a completely new and pointless outfit we’ll literally wear once?”

Please don’t for a minute think I am not grateful for such mind-boggling opportunities because of course I am. It’s just that I wonder if the aspiration for such riches, the drive to achieve them is actually a more solid foundation than the accomplishment.

Prior to the party there was debate in the camp over attendance, all of us nervous and excited in equal amounts. The decision was finally made when Russell arrived home with an outfit of such glory that had the suit itself not been present then gossip columns the world over would have buzzed at the no show. Also, Russell ‘Black’ Brand in all white? That’s comparable to Dylan going electric. Sort of.

Once the decision was made there was the kind of excitement you get when everyone properly commits to a fancy dress. I assume the white theme is intended to inject prestige and glamour into the event, which it certainly achieved with the ladies. For the gentlemen unfortunately it almost has a reverse affect acting as a leveller – like a compulsory hip hop school uniform.

Having mentioned the party since, it seems people are most interested in the other attendees. Understandable. But, to be quite honest I was so taken with the revolving dance floor and free Sean Combs endorsed vodka that I barely spoke to anyone. Apart from this bald guy who told me he once lived in Kent, that I later found out was Billy Zane. Lovely chap, although I still wonder about the cream cake he held throughout our chat that neither of us referenced.

I also had a brief exchange with someone I later found out to be model Amber Rose. Foolishly I thought her shaven head and alien beauty were recognisable only by me, and not her current squeeze Kanye West. Somehow when you haven’t got a clue who someone is, you unintentionally maintain a carefree attitude that you’d clumsily kick over if you were aware of their stature. Unfortunately I didn’t quite get to the meatless pie plan, which I’m sure would have been a clincher.

Back on the dance floor Puff remained on the microphone almost constantly – part rapping, part weirdly commentating on the party. At times I had flashes of street corners in Bedford Stuy with Biggie – hands in the air goose bump stuff, at other times it was like a local mobile dj rambling over a cherished wedding.

Ultimately though, you have to give it to him, he knows how to throw a party and clearly he doesn’t mind spreading his wealth. Which if you have it is surely the best thing that you can do. Now that I have commended him perhaps there will be an American franchise to ‘Jack’s Meatless Pies’ that we can call ‘Puff’s Pastries.’

By Producer Gareth

As Jack has already mentioned, he was vehemently against our ultimately doomed trip to Disneyland from the get go. As it turned out his concerns were completely justified. With Nik (the only truly responsible adult amongst us) away for the weekend, that left Jack, Russell and me and to be honest it’s lucky that the worst to happen was a trip to an inflated theme park – he could quite easily have returned to a burnt-down house and one of our corpses (probably mine) face down in the swimming pool. So the naughtiest of the three was free to hatch a plan and that plan was Disneyland.

Initially in favour of going, my enthusiasm was mainly due to Nicola’s lovely little daughter. Around her I turn into a kind of pathetic Mary Poppins, bending over backwards to entertain, desperate to be approved. Granted, she is utterly adorable, but putting every drop of my energy into seeking the validation of a two year-old who has barely learnt to speak just isn’t sensible, and in this case led me to my first problem of the day – a ride.

I don’t like rides, they leave me dazed and queasy. I had a feeling I should steer clear of them when my first encounter of a fairground coincided with my first experience of dating. Aged 13 and against my better judgment I accompanied that poor girl onto the Waltzers. Within minutes I’d sicked up the contents of that night’s dinner plus half a bag of candyfloss. To compound my mortified embarrassment, the operator subsequently handed me a limp rag and ordered me to clean up my vomit. Suffice to say, that relationship did not endure.

So, back to Disneyland and before I knew it I’d found myself on, what I’m told was a kind of “history of Disney” ride and featured incidents from famous tales. Subsequently we all agreed that this “child friendly” ride wasn’t really suitable for kids, due to what was judged to be a rather macabre atmosphere. At one point I distinctly remember passing models of two mal-treated caged donkeys crying out “please save me.” Now, I’m not sure what effect that had on the children but it left me quite anxious. Also, what scary, upsetting film does that occur in and why pick that scene? Around the next corner I half expected to see representations from Silence of the Lambs, Philadelphia and Schindler’s List.

Russell and Jack then decided that the boys should split from the girls and go in search of “proper rides”. So we ventured to another section of the park where we are invited to ‘Celebrate the magic of Tomorrowland.’ “Gladly”, I thought, “tomorrow is Sunday so my tomorrowland consists of sleeping in until midday then slumping myself in front of the telly” – which I’d happily celebrate over an afternoon hurtling around whirly, sick-inducing rollercoasters.” In fact, if we could celebrate the magic of nextFridaynightland, I’ll have got out of a week of work and be all nice and drunk – let’s go! Alas, Tomorrowland was not in the literal form I’d hoped for and in spite of my protests I was dragged on not one but two rides, the latter being Space Mountain.

