My Booky Wook: A Memoir of Sex, Drugs, and Stand-Up
“It might seem a bit reckless to be picking up drugs on the way to Heathrow, but my need for a regular supply of narcotics would not be constrained by the exigencies of international air travel. I generally traveled with drugs up my arse in the belief that should customs officers decide to pursue this unsavory line of inquiry my day would be ruined and the discovery of crack or heroin couldn’t make it much worse” (First-Class Twit, section 24).
That’s an excerpt from Russell Brand’s 2010 memoir My Booky Wook: A Memoir of Sex, Drugs, and Stand-Up. An eccentric celebrity who has been to rehab for sex addiction and drug dependency wrote about the outlandish junkie-riddled escapades of his formative years and it landed on the New York Times bestseller list. Why am I reading and reviewing a book by Brand? Well, aside from the fact that he has phenomenal hair and I like Forgetting Sarah Marshall, I enjoy having a *back-pocket book*. This is a book(y wook) that I can occasionally whip out when I’m wine-buzzed and I don’t have to take too seriously. If you’re wearing cargo shorts, you can also have a *side-pocket book* but then you’d have to cope with the indignity of owning and sporting cargo shorts in public.
Brand’s writing talent surprised me. He dabbles in impressive poetry, references philosophers I personally admire, shares entertaining stories, and knows when to be retrospectively contemplative about his destructive exploits. Basically, it’s a tour through the crazy shit he’s done in his life (your classic prostitute, substance-abuse, self-harming, unemployment cocktail) distilled through a comedic lens. You discover how he latched on to comedy as a means to cope with his depression. And all while maintaining that impeccable mane!
My typical experience with memoirs is once again confirmed: they’re amusing, light-hearted, and usually contain a dash of philosophical wisdom (see: How to Lose Friends and Alienate People, What I Talk About When I Talk About Running, Let’s Pretend This Never Happened, Not That Kind of Girl, and Are you There Vodka? It’s Me, Chelsea for more of my reviews on memoirs).
It’s good, but it’s not bloody brilliant. He’s a charming, dramatic, self-deprecating Englishman. You’ll likely enjoy it, but it’s not jaw-dropping spectacular, and its words won’t resonate for days afterward. Still, truthfully, I like the guy. He’s human, he’s interesting, and he’s exposed. And not just in the literal sense, as when he shares this dashing pic with us:
I see him in a different light now and I respect his intelligence. I give My Booky Wook 3 out of 5 flames.
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