I had a surprisingly complex relationship with Russell Brand's memoir My Booky Wook: A Memoir of Sex, Drugs, and Stand-Up.
First, I was super excited to pick it up at the library; for some reason Russell Brand completely amuses me. Then, when I started it, I looked at all the pictures first and got even more excited to read the book. I enjoyed the first quarter of it immensely. Then, I started to get a wee bit bored at Russell's tales of acting schools and constant misbehavior; later on I started to feel really bad for him as he described his love for heroin, his stint in drug treatment, and a very uncomfortable stay in an American clinic for sex addiction treatment, wherein he was surrounded (and a bit unnerved by) numerous pedophiles. Then, when I finished it, I decided it was quite unlike anything I had thought it was going to be, and although I couldn't say I enjoyed it, it was a very interesting read, and I certainly didn't feel any dumber for having read it.
I love books like that.
First things first. If you don't know who Russell Brand is, or you're only familiar with him from his appearance in the movie Forgetting Sarah Marshall, I wouldn't bother with this book. If, on the other hand, you've seen other Russell Brand stand-up tapes, or you've seen him on You-Tube; it might work, likewise, if you have a total addiction to all things Brit pop culture, this will be the book for you, as Russell kindly explains every Brit cultural reference he makes (including describing the enduring appeal of the British sitcom Only Fools and Horses). But in the end, really, it's kind of a sad book (about as sad as watching an episode of his now-defunct TV show RE: Brand on YouTube, especially the one in which he has a boxing match with his dad) about a guy with some fairly severe addictions.
So, you might be asking, if it was so sad, why did you really kind of enjoy it? More on that rather messed-up dichotomy tomorrow.