Russell Brand

"[Responding to unspecified forthcoming claims from the media] These allegations pertain to the time when I was working in the mainstream, when I was in the newspapers all the time, when I was in the movies, and as I have written about extensively in my books, I was very, very promiscuous. Now during that time of promiscuity the relationships I had were absolutely, always consensual. I was always transparent about that then, almost too transparent, and I am being transparent about it now as well. To see that transparency metastasised into something criminal, that I absolutely deny, makes me question is there another agenda at play."

"Attacks like this, a crisis like this — hurtful though it is to be accused of what I consider to be the most appalling crimes, to be accused of this is very, very painful and very hurtful. But I am being shown that there are consequences for the rather foolish way that I lived in the past. Though of course, to reiterate due to the nature of the world we live in, of course I deny any allegations of the kind that have been advanced."

"It terrifies me to contemplate, Tucker, that people like Alex Jones, and in our country, David Icke — who aside from some views that are impossible to corroborate around quite a cultist and shall we call them marginal ideas, difficult to corroborate ideas — when it comes to the subject of globalisation and the increasing authoritarianisation of our planet, appear to have been ahead of the curve."

"[On Revolution] Having read his new book — which is uniquely worthless both as an exercise in writing and as a manifesto for social change — I feel able to dismiss Brand's new self-ascriptions, both as self-taught man and revolutionary. He is neither. An autodidact is not someone who, as Brand does, summons up a convenient line from Goethe cut and pasted from the endless shallows of Wikiquote (or, more probably, gets someone else to do it). An autodidact is, rather, someone who learns German and reads the original — as my father did. As to revolutionaries — successful ones tend, unlike Brand, to have plans and strategies, which is what makes them formidable, if no fun at orgies."

"So unthreatening a revolutionary is Russell Brand that (let me now commune with the dead) Stalin would not even have bothered to have him shot. Just as I should not have bothered writing this review."

"Brand is charismatic, looks like Jesus, but, cannot deliver us from dejection, poverty, inequality, greed, corruption and hopelessness. Though all praise to him for having such faith in his own powers. It is heartening to see him mobbed by teenagers and young people. They are looking for something. But do they want more than a selfie with Brand? And if they do seek guidance and leadership, Brand, I fear, will only fail them. To say as he has done; "I will never vote and I don't think you should either," is deeply irresponsible."

"Russell Brand, clown that he is, is taken seriously by an awful lot of young men who see any criticism of the cartoon messiah's misogyny as a derail from "the real issues" (whatever they are). The fans claim they love Brand despite the fact that he talks about women as poisoned birds of paradise, sucubus-like vultures or material accoutrements of wealth ("Are you reading this on a yacht, through your Ray-Bans, with, I dunno, a pair of glistening Russian sisters," Brand asks his implicitly male reader at the start of his atrocious Revolution). I think the fans are dishonest: the sexism is part of the sell. If you know what power feels like, even if you have ever so little of it, how many people could commit to a new order with none at all?"

"As Brand holds forth on the evils of capitalism, I get the feeling that I'm talking to a clever, intransigent teenager, the only difference being that Brand has a frighteningly large audience for his blend of tosh and truth. Ten times more people follow him on Twitter than follow the prime minister David Cameron, and his political YouTube channel, The Trews (True News), though maddening both in its title and in its hectoring content, is persuading apathetic youth to feel cross about the state of the world. My son's a fan, I say."

"[After Brand claims Lucy Kellaway's son will want a photograph of their meeting] I assure him my son won't want any such thing but Brand is already coming over to my side of the table, putting an arm around me and moving his lips towards mine, while I swerve out of reach. After this embarrassing little skirmish I ask if it is the first time a woman has cringed as he tried to kiss her. He shakes his head and insists I didn’t cringe. "Your body language looked halfhearted and your face changed colour.""

