 |
|
|
|
 |
 |
|
| |
My
Brain Ejaculates
in Here!
Check here for discursive
thoughts and reflections
about my existence. A
sort of open diary; a
metaphysical
leak into your inbox.
Okay, it’s a blog... |
 |
|
|
| |
Blog:
27th November 2009 |
|
| |
|
|
| |
Not
possible: have I really ejaculated
a total of 24 minutes bespoke
humour about people whom I knew
nothing? I might have a twisted
thyroid and a bucket of compulsions,
but with stand-up knuckling
down I’m usually lazier
than Columbo’s eye. I’ll
write between 20 - 60 minutes
a year. If I’m lucky.
And here I am emitting globule
after globule on Kim Woodburn
et al. Maybe the pressure of
live telly has liberated me.
Am interested to know if the
same prolificness will translate
through to my Edinburgh thrustings.
Another surprise. On this project
I knew I’d have only 2
hours of life a day - thus I
assumed I would just veg in
front of movie or book: but
no - have been clicking away
at second draft of novel. I
needed a new narrator to complement
my drier, male, primary narrator
- and she came to me in a torrent
of bitchy asides and half-finished
sentences. I’m running
with it. Have never attempted
to write first person female
before - so tricky, but fun.
Am enjoying life in jungle immensely
- but homesickness for family
and pets sits inside me like
a sort of thick undigested soup.
Longing for Blighty and loved
ones occasionally detaches me
from my sunny Aussie day. I
sometimes feel like I am watching
play in another language. That’s
love I suppose. It’s a
bastard, a good bastard, but
a bastard. It makes you mate
and do the best you can, and
the best you can takes you away
from your mate. That’s
what happens if you cross-breed
Western economies with the heart.
Joe Swash and Caroline Flack
keep me sane. Fantastic energy
from two very lovely beings.
Swash’s parade of fry-ups
and silly jokes are my rainbows
even though it’s night-time
when I’m up; and the banter
between him and Flack is phenomenal.
A pantomime tennis of mockery,
joke spiders, and recriminations.
It lights a touch-paper in rehearsal
which burns all the way through
the live show.
Nicola McLean has left now.
I found her to be an absolutely
brilliant person. Her laugh
was like a Kookaburra - and
I provoked it whenever I could.
I think pregnant women are gorgeous.
It might even be a fetish. I
feel sorry for Sadie if we ever
get pregnant - as I fear my
pervy stalking of her will only
increase.
Sadie (been visiting me in OZ
for five nights) goes back home
tomorrow. My heart wMy heart
will break. So will my broadband.
|
|
| |
|
|
| |
Blog:
20th November 2009 |
|
| |
|
|
| |
Is
that really five shows already?
It’s rewarding but odd
- performing stand-up live on
telly - you get all the self-doubt
and nerves of regular stand-up,
but without the full theatre
audience to assuage them; paradoxically,
in reality there’s much
more audience than, say, Bracknell
Theatre (not that you weren’t
200 of the loveliest human beings
ever to pullulate from the soil
of Berkshire). That’s
the pant-filling thing. Wednesday’s
show went out to 1.1 million
- on ITV2. I’ve already
had to consult with the jungle’s
Medic Bob about my Imodium consumption.
It’s amazing how public
speaking can refute toilet science.
It felt a little uncomfortable
doing impression’s of
Danish dancer Camilla Dallerup
while she looked on - but I
think it went down okay. Do
they have irony in Copenhagen?
Someone please check.
The other incongruity is how
joyous I am at being scrubbed,
buffed and delivered to various
sanitized magnolia cubes of
showbiz, contrasted with a kitschy
emotional longing for little
Westcliff-on-Sea’s high
street; even more for the faces
(one in particular x) of home.
I gaze out from my ridiculously
un-pikey suite onto alabaster
sand, King Parrots, plovers,
a shimmering topaz sunrise and
a à point warm ocean;
but just when that rush of human
completion, oneness and restful
being is about to be achieved;
I feel the spasm. The gripe.
The illogical lust for the parochial
November sleet of Blighty; the
predictable cynicism of the
Co-Op’s pre-Christmas
prices on the corner of Ramuz
Drive. The thoughtless dog-poo
in bags that is still essentially
a poo on the street, only in
a bag. Am I just romanticizing
the other; cursed to ricochet
between two Schopenhauerian
points of longing for what one
currently does not have. Or
am I just a dick who can’t
enjoy a beach. Much more likely
the latter. I never want to
have sand in my prepuce.
It’s fun hanging out with
Joe Swash and Caroline Flack
- although our shifts are different
- so we only socialise for an
hour or so each day. (60 minutes
is a long enough period for
a stand-up to label it a social
life).
