My Booky Wook 2 (31 page)

Nik sometimes says that I shouldn’t make films as I clearly don’t enjoy it. That’s not entirely true, you get to work with amazing people, and when you see the end product all the pain and hard work seem worthwhile, like giving birth, right girls? Yep, that’s what I’m saying, it’s like childbirth. Only a lot more important obviously.

I suppose what I should do is practise yoga and meditate all day, then in the evening present a chat show, to get the exhibitionism out of my system – I should be a swami-entertainer, a monk-Leno. What is it, this thing that we’re all questing after? Love? Acceptance? Blowjobs? Some disgusting combination of all three?

I met a lot of girls making the Greek, but this tale I think illustrates rather well that my womanising was approaching its nadir.

I plodded on with the production line of daily seduction and by gum, thank heavens, there were some romantic encounters, I am not a marauding dog-man, grinding out jizz on any unguarded leg, I see the beauty in people, I want to connect with it and hold on to it. Meredith, the witch-acupuncturist who I would forever trouble with my musings and enquiries, especially the craving I felt for love and companionship, would say, “Don’t worry, Russell, you won’t choose a girl, a girl will choose you. One day a woman will come along and scare off all the others with a big gun.” I hope the last bit was metaphorical or it seems I am destined to wind up with Ma Baker or Lara Croft. She’d be alright actually. Unless she wanted me to go Tomb-raiding with her, which I wouldn’t be into unless “tomb-raiding” is a metaphor for bumming.

The day after Michael Jackson died we were on the vast expensive set built to match the Vegas suite from the first weeks’ filming. The loss of this genius lay like a sombre mist around the lot. As Jim Morrison said, “Death makes angels of us all,” and Michael was returned to his rightful status as an icon to be worshipped. We were working loooOOOOOoooong days, seventeen, eighteen hours sometimes. The gaudy, opulent set was hallucinogenically bright, as were the extras that populated it. Usually between takes Puffy did deals on his Bluetooth earpiece, so I was surprised to see him chatting to an extra. I saw this as a chance to interview him on his views about women. Also the girl he was talking to was not the prettiest there and so I was curious as to why he’d elected to chat to her. He explained that he was in a relationship that meant seducing women was off the menu and that he’d merely noticed that the girl had an interesting energy. I enquired further, hoping to glean specifics from a man who clearly understands human nature. He remarked that the woman, in his view, would be exciting to be around. Given that he’d already said that it was an avenue he was unable to explore, I asked if he thought it was something that I ought pursue. He said I ought.

The girl was Hollywood pretty, blonde and shapely. I sharked over and got her number. When we wrapped I gave her a call. “Fancy coming over?” I asked. She said it would not be possible as she was looking after her sister’s dog. Blast. Incapable of countenancing a night alone I called another young lady, dusky, mysterious, saucy and accommodating and asked if she’d like to come over. She would.

So we head home, Nicola, Tom and I, back to our glamorous West Hollywood home we’d rented with its boundless view of the twinkling orange grid that LA becomes at night. I’m in fine spirits as I’m anticipating the arrival of the dusky girl, a girl with whom I’ve had liaisons in the past and who has proven to be quite diverting and adventurous. Then my phone rings. It is the curious extra.

“I can come over,” she says. Well, this is interesting.

“Would you still like me to?” I would. But what about the other girl, you may wonder, she is already en route to the house. That could be viewed as a problem, but I like to approach these matters optimistically. Sure, if the two girls arrive simultaneously and one of them has some cumbersome moral code to contend with it could be a minefield, but fortune favours the brave.

“Oh, I’ve got Nobu with me, is that a problem?” Nobu is the English bulldog she is looking after for her sister. His presence is not ideal but I’ve already handed over complete control of the situation to my madness, who in this is abetted by the part of me that puts anecdotes before reason. Anyway, I tell myself, even though I’m not really listening, I’ve been in billions of situations like this and I calculate that the most likely outcome is a threesome. Content with my speculation, I move on with the plan. Now both girls are coming over. Luckily I arrive home first and I’m pretty confident that “dusky” will be up for anything, given her previous behaviour, and “curious extra” I can play by ear. As I’ve said, the only problem would be if they arrive simultaneously, then I have no time to separate them and tailor a deal that is amenable to all parties, or possibly, if luck goes my way, a merger.