"What was most depressing was the contempt in which Brand clearly held the people he claims to represent, ordinary British people, "us". ... Does he think they are dumb enough to swallow his bilge about absurd conspiracy theories, most notably the gold-plated loon's theory that the American government was responsible for destroying the twin towers? Does he really think people won't see through him when he says he is simply "open-minded" about this theory, when he clearly means "I totally believe it"?"

"This obnoxious and dishonest rigidity, often enforced by a cult-like following, is, I believe, one of the reasons why the left often struggles to build support. Brand's openness about his flaws makes him a good leader, and allows those who admire him to be good followers. He's the best thing that has happened to the left in years."

"At first when I met him, he wanted an equal, and I think a lot of times strong men do want an equal, but then they get that equal and they're like, I can't handle the equalness [...] He didn't like the atmosphere of me being the boss on tour. So that was really hurtful, and it was very controlling, which was upsetting. I felt a lot of responsibility for it ending, but then I found out the real truth, which I can't necessarily disclose because I keep it locked in my safe for a rainy day. I let go and I was like: This isn't because of me; this is beyond me. So I have moved on from that."

"Imagine if David Icke had mystical tattoos and gleaming Hollywood teeth and wore deep, chest-grazing V-necks. That’s the vibe."

"Was Kanye West a "free speech warrior", Brand pondered, ten days before the rapper's very public spiral ended with him saying that he "loved Hitler"? Hmm. Tough one."

"In May 2007, Brand called Jimmy Savile, who suggested the pair could meet if Brand brought along a sister. Brand doesn't have a sister, so instead offered to bring a female employee — agreeing, on Savile's request, that she should be naked. "I've got a personal assistant," he said. "And part of her job description is that anyone I demand she greet, meet, massages, she has to do it. She's very attractive, Jimmy." This was four years before Savile's death and five years before details of the Jim’ll Fix It presenter's crimes were exposed."

"[On Brand's video comments preceding the media coverage of the September 2023 allegations] It’s insulting [...] And it's laughable that he would even imply that this is some kind of mainstream media conspiracy. He's not outside the mainstream – he did a Universal Pictures movie last year, he did Minions, a children's movie. He is very much part of the mainstream media, he just happens to have a YouTube channel where he talks about conspiracy theories to an audience that laps it up. And, it may sound cynical, but I do think that he was building himself an audience for years of people that would then have great distrust of any publication that came forward with allegations. He knew it was coming for a long time. And then, as for him denying that anything non-consensual happened. That's not a surprise to me. These men always deny any of the allegations brought to them – I knew he would. What he didn't deny was that he had a relationship with a 16-year-old.”"

"[By 2005–2006] Already, "Russell Brand Does Sex" was a tabloid staple. "He got me naked and pounded on top of me like a rabid dog," a woman from an Abba tribute act told the Sunday People, for example, apparently quite cheerfully. One day he'd be planning to bed Paris Hilton ("Would I bonk her brains out? Yes"), another he'd be bragging about a one-night stand with a Big Brother contestant. Generally, it was all a giggle. “HAVE you bonked Russell Brand this week?” asked the Sun, "Call us on . . ." This, after the News of the World had reported that "RANDY Russell Brand is coming to the Edinburgh Festival with women on his mind", noting that "The BB [Big Brother] host has asked for a flat across the road from the theatre where he'll star, to save time getting groupies into bed. Let's hope the bedroom action lasts longer than the walk!""

"What kind of sex attacker reneges at the first scream?"

"I know it's serious but the actual event doesn't change whether we look at it humorously or seriously."

"[Posing as a woman named 'Sarah' in a call to an emergency police phoneline] I have got some information for you. I've seen a gentleman who fits the description. He was wearing a lime green top and polka- dot trousers, and I thought, "Well, look at the state of him" (laughter). I've had someone come near my underpass. He was dressed absolutely atrociously, he looked like Timmy Mallett."

"[part of first message] Right. you wait till I come on your show. Andrew Sachs I did not do nothing with Georgina [Sachs granddaughter] … oh no, I revealed I know her name! Oh no, it's a disaster! Abort, abort! Put the phone down, put the phone down, code red, code red! I'm sorry Mr Fawlty, I'm sorry. You're a waste of space! Oh no, Jonathan ..."