Janice Dickinson has been keeping
me amused. Our ad-break banter
is the filthiest imaginable
- I only wish we could broadcast
it online or something.
One last thing. Read the journals
of John Fowles - but in a jacuzzi.
And, gents: once, just once,
experience the primordial pleasure
of drying your scrotum in sunlight. |
|
| |
|
|
| |
Blog:
13th November 2009 |
|
| |
|
|
| |
What
a temporally strange week of
my life it’s been. It
began when I managed to gain
access to the Business Class
lounge at Heathrow T3. I Skyped
my mother and showed her pictures
of unlimited buffet - whoops
of working class, delight came
out of the speakers.
I was one of the last people
to find out who was going into
the jungle - and there is still
one mystery guest. They tell
us nothing. Tis torture - but
hopefully that curiosity will
make good live telly.
It’s very odd staying
on UK time. There’s an
scoutish frisson in abandoning
onself to nightime solitude;
but a kind of wasteful loneliness
about it too. I get 2 hours
of social life before everyone
else goes to bed and I am left
alone to wonder in sepulchral
paradise. Something ominous
about hearing the ocean but
not seeing it. I’ve taken
to running at sunrise (7pm our
time); there seems to be nudist
spot on the beach. Quite a surreal
image - king parrots scudding
past hairy men as I jog on.
Meanwhile, onset, the jungle
is a sinister place at night.
The one thing that doesn’t
come across properly on telly
is the sound. A malignant serenade
laid on by nature.
We’ve been making pretend
shows all week just to practice.
I even did a bit of trial action
against Joe Swash. I thought
I was being all cool and above
the task, until I humiliated
myself in the most unmitigated
way. Am too tired and spaced
to put interesting tangents
in for blogees. It will all
hot up next week though.
Swash and Flack are sociable,
funny, and blokish - I’m
like a little Rain Man reading
in my room and waiting for Sunrise.
They woke me at 9am this morning.
They had just been for dinner
- I went to Swash’s room
and had two mind-fuck cocktails
for what was my breakfast, then
retired to my room to watch
a movie in my pants. I can’t
remember the last time I actually
wasted a day. Indolence is actually
hard work; perhaps I self-medicate
with tasks. Even this blog is
a little hit of to-do. Maybe
I should write a short story
and post it in my blog space.
A Creative warm-up. Title suggestions
anyone? |
|
| |
|
|
| |
Blog:
7th November 2009 |
|
| |
|
|
| |
Exhaustion.
If I’m doing pleasurable,
enjoyable things, but my body
reacts with tiredness, sluggishness
- sadness even, does that mean
that on some molecular level,
I reject exciting events; or
is it, more banally, that the
truism ‘too much of anything
can be too much’ is mawkishly
true. Maybe it’s the driving.
I’m one of a group of
comedians who drive home no
matter what the distance - very
rarely do I stay over. Even
Newcastle - I find myself jumping
into the Prius (he name- drops
his eco-activity as though it’s
nothing) and pootling 4 hours
home. Audiobooks, specifically
audible.co.uk,
must take some blame for this.
We live in an era of blissful
unabridged audio reading. No
more staring at the road wishing
away life so that there might
less A1 between you and Lincoln
- no - instead a nerdish leap
into the driving seat, and a
literary frisson as Timothy
West begins carefully enunciating
the trials of Dr Wortle’s
School (Trollope, of course
- effing brill read). Yes. It’s
this. I do the show, in itself
unnecessarily energetic, and
then the syrens of unalloyed
fiction- speaking trick me into
a journey when I should be resting.
Too much of good things. But
things are good. Things like
books, laughter, and Sadie making
gammon and desiree potatoes.
That was my final lunch today.
The last couply meal before
I find myself on another continent
altogether; a journey for which
I might even need a Tolstoy.
Russell x
PS. I am a curry addict. I have
been fixated on Garam Massalla
based dishes since the age of
5. It is then with gravitas
that I declare my favourite
Indian Meal of the Tour. It’s
The Spice Lounge, Telford. Oh
my. Click here, and believe:
http://spice-lounge.org |
|
| |
|
|
| |
Blog:
30th October 2009 |
|
| |
|
|
| |
Yes.
Okay. Topman’s change
of fabric in their ‘spray-on’
skinnies might look good. Indeed,
they fit wonderfully - a kind
of leg-ins for boy-men. But
I am double jointed, and these
jeans don’t seem to match
my genes. Three pairs. Three
pairs of jeans split at the
crotch in one week of touring.
