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Why Russell is suddenly revolting


Russell Brand is making me sick. Well, not the man himself. I’m sure he’s very nice. But I’ve OD’d on brand Brand: the interminable column inches dedicated to whatever-he-just-said-about-something or that-time-he-tore-up-some-hapless-TV-hack or look-how-many-protracted-adjectives-he-can-preen-into-perspicacious-sounding-sentences. And now here I am, writing this, making it worse.

Suddenly, though, the mood has changed towards ‘the establishment’s anti-establishmentarian’. Another day, another article, probably in the Guardian, renouncing him as representative of the repressed, encumbered proletariat. Perhaps it was his combative appearance on Newsnight, the predatorial pawing at poor Evan Davis (who is clearly more at home creeping around Whitechapel warehouses pondering pitches and percentages, and is no hyperbolic match for a trained, toughened performer like Brand). It was uncomfortable viewing. But maybe that was the point.

Hero no more, Brand is falling from grace as fast as Alice down the rabbit hole, blindly scrambling at floating lamps and tea cups and wayward rocking chairs, grasping for some semblance of sense in the media circus surrounding him. Except Russell Brand doesn’t exist outside of the media. Like a drifting molecular strand, he is composed of letters and words that only replicate in a media vacuum. It is little wonder, therefore, that when he starts to denounce “the media” (an amorphous entity, apparently) it turns on him. He is attacking his host organism, splicing his own RNA.

And now he’s cooked up a new booky wook and called it (subtly) Revolution, which is causing all kinds of trouble. On Facebook, Billy Bragg pointed out the ‘splenetic anger’ Brand has aroused from ‘mainstream commentators’, going on to compare his counter-culture religiosity with Lennon and the Beatles, but then Bragg compares everything to Lennon and The Beatles.

Nick Cohen slams Brand’s ‘Beverley Hills Buddhism’, linking him to Farage, Galloway; “demagogues [who] boom out certainties that make the tentative policies of conventional leaders appear pale and timid”. One Guardian commenter sunk to that last resort of rhetoric: likening him to Hitler, “mysticism, a messiah complex, a love of his own voice, mad eyes as he addresses the faithful, sudden shouty anger if someone dares contradict him…” (As far as I am aware, Brand has not yet issued genocidal threats to minority groups or taken out a subscription to Gas Chamber Weekly.) Even populist anarchist Jonny Rotten got in on the act, furiously calling Brand a ‘bum hole‘ in response to his purportedly telling the population not to vote. (It remains unclear how this particular policy will affect Brand’s alleged bid to be Mayor of London, someone has probably said, sniffily.)

What mere comedian dares spark revolution? Speaking on Radio 4, over the baleful backdrop of Beethoven’s 5th, The Economist’s Jeremy Cliffe called him ‘a trivial man with a serious message’. The new Jesus Christ or false prophet? I don’t know, but I have nothing against Russell, the man. He has an intriguing Jack Sparrowishness about him. I even fancy him a bit. Sort of. Because rebellion has a direct correlation with virility. Something about sticking it up to the… ahem. Although it slightly annoys me (by which I mean, I am jealous) that he’s made millions out of what is essentially verbosity, which one might assume (perhaps unfairly) that anyone with half an English GCSE could imitate, armed with a thesaurus and a rehab-rejuvenated short-term memory. It’s the other half we need to worry about. To them, Brand’s magniloquence sounds exotic, brave, new. An answer, to something. The monsters of adland call it ‘salience’ – the degree to which something sticks in your brain. Salience is something Brand has in spades, and no, he is not ‘the answer’. But he is a big, unforgettable question mark.

And I say to ‘the media': be careful. Chew him up and spit him out too violently and you may just tip this rags-to-riches success story back into the gutter. The drugs, women and lifestyle that Brand fought so hard to forget may provide the only solace when the entire world turns on him, and then you’ll just have to write about him falling out of nightclubs and destroying himself and oh… maybe that’s the point?