"[during Sachs recorded announcement at the beginning of the second message] (interrupting) … I am too busy thinking about killing myself … Andrew, this is Russell Brand. I am so sorry about the last message - it was part of the radio show, it was a mistake … The truth is I am phoning you to ask if I can marry - that's right, marry - Georgina the granddaughter."

"[during third message] (singing ...) I'd like to apologise for the terrible attacks, Andrew Sachs, I would like to show contrition to the max, Andrew Sachs. I would like to create world peace, between the yellow, white and blacks, Andrew Sachs, Andrew Sachs. I said something I didn't have oughta, like I had sex with your granddaughter. But it was consensual and she wasn't menstrual, it was consensual lovely sex. It was full of respect I sent her a text, I've asked her to marry me, Andrew Sachs ..."

"I see that dereliction can survive in opulence; the abundantly wealthy with destitution in their stare."

"[On Melanie Phillips] In person, inconveniently, she is beautiful. Deep brown, soulful eyes, elegant features and a truthful, caring sincerity in her tone. It is surprising and bizarre, then, to see her contort on air into a taut, jabbing Gollum figure, untutored index finger fucking the audience in the face when they pipe up about Syria or whatever. Oddly, I still like her, regarding her opinions as an arbitrary appurtenance that she pops on in public, like a daft hat that says "Immigrants Out" on the brim. When the audience – who, incidentally, make all the best points – boo her, I think it a shame. The wall of condemnation is an audible confirmation that the world is a fearful and unloving place. Like most of us, Melanie just needs a cuddle."

"Only Boris [Johnson] concerns me. When I used to watch Have I Got News For You, which as a kid I was proud to watch, full stop, I loved it when Boris Johnson came on. I didn't know who he was or what he did, I didn't think about it, I just liked him. I liked his voice, his manner, his name, his vocabulary, his self-effacing charm, humour and, of course, his hair. He has catwalk hair. Vogue cover hair, Rumplestiltskin spun it out of straw, straight-out-of-bed, drop-dead, gold-thread hair."

"In this age where politics is presented as entertainment, it's the most entertaining politicians who ascend"

"I could see the room dividing as I spoke. I could hear the laughter of some and louder still silence of others. I realised that for some people this was regarded as an event with import. The magazine, the sponsors and some of those in attendance saw it as a kind of ceremony that warranted respect. In effect, it is a corporate ritual, an alliance between a media organisation, GQ, and a commercial entity, Hugo Boss. What dawned on me as the night went on is that even in apparently frivolous conditions the establishment asserts control, and won't tolerate having that assertion challenged, even flippantly, by that most beautifully adept tool: comedy."

"There is a relationship between government, media and industry that is evident even at this most spurious and superficial level. These three institutions support one another. We know that however cool a media outlet may purport to be, their primary loyalty is to their corporate backers. We know also that you cannot criticise the corporate backers openly without censorship and subsequent manipulation of this information."

"If a product has an advertisement, it means you don't need it. No-one ever has to say 'go to sleep', 'breathe', 'love people'."

"Oh also I raped someone once, [laughter] I killed her after."

"[On the Ancient Greeks having sex with children] They didn’t mind it did they [...] They were clever weren't they."

"I've done another triangle. I'm f—ing a little kid. This is great. F–k the kid with the triangle. No that's too much."

"Look at the women in this room [...] Even a bold estimate would be that I've slept with half of them. Currently."

""God, please make me a channel of your peace." The first line of the St. Francis prayer, popularized by Mother Teresa, bastardized by Margaret Thatcher, and cherished by those of us who have fallen through the cracks and floated ourselves back up with crack."