And always when I’m opining
about something which should
have gravitas. If I dare attempt
my Palestine routine, then:
screeeerrrrrrccchhh - my balls
flop out and 400 people laugh
awkwardly. Maybe it’s
a metaphor from some unknown
force that I should stick to
knob gags; even attempting post-structuralist
comedic devices will result
in the punishment of genital
exposure. And no - I’ve
not been splitting them on purpose.
This is supposed to be my new
wardrobe for I’m a Celeb
Get Me Out of Here Now - and
yet I’m tearing it up.
Should I stop misrepresenting
myself, get back in my flares
and give in to the tyranny of
audiobooks and tea - rather
than pathetically manufacturing
a facade of skinny-jean’d
cool. Christ. I am so uncool
for even just typing that. How
does one achieve Cred? Not long
to the jungle tho. Oh. I jig
with merriment. |
|
| |
|
|
| |
Blog:
22nd October 2009 |
|
| |
|
|
| |
The
tour has been going splendidly.
400 lovely Welsh people came
to see me in Cardiff. 400! A
woman with a stick started the
show, and a man with silver
hair and a miserable face finished
it. 100s more succulent beings
all over the country. You lovely
bastards. Really has been a
tub-thumping week. Support acts
Chris Ramsey and Miss Sadie
Hasler have been awesome too.
For those of you that don’t
know Chris Ramsey www.chrisramseycomedy.com
you soon will. He’s won
Most Chipper Geordie of The
Year seven times, and always
comes out with classic quotable
lines backstage.
Say the following in a Geordie
accent whilst being chipper
and that.
“Where’s my shoe?”
“This lamp is lovely.”
“Hummus is lush like.”
“Have you see this cushion?
It’s fucking mint like.”
Few more dates to go before
the Oz jungle subsumes me. I’m
getting wee-jets of excitement
about I’m a Celeb Now.
Of course there’s the
homesickness to contend with.
I’ll be in an Aussie jungle;
Sadie’s homemade sausage
toad-in-the-holes will seem
like a remembered language from
a forgotten planet; the idiotic
whinny of Cooper my Cocker Spaniel
dog - an elegy from childhood
- but fuck it - I will have
fun, not only that, I will attempt
to leak it back down the telly
box to Blighty.
Looks like the wedding is on
too. I’m getting married.
Shit. I’m getting married.
Wow. January 9th. A winter wedding
in a medieval hall, followed
by a knees-up in a pub; literary
vows and a boozy party - what
better metaphor for the gusty
sociology that has carried me
to this place. Shall I shut
up now? Why don’t egomaniacs
edit??
Rx |
|
| |
|
|
| |
Blog:
14th October 2009 |
|
| |
|
|
| |
Hello,
weblings.
My website is up and away! Do
you like it? The lovely Laura
Hasler is responsible and I
kiss her head in thanks. So:
the first blog!
It has been an intense month.
I love touring - that’s
why us monkey people get into
comedy; to pelt around the country
and bespatter different towns
with our comedy mucus. Oh the
joy of seeing a Coventry forehead
speckled with the moist evidence
of humour. It is intense though.
Madness sets in on the interminable
journeys. I now regularly drive
the middle lane of the motorway,
pretending that the white road
markings are lasers coming out
of my bumpers. I make rally
car engine noises - my throat
offering a convincing guttural
gear change effect. I even descend
into lame beatboxing over various
Radio 4 theme tunes. Did you
know that The Archers rocks
when your lay a Junglist snare
and bass drum on it?
Intense but fun. The mystery
of it. What is in Andover? Who
are Andoverians? I get to find
out; all these place names which
seem to suggest something about
the people. Word-parts and stresses
which might reveal the inherent,
say, Birken-ness, of Birkenhead.
Humans are just so different
and interesting. Is there really
such thing as a boring person?
No. Just a bunch of succulent
freaks waiting to leak their
stories and beings into yours.
As if all this were not enough
- and here’s the big announcement
- I’m off to work on I’m
a Celebrity Get Me Out of Here
Now - on ITV2. I wee jets of
feculence with excitement. There’s
a top female presenter - and
I will be her apish sidekick
providing observations and wotnottery.
And yes - I’m going to
Oz to do it. That rocks. It
truly does. My ass will be in
a Qantas seat in early November
I’m taking the unabridged
life-correcting essays of Michel
de Montaigne, Alice Munro’s
pathos-ridden short stories
(plus some Murakami of course)
and the world is right with
me.
Homesickness for Sadie (Human
Female), Keith (Burmilla Cat),
Wayne (Tonkinese Cat), and Cooper
(Cocker Dog) will be my only
enemy. May the internet defeat
it.
Hopefully I’ll be in your
town soon, as I love comedy,
and wish to shove it up you.
R x |
|
| |
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