What should he do with his notoriety? He’s doing the best thing he can. Shouting loudly about the causes he cares for, with little regard for people’s fucking opinions, offsetting seriousness with scruffiness and trying, in his own disarmingly fumbled-yet-articulate-yet-seriously-don’t-be-fooled-by-the-fumbling-this-man-is-acutely-intelligent way, to make the world a better place.

And what are you doing? Not writing yet another article about Russell Brand, I hope.

Product announcement slightly underwhelms middle classes


High income individuals around the world have claimed they are ‘slightly underwhelmed’ by the latest product launch from a US-based technology firm, which has introduced a phone slightly bigger than the last phone which was slightly bigger than the one before that.

The annual “Event” is often the only thing this emotionally-deprived community has to look forward to, with many staying up late to live-stream a man in a black polo neck while he points at singers from up-and-coming rock bands.

But this year, the launch has sparked waves of moderate disillusionment. One man, who has an important job in Social Media, stated:

“I just feel… kind of empty inside. Like my pockets.”

Another said:

“It’s not often our community has to deal with this amount of shrugging. A helpline has been set up for those affected. You can pre-order the number on a website.”

This is not the first time the company has upset people with incremental improvements and imaginary new products. A commentator commented:

“No comment.”

Only time will tell if the delicate middle classes will survive this niggling sense of mild dissatisfaction.

Why I walked out of 1984

I was recently witness to Headlong Theatre’s production of 1984 at the Playhouse Theatre. After about 84 minutes (of the intended 101) I walked out.

The only other time I’ve ever done that was in Edinburgh once, when the amateur bleating of failed Rada students set to a backdrop of improvised whale music proved too much. 1984 wasn’t amateur in any sense, but it was doubleplusterrifying.

In a rare moment of life being scared shitless by art, my pulse quickened, my breathing shallowed, and my brain refused to comprehend the brutal scene before me. In a remarkable act of staging, the previous, rather comforting wood-panelled set (akin to an aristocratic country house library) transmogrified into a stark, bone-white nothingness, leaving nowhere to run, nowhere to hide from the horrifying vision of Winston losing his fingers, then his teeth, then –

And I couldn’t take any more.

Physically shaken, and abandoning my companion, I stumbled clumsily down to the theatre bar to consider how a mere play had left my legs less stable than a wonky table.

It wasn’t just the depiction of torture. Or the convincing performances (Winston, played by Sam Crane, in particular). It was an assault on the senses. The unrelenting flicker of strobe lighting. The sudden plunges into complete darkness. The eerily electrical soundscape. Like a milder, shorter (but no less intense) version of some forms of sensory torture. If a play could be charged with Attempting To Cause Psychological Harm, 1984 would be convicted, and locked up.

1984What is the role of theatre? To entertain? To pacify? To give us fresh insight into our lives? To challenge society? Maybe all of these. There’s no doubting the appalling relevance of Orwell’s dystopian vision to today. But I think 1984 went too far. It took theatre into a deeply disturbing space. Shock-tactics modern audiences are supposedly immune to (what with our appetite for Netflix bloodfests and graphic videogames) have the potential to grab headlines, sure. But what is the lasting impact on the more sensitive theatregoer? The one (and maybe it is only one) in the audience who listens intently to every syllable, every intonation. The one who can sit through two hours of Beckett without breaking focus. The one who, one day, might become a playwright themselves.

Theatre, in its live, real, raw, un-genetically modifiable state has immeasurable power (and we all know what comes with great power). It doesn’t need to compete with vampire sagas over gore-porn. It doesn’t need to pander to smartphone-induced attention deficit by crafting overbearingly immersive experiences. And it doesn’t need to make audiences feel so uncomfortable that they trickle out, night after night, affected, disturbed, and unable to make sense of why.

But maybe that was the point.


Marilyn Monroe has the same initials as me. So I thought I’d see what else we have in common.




What inspires successful women?

It’s always nice watching successful people on stage. You get to sit back, relax and wallow in their glory as if it were your own, laugh knowingly at anecdotes and congratulate yourself on being impressive enough to be in such a select audience. 