In my quest to find any form of written evidence that would render me exempt from entry I noticed a sign that read, “Animals may not accompany guests on this attraction.” There are two problems with that, I think. Firstly, “accompany” makes it sounds like the animal and guest are on a date, and secondly, I’d hope that no one would even think of taking a pet on a rollercoaster because it’s cruel. That animal wouldn’t know it was on a ride, it’d just think this was its new life – a spinning, woozy, bewildering new life in the darkness. Even in the case of a guide dog, I don’t think it’s justified. Like working weekends or examining your flatmate’s genitals for signs of sexual diseases (both of which I’ve done), I think a guide dog accompanying their owner onto a rollercoaster goes well beyond the call of duty.

Directly in front of us in the queue are two 13 year-old girls. Unsure of what lay ahead I inquired, “Excuse me girls, is it scary?” They giggled, no doubt intrigued by the whiny questioning of a sniveling 30 year-old man. “No” they respond, confidently. Well, those girls lied. Because as we hurtled through the cosmos, past fields of shooting stars and celestial satellites, I encountered a lunging, rotating, nauseous existence that terrified me to the very core of my soul. One small step to a heart attack, one giant leap to soiling my underwear.

After that ordeal I barked at Russ and Jack that I could have died on Space flippin’ Mountain, to which they responded “No one dies at Disneyland – you’d hear about it.” Well, I have news for you boys, I’ve investigated and it turns out that people do die at Disney. Allegedly from 2005 – 2006, there were four deaths and nineteen injuries at its Florida parks. And prior to 2001, Disney was not even required to report incidents to the state authorities. Sorry, what? What kind of crazy cartoon get-out clause is that? God knows how many people have died at the hands of Disney, in that case …
“Is this ride safe?”
“Yep”
“No one has died on it or anything, then?”
“Er, no”
“Definitely not?”
“Nope. There’s been none of the old deaths here at Disney, no sir”

It was also probably the perfect place to go and do a murder!
“Inspector, all the evidence points to the victim disappearing at Disneyland”
“Forget it sergeant, there’s never been an incident in that place since the day it opened it’s innocent, harmless doors. Your two years of research were wasted, get back to the drawing board”

So, it turns out that Mickey and Co.’s pledge that Disneyland would be “Where Dreams Come True” didn’t quite work out for me. More like “Where Rides Still Make Me Extremely Sick”. Finally, while doing my crack research I also came across another example of Disneyland not quite working out for someone…

“In 1976, a woman filed a lawsuit claiming one of the Three Little Pigs ran up to her at the “It’s A Small World” attraction, grabbed at and fondled her, while exclaiming “Mommy! Mommy!” She claimed to have gained 50 pounds as a result of the incident. Charges were dropped after Disney’s lawyers presented her with a photo of the costume, which had only inoperable stub arms.”

As someone who spent the first 18 years of his life in Hull, East Yorkshire, you might think I’d fit right in with the Hollywood lifestyle and the general superficial glitz and glamour of Los Angeles. Well, in many respects you’d be dead right but since being here there have also been a number of incidents in which I’ve felt out of my comfort zone.

For example, I’m not sure if I’ll ever quite get used to Russell Brand on top of me in bed, waking me up by trying to breast-feed me. I suppose under analysis it may come from a sense of affection and protection that he feels towards me – even so, I think being encouraged to press my lips to the hairy matriarchal nipples of my male colleague is just something I’ll always struggle to manage.

On another occasion, Jack, Nik and I decided to play football on a local AstroTurf pitch. Afterwards, with our thirst suitably in need of quenching, we decided to stop for a drink at a local bar. Dressed in our respective Man United, West Ham and England shirts (my dear Hull City top is frankly too precious to waste on a mere kick-about) we advanced into that place brimming with post-match confidence and, for me at least, a feeling that out patriotic choice of attire would be judged as endearing, perhaps even cute. This feeling was not reciprocated. Other than a couple of charitable souls with whom we shared a nervous joke, the majority of the facial expressions in that bar pointed towards animosity and mockery.

I suppose in hindsight, our cocksure entrance could have been interpreted as three staunch Brits ardently proclaiming “We’re English you bastards”. We may as well have marched in there with the St George’s flag tattooed on to our erect penises, discussing how we’d just “kicked an American geezer down the apples and pears -stairs.”

In another football related incident, Jack and I were invited by a friend of Nik’s to take part in 5-a-side game. When enquiring as to the standard of the players we were told “average”. Again, with the benefit of hindsight, “average” is a difficult word to measure. I’m sure a cross-section of men would use the term to describe a whole range of different sized dinkles. In this context, “average” is not a word that should have be used to describe the English Premiership footballers with whom we were confronted. “Incredible” / “Superhuman” / “God” are words that should be used to describe the English Premiership footballers with whom we were confronted.

So with a disbelieving shrug of our shoulders and a retraction of our genitals, Jack and I joined an intimidating group of beast-men that included Everton and England defender, Joleon Lescott and former Spurs winger Wayne Routledge. Fortunately this story has no bitter ending and we both acquitted ourselves reasonably well. On one occasion I even managed to tackle Mr Lescott, as was evident, Jack tells me, from the overly noticeable grin on my silly face. Mind you, I’m sure the law of averages suggests I should have been more successful than I was – I imagine a bookmakers would give better tackling odds on a two year old child or static piece of coal.

