Russell Brand's replies to contributors: From Russell with love

Behind the scenes at the New Statesman guest edit.

 

From: Russell Brand

To: Daniel Pinchbeck

 

Never have you written more succinctly and irrefutably on this most nebulous and complex of topics. Excellent! Other than your dismissal of the term “Revolution”, which is the magazine’s theme and, I think, a necessary galvanising signifier for the previous generation and the more truculent members of the working class. How like you to be insurgent in a magazine about insurgence.

 

To: Gary Lineker

 

Gary! This is f***ing brilliant. Great vocab, cool swearing, great structure. Keeping possession in an unflustered, enveloping rhythm before scoring – a lovely gag nicked in the six-yard box, right at the death. If only the national side could do that.

The stuff about your personal experience as a young player and your dad’s disappointment at a discipline issue is cool and surprising but makes sense of the “Lineker myth” – I mean story, not myth as in untrue – of you as disciplined and gentlemanly.

I love hearing about the way you supported your sons – that’s really spiritual and sounds like simple good parenting.

I am reminded that I heard you say, when I was a kid, that you never put the ball in the net during the pre-match warm-up because a goal is sacred. That, for me, is where football and poetry intersect, at the point where there is magic beyond what we can understand. I suppose that’s why you lot are superstitious.

I don’t know anything about football. My inability to play the game is one of the great laments of my life – my dad and stepdad were both really good Sunday players and growing up in Essex in the Eighties and not knowing how to trap a ball was like going to school in a bikini. Which I also did.

 

To: Rupert Everett

 

What you have written is the most tender, personal, inclusive, funny, candid piece I’ve ever read on homosexual culture.

A mate of mine’s young relative has recently been diagnosed positive. There is a lot of fear and ignorance around him. I will pass on this gentle chronicle of his history and potentially bright and fun future. Your writing is an antidote to prejudice and fear.

The Wilde motif is f***ing brilliant, the throwaway, self-aware career refs are great fun. Your description of the transition of NYC from utopia to hospice is Dickensian. Emphasis on the first syllable. I like that you wrote it to me, as a letter. I come from a culture that can be surprisingly ignorant around homosexuality. Your candour and spellbinding charm woke me the f*** up.

Obviously like most heterosexual men on meeting you, there was a quick wince of regret that I wasn’t gay. After reading this, I’m seriously considering reverse conversion therapy.

To: Noel Gallagher

Really funny, smart, surprising and not in accordance with my manifesto – which will mean you’re in trouble after the revolution but you’re fine for now.

My prediction: “George Osborne – most slappable man in Britain” will take off and end up on T-shirts.

 

To: Oliver Stone

 

 

As I listened to Jemima reading your piece, I felt the wave of undulating devotion that typically accompanies her voice.

However, I can almost certainly ascribe the sense of fervid, virile, “fight the power”, “f*** the man”, hammer-and-sickle priapism to your writing. It was inspiring and thorough and entertaining and cool. Thank you.

 

To: Alec Baldwin

 

 

Yes, Alec! Yes! An authoritative, rolling, beat, HOWLing hymn of dissent.

I like the bludgeoning body shots of listed transgressions, the optimistic flights into a new, true, concealed narrative. Your naming of the Kennedy assassination as an end of innocence, a commencement of institutionalised deceit, is smart. The revaluation of truth as a prized, perversely neglected commodity is skilful.

I think you’re f***ing great, Alec Baldwin.

 

To: Naomi Klein

 

I received and read with relish (as much relish as one can muster when being politely informed that the planet is undergoing systematic destruction to maintain an imaginary economic idea) your brilliant and provocative piece. This wonderful, precise and accessible article is what the issue needed and validates the decision to go with such a potentially amorphous topic as “revolution”.

What you’ve written is galvanising , original and inspiring. I’ve not written anything yet but I’m so amped up on Klein-engendered fervour, I might instead throw my laptop through Powergen HQ’s windows. I read No Logo when I was in the foothills of my junkie-dom. I was in Cuba, coincidentally, flooded by anti-establishment rage. Had I not been high I could’ve got in trouble – they’re surprisingly strict there!

Reading your article made me feel the charge, the fuel, the kick that we can and must take action. I like that feeling, Naomi (especially now I’m not allowed drugs); it is in fact the feeling I live for. One of two feelings I live for . . . The other one is in fact summoning me now.

 

To: Judd Apatow

 

Thank you, Judd. Obviously your success, aside from the more starkly clown-based Anchorman and Cable Guy-type movies, is to a large degree based on your remarkable ability to infuse comedy with personal truth.

This piece of writing, though, has a rawness and innocence that I find very touching beyond what I’m accustomed to in your milieu. Comedy saved my life, too. Sometimes when I’m on the precipice, when I feel, even now, that I am that unselectable little boy, a joke comes, and humour sweeps me into its gangly arms and saves me.

Comedy is a retort to oppression, corruption and even death. It saved me when I was alone at home, at school, and every lonely, destitute place I’ve ever been in since. And now, when everything is actually OK and I still get down, comedy reminds me how silly I am, how silly it all is.

 

To: Diablo Cody

 

Beautiful writing, gentle, humorous, elegantly structured.

If there were Oscars for journalism, you’d have even more clutter in your downstairs loo.