"Aren’t we all, in one way or another, trying to find a solution to the problem of reality? If I get this job, this girl, this guy, these shoes. If I pass this exam, eat this pizza, drink this booze, go on this holiday. Learn karate, learn yoga. If West Ham stay up, if my dick stays up, if I get more likes on Facebook, more fancy cookbooks, a better kitchen, cure this itchin’, if she stops bitching. Isn’t there always some kind of condition to contentment? Isn’t it always placed in the future, wrapped up in some object, either physical or ideological? I know for me it is, and as an addict that always leads me to excess and then to trouble. Do you feel like that? Are you looking for something? It’s not just me, is it?"

"The idea that voting is pointless, democracy a façade, and that no one is representing ordinary people is more resonant than ever as I leave my ordinary town behind. Amidst the guilt and anger I feel in the back of the Führer-mobile, there is hope. Whilst it’s clear that on an individual, communal, and global level that radical change is necessary, I feel a powerful, transcendent optimism. I know change is possible, I know there is an alternative, because I live a completely different life to the one I was born with. I also know that the solution is not fame or money or any transient adornment of the individual. The only Revolution that can really change the world is the one in your own consciousness, and mine has already begun."

"The reason I keep mentioning God is because I believe in God. A lot of people are surprised by that, what with it being 2014 and this being a technologically advanced secular culture. God is primarily regarded as the preserve of thick white people and angry brown people. Since Friedrich Nietzsche (deceased) declared, "God is dead," we’ve been exploring the observation of British writer G. K. Chesterton, who said, "The death of God doesn’t mean man will believe in nothing but that he will believe in anything." I’m a good example of that: at thirteen a believer in Lakeside, at eight a believer in biscuits, at seventeen a devoted wanker, at nineteen a fanatical drug user, before winding up in the monastery of celebrity."

"Have you ever tried to argue with someone who doesn’t want anything from you? It’s hard. Have you ever noticed in a row with someone that no longer loves you that you have no recourse?' No tools with which to bargain."

"Making enough money to become an effective consumer takes time, dedication, devotion. The wait is miserable. It never occurred that the objective was flawed and the rules were skewed."

"In secondary immigration, as I await processing, I sit with people for whom I imagine the experience is less of a novelty. To be blunt, non-white people. Mexican and Arabian people, mostly—I assume, I don’t look at their passports; they don’t have them, they’re behind the desks with the border police, equally trapped and obese, behind the counter, often the same color as the people they’re casually harassing. "Who does this notion of nation most suit," I wonder as I sit there, unable to use my phone. Proper rich people don’t encounter these rooms, these borders, these problems. For them the world is as it is when seen from space, without boundary, without limitation, full of fluid possibility and whispering wonder."

"The awareness that is not prickled and tugged by capricious emotion. The awareness that is aware that it is aware. In meditation I access it; in yoga I feel it; on drugs it hit me like a hammer—at sixteen, staring into a bathroom mirror on LSD, contrary to instruction ("Don’t look in the mirror, Russ, it’ll fuck your head up." Mental note: "Look in mirror."). I saw that my face wasn’t my face at all but a face that I lived behind and was welded to by a billion nerves. I looked into my eyes and saw that there was something looking back at me that was not me, not what I’d taken to be me. The unrefined ocean beyond the shallow pool was cascading through the mirror back at me. Nature looking at nature. Not me, little ol’ Russ, tossed about on turbulent seas; these distinctions were engineered. On acid, these realizations are absolute. The disobedient brain is whipped into its basket like a yapping hound cowed by Cesar Millan."

"There is always something for it to think, always something for it to solve, so whenever I first start to meditate, the mantra is a tiny clear droplet lost in a deluge of sludge. I’m not a person who finds meditation a doddle or to whom yoga comes naturally. To tell you the truth, I find the whole business a bit poncey and contrary to the way I used to see myself. It’s only the fact that I decimated my life by aggressively pursuing the models of living that were most immediately available—eating, wanking, drinking, consuming, getting famous—that I was forced to look at alternatives."