But last night’s WACL gathering of suitably impressive women (more MBEs and CBEs in one place than anyone can cope with – I can barely manage my ABC) was actually more about us than about them. Through life stories intertwined with tips on where to find inspiration and how to follow your passion, we were asked to consider an uncomfortable question: are we doing what we love?

Merry Baskin, chair, kicked things off by asking us to take a deep breath, push our shoulders back and stick our, er, assets out, doing nothing to assuage the male fantasy of the sort of thing that goes on at these women-only events. I believe there was a point to this exercise, but I’ve forgotten it.

Camilla Batmanghelidjh, CBE, the vibrant founder of Kids Company, campaigned for the crucible of LOVE and EFFECTIVENESS as the ultimate recipe for success. Audiences, when presented with someone who has dedicated her life to making other people’s lives better, never know quite what to feel – a simultaneous guilt and respect manifesting in seat-shuffling and plenty of applause.

Cilla Snowball, CBE (and AMV frontman) proclaimed her inspiration as her love for work and family – kind of essential, since, from the sound of things, she doesn’t have much time for anything else – and the joy of developing other people.

Jo Kenrick, an ex-RAF fighter pilot (what was I saying about being suitably impressive?) reeled off a list of to-the-point pointers, two of which particularly resonated: ‘It’s ok to change your mind’, and ‘avoid performance management programmes’. Why? They make you miserable. Focus on what you’re good at, instead.

And Annabel Karmel, MBE, spoke about overcoming trauma and how necessity (and opportunism) were the mother of invention for her baby nutrition business.

Part executive inspiration, part group therapy, my first WACL Gathering left me slightly more convinced about my own direction, relieved that it’s ok to learn what you love, and accepting of the fact that misery may be part of the journey, but, as pat as it sounds, doing what you love truly is what makes the journey worthwhile.

Aggressive nostalgia

Two words with lots of the same letters in them. But if that were all that mattered I could have called this pooper scooper. And I nearly did. Anyway I’m talking about the kind of people who see TECHNOLOGY as a sign and symptom that all is not right with the world, who look at tape players and Commodore 64s through a permanent Valencia filter and believe that the WORST thing to happen to humanity is MODERNITY.


Look, I’m a nature lover. I’ve lived on a farm, and get so anxious when I’m trapped indoors for long periods that I’m liable to throw things. Sharp things. But it doesn’t bother me ON AN INTRINSIC LEVEL to see other people cooing into their cracked smart screen disciplining rows of sweets or firing aggravated birds like chemical warfare. Sorry about the casual allusion to chemical warfare. What really bothers me is the EASE with which so-and-so-know-it-alls castrate these poor lambs with pointed patronism as if this intense connection with the screen was DISCONNECTION to everything else.

You see, in a funny way, all our clicks and swipes and checking and double-checking is in fact our modern-day homing mechanism. Globalisation, immigration, cultural disassociation (and other ‘ations) mean ‘home’ is no longer a place (was it ever?) but a connection – and it is that connection we seek through our plastic portals into the social methersphere.

And the disconnection thus arises not out of a lustful obsession with technology (like men who fuck bicycles) but from way before when cavemen (probably) reprimanded cavewomen for spending too long perfecting that last hieroglyph and missing out on the beautiful sunset. We’re human. We like to be enthralled by things, to lose ourselves in something, anything, and this is no less real than “being present” in any other moment. Unless you happen to be enthralled by your iPrick whilst walking in a malformed zigzag with the pace and grace of a dying sealion and thus WALKING INTO ME which is fucking irritating, you prick, get off your phone and look where you’re going. Prick.

Anyway. Aggressive nostalgia (I am hoping this term will catch on) is lazy and boring and I look back fondly at the time when we didn’t have so many ready-made heuristics to substitute proper thinking. Those were the days.

Why do birds bother walking?


Just because you can fly, doesn’t mean you have to.

Sometimes a stroll on the grass is just the ticket. 

Might even spot a worm.



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