DING DONG. That’s the door. I don’t have a doorbell but “KNOCK KNOCK” doesn’t have the farcical connotations that the anecdote demands. Hopefully it’s just one of them, preferably Dusky, I think as I approach the door but, of course, it is both of them, stood on the step looking at each other at 3am, baffled. Only Nobu is untroubled. These are the scenarios where you earn your spurs.

“Come in, girls,” I say like a jocular butler.

“What’s going on?” enquires Curious.

“Nothing. You’re tired, come this way and try not to think. Is this Nobu? He looks thirsty.”

I guide Dusky to the TV room, pouring wine for her and Curious and placing a bowl of water on the floor for Nobu as I go, gliding through the moment like a kinky ninja.

“I’m not having a threesome,” announces Curious.

“Of course you’re not. What an absurd suggestion. Whatever gave you that idea?” I imagine it was Dusky’s somewhat forthright mode of dress. Hot pants, crop top, dark tumbling hair, Hispanic accent and dark, suggestive eyes.

“We’ve all had a long day, this is no time for pondering ethics. Why don’t you and Nobu come upstairs? Diana Ross used to live here.”

Me, Curious and Nobu ascend the stairs, leaving Dusky to flirt with her wine. Once in my room I light the fire, in every way, and spend the next few minutes bolting up and down the stairs between the two girls like Mrs Doubtfire. As I’d assumed, ol’ Dusky is up for anything, so my attention must now be focused on Curious. Nobu asthmathically snuffles and grunts his way through his water, so I turn up the music and light the candles to compensate. Puffy’s verdict is proven to be accurate, and once assured that Dusky is safely downstairs the two of us get in bed and have a proper cuddle. I enjoy it of course, but the perfectionist in me is troubled by how to turn this two-some into a threesome. As long as I can create a land of sexual wonder for Curious I’m pretty sure her reservations will fade. The inhibitions around sex are mostly about conditioning. Some women just don’t like girls, and that’s fine, but normally if you can unpick the social stitching with some beautifully put universal truths a good time can be had by all. I am about to embark on a Byronesque soliloquy designed to facilitate this bliss when, blessedly, for once fate takes the matter in hand and things move on for the better without my input. For whilst Curious and I cuddle face to face, in enjoyable, vanilla conjugation, I feel that cheeky rascal Dusky round the back taking care of the region oft neglected in heterosexual men, but in my view a tunnel to endless pleasure and amusement. I continue to kiss ol’ Curious, more passionately than before because the mischief of Dusky’s unannounced appearance, not to mention the expertise of her tongue, elevates the encounter to a whole new realm.

“God, I’m good,” I muse as I occupy these two beautiful women.

“People will write books about me – and if they don’t, I will.”

Curious seems a little reticent suddenly, but Dusky is going crazy at the backdoor and I’m struggling to maintain control.

“Hold off, Russell,” I think, we’ve got to take care of Dusky too, especially after this incredible surprise performance she’s put in round back – she’s certainly very thorough, I’ve never been so well tended to in that department. I smile and continue to kiss Curious. But she gasps and pulls away, doubtless to accommodate the screams that will accompany the massive orgasm she’s about to have. Her lips part and her mouth widens ...

“NOBU! GET DOWN!”

No.

Yes.

No!

Actually, yes. That’s right, folks, I turned my head to see that my bottom was being licked by a bulldog. There’s no nice way of saying it; it was bestiality but I was the victim. A lesser man would’ve been tempted to let Nobu finish what he started but I, ever the gentleman, politely insisted that the hound remove his snout and return to his water. Was I able to unite Dusky and Curious? I’ll leave that to your imagination. What I will tell you categorically is that an episode of that nature makes you question your lifestyle.

“Is this really what I want?” I thought as I eyed the bulldog at my rear. “Is this really part of my life-plan?”

“So, Russell, where do you see yourself in five years?”

“Well, ideally I see myself getting rimmed by a bulldog.” Hey, you’ve gotta dream big, right?

I told Puffy that story the next day and he exploded with joy. I’ve never known such happiness. Well, maybe five seconds before I looked over my shoulder to see a symbol of the British Empire disgracing us both, the flag and Her Majesty.

The movie shot in LA, New York, Vegas and London. It was a big deal. I loved shooting in London, especially as my mate Karl Theobald turned up and did a cameo, as did Gee and Jamie Sives, all characters from Booky Wook 1, and also, less importantly, real life.