"I don’t see myself as a yoga person or a man who meditates and prays and eats well and says "Namaste" or "God bless you." I became that because I exhausted all other options. There was a point, I’ll admit, when I flung myself full force into an L.A. New Age lifestyle. I’d just got divorced, and a movie I wanted to do well didn’t meet my expectations. My response to this was to stop shaving and start wearing pajamas outdoors. That is relatively typical behavior for any lunatic; we see them everywhere—twitching, twisting, hollering at their imagined foes. The difference is I was doing it in Hollywood and my pajamas looked suitably ethnic, so I think I got away with it. Although my mates have subsequently told me they were worried and, thinking about it, they did drop hints like "Trim your beard, you look like a shoe bomber" and "Stop wearing them gap-year trousers, you fuckin’ nut," but I was immune. A friend of mine, himself no stranger to mental illness, and that’s putting it lightly—he’s a right fucking fruitcake, living at his mum’s on disability benefits—said to me, "In India if you have a mental breakdown, they don’t build you back up again; they leave you in communion with God." He then looked up, mimicking, I supposed, an Indian yogi, and raised his hands and eyes skywards as if he were playing a tiny accordion just in front of his hairline. "They say, ‘Ah, he’s in conversation with Brahman now,’ and they revere you. In this country they just give you a bus pass."

"Now I’m up at the front and Tall Bloke, Long Suit, is still Sieg-Heiling; women are still jiggling and beseeching. There is an unspoken acknowledgment that I am an interloper, that I am unlike everybody else there, neither Eritreanh or Ethiopian, and that there is a risk, therefore, that I am there to mock or judge or disrupt, and I’m capable of all those things. Bellamy has clearly overcome any doubt he has in his self, if not in me, as he is now insistently inquiring, "Do you accept Jesus Christ?" He says it in English, so he definitely knows I'm not Eritrean; the jig is up. "Do you accept Jesus Christ?" he says again, like Jesus is a credit card and I’m an unhelpful waiter. The conditions of the inquiry do not suggest that there is time for me to go into my honest answer: "Yes, but there are caveats." Jesus Christ, the Son of God, sent to earth to redeem us all. Jesus Christ, the Jewish nationalist radical. Jesus Christ, the metaphor for the divine within the corporeal. Jesus Christ, the human being superimposed, literally, placed on the cross: the pagan geometric emblem that represents on the vertical plane the relationship between the earthly and the divine and on the other, horizontal plane the lateral relationships between individual humans. Christ as the end of paganism, the beginning of individualism, of idolatry. Of the acceptance that some humans are more equal than others. Christ as a reminder that we must all constantly die and be born again, moment to moment, to live forever in the now, if as Wittgenstein says, "eternity is taken not to be an infinite temporal duration but the quality of timelessness, then are we not all eternal if we live in the present." Christ as the symbol that the flesh is human, that the carnal human ape has expired, and that we can achieve no more until we transcend, until we ascend, into new conscious realms and manifest the divine. "On earth as it is in heaven""? "Do you accept Jesus Christ?" he says again, and this time gives me a bit of a prod, which he tries to pass off as shamanic but I think is actually frustration. The answer, as I have outlined above, is conditionally "yes," but the most expedient answer is a totally unconditional "yes," so that is the answer I give. "Yes.""

"When I was an atheist it was because I rejected authority, and why not reject the supreme authority of God, particularly that boring fucker on Songs of Praise. I could reject him with the unsentimental dispatch of a clipped toenail. When I got clean from drugs and alcohol, I saw that the way I’d always seen the world was limited. It will always be limited. By yielding authority to a benign power, I found a key to transcend previous limitations. Modest limitations, like being unable to survive without the use of drugs and alcohol. Until the time when I got clean, I’d had little experience of loving, powerful authority. Authority had only been corrupt or inefficient in my experience."

