Russell Brand

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