 

To: John Rogers

 

John. We are friends. Proper, not pretend, to-the end friends.

Therefore I take you for granted. But that piece of writing surprised and excited me, mate. The simple unpretentiousness of walking as a revolutionary act.

What I found most remarkable, John, was the strength of your writing: purposeful, confident, strident and assured. It is my belief that it is this manner of authority and ease that is required for the advancement of our ideals.

 

To: David DeGraw

 

Clear as crystal, as sharp as broken glass, as explosive as a Molotov cocktail. There is some great writing in the issue, mate; but this spells out, in the dominant language of economics and in cold, hard numbers, the necessity for action.

 

To: Shepard Fairey

 

That image is f***ing spectacular. The comedy of the bulb, the literalism of the brain. This is why I call you the most relevant living artist. F*** the bourgeoisie, long live the revolution.

Russell holds the artwork for his guest edit's cover. Image: Kalpesh Lathigra

Russell Brand guest-edited the New Statesman in October 2013. Find him on Twitter: @rustyrockets.

This article first appeared in the 23 October 2013 issue of the New Statesman, Russell Brand Guest Edit

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I'd only given a literary talk, but someone still told me to leave the country

“So if you don’t like it so much,” he says, “why don’t you leave?” And his tone suggests that there is a good train leaving from St Pancras in half an hour.

So here I am at the Romanian Cultural Institute in Belgrave Square. Eventually. After a misunderstanding that finds me first, forlorn and bemused, at Olympia, with the London Book Fair closing down for the evening, watching my fee grow wings and fly away into the night air. I am called up and told where I could more profitably go instead – that is to say, the venue I should be at. On reassurance that my expenses will be met, I hop into a cab as soon as I find one (which, on Kensington High Street at 7pm, takes far longer than you would think. I will not use Uber).

I am going there in order to be on a panel that is talking about Benjamin Fondane (1898-1944), the Romanian intellectual, poet, essayist, philosopher and all-round dude. I know nothing about the guy beyond what I learned from reviewing a selection of his writings last July but this makes me, apparently, one of this country’s leading experts on him. Such is the level of intellectual curiosity in this part of the world. Fondane was treated much better in Paris, where he moved after finding studying law in Bucharest too boring; treated very much worse in 1944, when he was sent to Auschwitz.

A little corner of me is panicking a bit before the gig starts: I know next to nothing about the man, especially compared to my co-panellists, and I might betray this to the audience of around 80 (I refer to their number, not their age), sitting in their little gilt chairs, in a nice gilt drawing room, which is par for the course for European cultural institutes in this neck of the woods.

Another part of me says: “Don’t be silly, you’ll be fine,” and it turns out I am. I even manage to throw in a few jokes. During the course of one of my answers I say that the UK is a cultural desert and that there was a reason Fondane stopped moving when he got to Paris. The idea of coming to London to breathe the pure air of artistic freedom and inspiration was, and remains, laughable. It gets a chuckle or two out of the (mostly Mittel-European) audience, who like a bit of British self-deprecation as much as we do.

Or do we? Downstairs, and clutching my first glass of the evening (a perfectly drinkable Romanian Merlot), I chat to various people who come up and say they like my reviews etc, etc. All very pleasant. And then a man comes up to me, about my age, maybe a year or three younger, smartly tweeded.

“I was very offended by what you said about this country being a cultural desert,” he says. He is not joking.

“Oh?” I say. “Well, it is.”

He has the look of someone about to come up with a devastating argument.

“What about Shakespeare?” he asks me. “What about Oscar Wilde?”

“They’re dead,” I say, leaving aside the fact that Wilde was Irish, and that anywhere was better than Ireland in the 19th century for gay playwrights.

“So’s Fondane,” he says.

I think at this point I might have raised my glasses and massaged the bridge of my nose with finger and thumb, a sign for those who know me of extreme exasperation, and a precursor to verbal violence.

“So if you don’t like it so much,” he says, “why don’t you leave?” And his tone suggests that there is a good train leaving from St Pancras in half an hour.

“Do not presume to tell me, sir, whether I should leave the country.”

He tells me he has a Polish wife, as if that has any bearing on the matter. He says something else, which for the life of me I can’t remember, but I do know that when I replied to it, I used only one word, and that the word was “bollocks”.

“Well, if you’re going to use bad language . . .”

“I’ve got more,” I say, and proceed to launch a volley of it at him. Things have escalated quickly, I know, but there is no jest in his tone and what I am detecting is, I realise, his strong awareness of the Z in my name, my nose, and my flawless olive complexion. One develops antennae for this kind of thing, after almost half a century. And there’s a lot more of it about these days.

In the end, I become pretty much incoherent. On stage I’d caught myself thinking: “Golly, talking is even easier than writing;” but now my fluency deserts me. But God, it’s fun getting into a fight like this.

I’ve left my tobacco at home but the Romanian government gives me a whole pack of Marlboro Gold, and more wine. Vata-n libertate ori moarte! As they say. You can work it out. 

Nicholas Lezard is a literary critic for the Guardian and also writes for the Independent. He writes the Down and Out in London column for the New Statesman.

This article first appeared in the 23 March 2017 issue of the New Statesman, Trump's permanent revolution