"How did it feel in there to you when you were a child, in the aquarium of your head? I was lonely in mine as the world swam by in immaculately choreographed schools, like an inaccessible gang of Nemos. I was only really at ease with my mum and animals, and I treated them pretty badly. If you feel how I felt, I have been taught a few techniques that might help you. Here’s one for a kick-off: You have to forgive everyone for everything. You can’t cling on to any blame that you may be using to make sense of the story of your life. Even me with my story of one nan that I love and another that I don’t—that story is being used to maintain a certain perspective of mine, a perspective that justifies the way I am, and by justifying the way I am I ensure that I stay the same. I’m no longer interested in staying the same; I’m interested in Revolution, that means I have to go back and change the story of my childhood."

"I recently researched my family tree, and quite quickly labels of class are smudged into nonsense. For a couple of generations back, it’s all very proletariat in every direction—Bethnal Green bottle-makers and jobs that belong in Dickens. But with the generational doubling that occurs, before too long it’s a muddle of all manner of colliding types: scullery maids and sculptors, officers and gentlemen."

""I believe in God," says my nan, in a way that makes the idea of an omnipotent, unifying frequency of energy manifesting matter from pure consciousness sound like a chore. An unnecessary chore at that, like cleaning under the fridge. I tell her, plucky little seven-year-old that I was, that I don’t. This pisses her off. Her faith in God is not robust enough to withstand the casual blasphemy of an agnostic tot. "Who do you think made the world, then?" I remember her demanding as fiercely as Jeremy Paxman would later insist I provide an instant global infrastructure for a post-revolutionary utopia. "Builders," I said, thinking on my feet. This flummoxed her and put her in a bad mood for the rest of the walk. If she’d hit back with "What about construction at a planetary or galactic level?" she’d’ve had me on the ropes. At that age I wouldn’t’ve been able to riposte with "an advanced species of extraterrestrials who we have been mistakenly ascribing divine attributes to due to our own technological limitations" or "a spontaneous cosmic combustion that contained at its genesis the code for all subsequent astronomical, chemical, and biological evolution." I probably would’ve just cried. Anyway, I’m supposed to be explaining the power of forgiveness, not gloating about a conflict in the early eighties in which I fared well against an old lady. Since getting clean from drugs and alcohol I have been taught that I played a part in the manufacture of all the negative beliefs and experiences from my past and I certainly play a part in their maintenance. I now look at my nan in another way. As a human being just like me, trying to cope with her own flaws and challenges. Fearful of what would become of her sick daughter, confused by the grandchild born of a match that she was averse to. Alone and approaching the end of her life, with regret and lacking a functioning system of guidance and comfort. Trying her best. Taking on the responsibility of an unusual little boy with glib, atheistic tendencies, she still behaved dutifully. Perhaps this very conversation sparked in me the spirit of metaphysical inquiry that has led to the faith in God I now have."

"It’s six months since I did the interview with Jeremy Paxman that inspired this book, and British media today is awash with halfhearted condemnations of my observation that voting is pointless and my admission that I have never voted. My assertion that other people oughtn’t vote either was born of the same instinctive rejection of the mantle of appointed social prefect that prevents me from telling teenagers to "Just Say No" to drugs. I cannot confine my patronage to the circuitry of their minuscule wisdom. "People died so you’d have the right to vote." No, they did not; they died for freedom. In the case where freedom was explicitly attached to the symbol of democratic rights, like female suffrage, I don’t imagine they’d’ve been so willing if they’d known how tokenistic voting was to become. Note too these martyrs did not achieve their ends by participating in a hollow, predefined ritual, the infertile dry hump of gestural democracy; they did it by direct action. Emily Davison, the hero of women’s suffrage, hurled herself in front of the king’s horses; she defied the tyranny that oppressed her and broke the boundaries that contained her. I imagine too that this woman would have had the rebellious perspicacity to understand that the system she was opposing would adjust to incorporate the female vote and deftly render it irrelevant. This woman, who left her job as a teacher to dedicate her life to activism, was imprisoned nine times. She used methods as severe and diverse as arson and hunger-striking to protest and at the time of her death would have been regarded as a terrorist."