On another occasion Jack, Russ and I visited the nightclub in which Christiano Ronaldo was recently pictured having a fruity ol’ time with Paris Hilton. Rumour has it he ordered two bottles of $17,000 champagne, which had they been made from the fizzy sweat of our Lord Jesus Christ, still seems pricey.

The venue was rammed with hundreds of sparkling, trendy youngsters, gyrating their boodies to bass-heavy R&B, which, as my idea of an evening out is inelegantly jumping up and down to a Fleetwood Mac medley, made me feel somewhat uneasy. The nightclub in question was the confusingly named, “My House.” Almost as if the owners had purposefully given the club a barmy identity in order to create confusing situations. Such as, conversing with a taxi driver:
“Take me to My House”
“Your house? We’re at your house”
“No, My House”
“Step out of the car please, sir”

Or, when flirting with a lady:
“So where are you taking me on our first date?”
“I want to take you to My House and show you my best moves”
“You filthy pig! I’m leaving”

Or, on the phone to the police:
“I want to report a sexual assault at My House”
“Stay at your house, sir and consider yourself under arrest”

In conclusion then, maybe it’s better that I avoid these uncomfortable LA activities and live a simpler life, here at the house, free from embarrassing obstacles, where I don’t feel awkward and my asthma won’t flare up. After all, how bad can Russell’s furry breast milk be?

By Producer Gareth

Friday evening and Russell Brand is engulfed with the kind of determined enthusiasm I assume is reserved for the odd occasion that Ned Flanders goes on a coke binge. Apt that he is reminiscent of a cartoon character as his sole focus right now is a hastily arranged trip to Disneyland the next day. ‘Hokely dokely’ I ain’t.

Bouncing around the sitting room he’s in disbelief at the depth and commitment of my negativity towards his glorious plan. So determined is he, that his considerable persuasion techniques, usually saved for the ladies are in full throttle on me.

Rarely have I been at the heart of a Brand charm offensive. It’s a multi dimensional attack of the senses, I guess like the one I’m trying to avoid at Disneyland. Currently I’m holding out, but it’s taking all the resistance I can muster. Admittedly my determination is now reinforced by a fear that should I give in I could find myself topless in his boudoir in a confusing overflow of Disney induced excitement.

Reading thus far you could well be thinking me a villainous kill joy of a man, a bearded Cruella Deville to Russell’s Pongo, and right now I’d struggle to deny it. However, were you then to describe me as an adult childless man not keen on queuing especially on Saturdays – you ‘d see me jump to my feet and salute you like a startled lieutenant.

I battled on. What I needed now was a voice of reason. An upstanding gentleman who would support me with the logic and foresight I was trying to apply for the benefit of all of our weekends. In from the kitchen wanders Gareth. Shit it.

“Disneylaaaand!” he shrieks. Such is the gusto with which he attacks it one would assume that everyday for the past 30 years he has awoken from his slumber fingers crossed whispering “is this the day?” That’s it then, two verses one – we’re going.

Saturday morning when all is lost I’m handed a lifeline, one last glorious get out clause provided by God himself. There before my eyes as we exit the house – arid, sunny, bloody hot Los Angeles beautifully blanketed in grey clouds and rain. “Good effort big guy” I mutter to the heavens. But no, what am I thinking, this is a Brand plan….its happening.

In the car there is acceptance and a driver called Renee whose unusual name allows a rare opportunity for Russell to perform a series of Allo Allo impressions. My mood is considerably lifted. In an unlikely twist we also listen to a playlist of early 90’s hip hop – us English boys (one in leggings) on our way to Disneyland, “we’re just so damn gangsta”

As you arrive the screaming opposite of everything you are sold stands blatantly in front of you. So constructed is the whole concept that before we enter we’re stuck in a traffic jam on ‘Magic Way’. Once inside the length of queues is matched only by the profitable temptations manufactured to appeal to the devoted children. I think to myself that my kids will have to manage with the local park, an apple and an imagination – unless that sentence alone has just cost me anyone ever giving me any.

We meet with a group of friends and their children and are immediately in line for one of those rides designed for the under fives where you sit in a teacup. Now, I should say here that in the time Gareth and I have been working with Russell it has become an ongoing joke that the pair of us nestled together have found ourselves in some pretty ridiculous situations. Many a stunning restaurant designed for loving couples has laid a romantic table for us, but what we we’re about to endure was an all time low.

As the group of mums, Russell and the children clambered into their carriage left to board the next cup alone stood Jack and Gareth – two 30 plus men looking like they had no agenda but the unmentionable. No escape now though. This is happening. The two of us childless misfits on a tepid ghost train tour of Disney history. Chugging along, sunglasses on we suddenly realise the worst is yet to come. And just as that realisation dawns, the doors of the ride are flung open and we’re thrown into the daylight. There awaiting our crawl of shame are the masses in line and Russell – all either scowling or in Russell’s case absolutely pissing themselves. Even I, lord monger of the doom had failed to predict I’d come out of Disney branded a peado.

By Producer Jack