The movie wrapped and I felt as often I do at times designated for celebration, peculiarly cold. My first lead role had been a success, Judd and Nick and the studio loved it. Everybody was very excited about its potential, but as usual I had no partner to share it with. And Nobu wasn’t returning my calls.

†

Bottle Rocket

After the death threats and hysteria that followed the first MTV VMA awards Nik and I swore that, no matter what, we would never, EVER host another award show. It’s too much aggro for not enough reward. But somehow, when MTV offered us the gig again I accepted. Mostly through pride and wanting to slay a few demons, I suppose. I didn’t like the way the previous year had been reported in the UK as a catastrophe, so I saw this as another chance, a way to redemption, a way to rewrite my personal history.

MTV said the awards would be huge, live from New York with performances from Jay-Z, Beyoncé and Lady Gaga and appearances from Madonna, Janet Jackson and Katy Perry. The MTV execs, Van Topfler, Dave Sirulnick and Jesse Ignjatovic, said they would go all out with the promo and my entrance if I agreed to host.

Previously I’d just strolled out into a silent and unseated room, this year the audience would be amped up and I would enter on a concealed hydraulic podium which would rise from beneath the stage with me ascending like a deity on a wedding cake while an as yet unconfirmed pop star introduced me with the Queen song “We Will Rock You”. The show would be coming from the legendary Radio City Hall, a five-thousand capacity venue, but cool and art deco, tiered and raked, a great performance space, certainly better than the mirthless aircraft hangar they held it in the previous year.

Nik and I considered if we could make this work, and we’re both a bit gung-ho and up for glory, so we said yes. From the moment we consented I was immersed once more in terror. What if it goes wrong? What if I say something crazy? I can’t take any more death threats; surely, eventually one of these lunatics is gonna have the integrity to carry out this flimsy vendetta against humour.

The VMAs took place during a busy time in our schedule. We’d finished the Greek but were now into a documentary about happiness and the current generation’s fixation with seeking satisfaction through self-indulgence and the fulfilment of desire. Who better to make this documentary than me? I’d also been offered the lead in a remake of the Dudley Moore movie Arthur which was being scripted by Peter Baynham, who wrote on Brass Eye, Alan Partridge and Borat, making him, in my view, one of the most influential comics of the last twenty years. So aside from barmy hubris there was no reason at all to get involved with the VMAs again. We were all there in New York, Nik, Nicola, Jack, Danny, Tom and Gareth plus lil’ Dan Weiner, a lovely twerp-squad of Brits and nits. Their presence was vital for me to navigate the meteor-scattered starscape of this most unrewarding award show.

We were staying at the swish Soho Grand, yet another of the hotels I stay at that are more interested in being cool than bringing you an egg sandwich, but they’re certainly more fastidious than the openly hostile Chelsea. The penthouse suite I occupied, paid for by MTV, was one of two on that floor, and whilst it wasn’t palatial it certainly made me question my role in achieving social equality. When you get famous, nameless ghosts bleed you of your principles like a pig. But it nags and bugs at the back of your mind, especially if it’s not where you’re from. You can’t drown out the echoes of your past by chinking glasses and slapping arses. Luckily I was much too consumed with selfish fear to worry about the galling inequality of the supposedly democratic Western world. Alfie had come along too, to take photographs and keep me relaxed, his sage-like advice, as ever, conflicting wildly with his ridiculous conduct.

We sat about the suite locked into the incredible amount of prep such events demand: a promotional film, in this case a parody of West Side Story, interviews, rehearsals, writing the script and junkets. Additionally the Vanity Projects team working on the documentary were prepping for our trip to Louisiana State Penitentiary to meet death row inmates and our spell in Fairfield, Iowa, where I would learn Transcendental Meditation. Into the hive came the hotel manager.

“Mr Brand,” he began, “the suite opposite has been booked by Miss Katy Perry, would it trouble you if she were to occupy that room?”

Obviously not. That would place her right within the sphere of my influence. Geography is destiny, said Napoleon, if she’s in the room opposite I’ll be able to destiny her brains out. She’s like a lamb to the slaughter! “Bring her in, Jeeves!” I hollered at the manager, who had by now departed. Nik had overheard the enquiry and my arrogant response.