Guy Pewsey discusses prostitutes, children and Richard Dawkins with Russell Brand.Russell Brand is late. Forty five minutes late to be precise. Union officials claim that Russell is feeling a little unwell, but I’m growing impatient regardless. And I’m not alone. I am sitting in the front row of the Union’s packed debating chamber, surrounded by hundreds of people who have come specifically to see a face which every individual in Britain cannot help but recognise due to the massive coverage his many projects, including comedy, acting, presenting, and now writing, have received. Looking around the room, it is clear that many usually scruffy individuals have made an effort to look good for Brand, and when his arrival is announced a flurry of both men and women quickly make sure their hair looks okay. For that is Russell’s appeal; unkempt yet stylish, coarse yet loveable, a beacon of style to men (according to GQ at least) and irresistible to women (the cast of St Trinians, in which he recently appears, were warned about Brand’s ways before shooting started). At long last he strolls in to thunderous applause, bright eyed and smiling widely, sashaying in a careless manner not dissimilar to the walk of a Disney Princess.And so it begins; almost an hour of spontaneous musings, physical comedy and a book reading, covering his dismissal from MTV for dressing up as Osama Bin Laden on September 12th 2001, and a rather unfortunate incident when he spat in the face of a new girlfriend. After the performance – and performance it assuredly is – he leaves the chamber with long strides, casting a look of glee back at his audience.‘Where is that girl who asked the question about celibacy?’ I’m now standing next to Russell, surrounded by a swarm of fans. Casting my mind back to the chamber, I recall the pretty blonde who he is referring to. ‘You mean the girl in the dress?’ I answer vaguely. His head tilts as he adopts a primary school teacher tone of voice. ‘Now now, is that her name?’ I am unsure how to reply, but Russell continues regardless, ‘I suppose that’s quite nice really’ he says, ‘to the two of us she will always be the girl in the dress.’ I laugh politely, although I’m actually a little uncomfortable. He turns to me as if he has suddenly realised that I don’t belong in his group, then looks me up and down. I hold my breath, unsure what to expect; ‘Well then,’ he pauses while I stand silently terrified, ‘aren’t you a fine young specimen?’ He doesn’t stop there; ‘And what a fine head of hair you have.’ He ends with a purr, an actual purr. ‘Not as fine as yours though I’m afraid’, I answer. ‘Well, there’s time to do something about that’ Russell says with a wry smile. With this we are called upstairs.Although Brand plays the role of clown in most scenarios, it’s clear that he is more intelligent than many people give him credit for. He has just returned from a quick detour to view a photograph of Einstein’s visit to the Union, and while we talk he signs copies of his autobiobraphy My Booky Wook, which he insists is not one of the many celebrity stories on the market written by a ghost writer, insisting that he feels the same way about his book as others would do about their children. The reference to parenthood brings me to a particularly interesting part of his life, when his father took him on a fatherson expedition to the Far East where the two slept with prostitutes in their shared hotel room. I ask if experiences such as this have put him off having children, and he answers instantly; ‘I want to have children very much, I love children. Your parents try their best, don’t they?’ He seems not to harbour any bitterness, and has spoken earlier in the evening about his fondness for his mother. ‘I prescribe to the Larkin view of parentage. You know, “they fuck you up your mum and dad” and all that but you love them anyway.’ Russell pauses from signing for a moment and we continue. I had read earlier that day that Brand considers his style to be that of a Victorian pimp, an S&M Willy Wonka, so I was eager to question him on his perceptions of style. His look has championed the cause of the metrosexual, and I ask him how if he likes having his own sense of fashion borrowed by others. He pauses to construct his answer. ‘I like the idea of mimetics. I think Dawkins coined the phrase.’ He looks at me expectantly but I have no clue of what he’s talking about. I resort to a wistful nod and he continues. ‘Like the coordination of ideas or something, so if I can spread the idea of a hairdo then why not?’Of course, with the platform that enables Brand to display his style comes the inevitable press spotlight. ‘I try not to read the papers’ he says, ‘but it is affirmation to see yourself abstracted into a tabloid form, made into a ridiculous cartoon that could never begin to capture the nuances of the human character.’ He stops to remember a name. ‘Was it Lang that talks about the mirror phrase?’ Once again, I have no idea, and he shrugs and chuckles.The newspapers, magazines and organisations which sometimes abuse his privacy often ‘reward’ him with trophies; some welcome (Vegetarian of the Year, Most Stylish Man of the Year) and others less so (The Sun’s Shagger of the Year). ‘You do get objects’ he explains, ‘but I give them all away.’ I ask what the Shagger of the Year award looked like, and he grimaces. ‘It was the front page of The Sun newspaper with a picture of me on that I’ve never particularly liked.’ I ask where it is now. ‘I gave it to Jonathan Ross as a matter of fact. You struggle to get rich people gifts, you never know what to give them, so why not a portrait of you pictured on the front page of The Sun with the phrase “Shagger of the Year” emblazoned on the top?’ His criticism of Ross’ wealth is heavily veiled by the cheeky schoolboy tone in which it is delivered, a technique perfected by Brand. I tell him that my mother, a big fan, thinks he is the second most intelligent man on television. He interrupts – ‘Stephen Fry?’ I nod, and ask Russell what he thinks about him. His answer is suitably flamboyant. ‘I love him, I think he’s beautiful.’ I wonder if he minds not being first in my mother’s considerations, and he is resilient in his acceptance. ‘Oh no, there’s no shame in coming second place to Stephen Fry, unless it was in a straight nose competition.’
Interview courtesy of the Oxford Union
"Please read my booky wook."
