You came into my life when I chased malnourished men in skinny black jeans who spouted anti-establishment opinions they half understood. Covert misogynists with a particular cruelty I was too naive to notice.
You were not a rockstar but a semblance of one. You took all the cultural signifiers of rebellion – dark, edgy, different. Your flamboyance made men uncomfortable, even more so because it turned women on.
You were funny, but I found your intelligence more appealing than your comedy. You used big words and constructed sentences that were hard to decipher but made sense once I did.
I would say you educated me, but I refuse to give you that much credit. I've spent too long bolstering male ego – and you certainly don't need more bolstering – so perhaps I'll say you encouraged me to learn? Yes, I admit – you did do that.
You possessed a rare self-awareness. You not only understood your destruction, all the way down the drain of dependence and despair, but accepted it, and forgave yourself for it. Sharing your mistakes made space for mine.
Yes, you've always been transparent – sometimes too transparent? You willingly shared your sexual escapades in your ‘Booky Wooks’. Sex with fans, sex with coworkers, sex with pop stars and sex with supermodels (you liked that headline).
Promiscuity was a symptom of addiction – “compulsive behaviour that you cannot control or relinquish, in spite of its destructive consequences” – but it was also your shtick. You wore your sexuality like you wear the prayer beads around your neck as if to say, "Look who I am. Look what I value.”
I re-read your writing from 2005-2010. It doesn’t paint you in the best light post #MeToo. You’re the perfect manipulator, completely adept at leveraging your power to get what you want.
"I spun gags and yarns till she let me turn round, I painted verbal pictures and begged until she kissed me, I lied and danced and evoked the spirit of Pan till reluctantly she removed her bra, I used tears and emotional blackmail to secure the immolation of her knickers."
Every ego needs feeding, and yours has always been especially hungry – therein lies the problem. Nothing could fill your gaping hole of need.
All my fantasies came true when you played a rockstar. You were a dream, so much so that you married a Teenage Dream. But it wasn’t a dream for long.
You broke up with your wife via a text before one of her shows. It didn't seem like a graceful end (I watched Kary Perry: Part of Me to get the gossip). But you framed it as a moral imperative. You had to leave. You were too good for all that, right?
Fame was "dust in your mouth", but with your insatiable appetite for attention, you must've revelled in it for a while. Walking down red carpets, crowds of adoring fans, Hollywood headlines labelling you Shagger of the Year. You could get away with anything – and you did.
"Oh my f**king God. I'm living like this life ... the very thing I detest. Vapid, vacuous celebrity."
Now you were back in London, seemingly humbled. You had turned your back on Hollywood and wanted to do good. This was my favourite RB era, the political era.
You started The Trews, a 'true news' YouTube series that critiqued politics and capitalism, focusing on economic inequality. You posted videos like…
Bare Minimum Wage: Do You Deserve It?
Who Profits From Denying Climate Change?
Why Do Fox News Love Guns So Much?
It was 2014. I was halfway through an arts degree and descending into clinical depression and alcoholism. Your critiques perfectly complemented what I was learning in class, and I found the intimacy of your videos comforting when I couldn't leave my bed.
But your humility didn't last.
You wanted to start a revolution. You even wrote a book about it, a compilation of old ideas about the collective consciousness's power to make profound change.
Was your push for revolution motivated by your messiah complex or an earnest belief that you could actually make a difference? It’s always hard to tell.
The revolution didn't quite land. Still, I was beside myself when you came to Perth in 2015. I had yet to see you live.
The Trew World Tour was part comedy, part political critique a la The Trews. I sat in the fourth row in absolute awe. There you were, a born performer with a charisma that reached the furthest corners of the arena.
You walked through the crowd, and my friend wildly waved her hands. "Yes, I get it. You're attractive," you said. I was gutted you had acknowledged her and not me, as if I had some chance to catch your attention amidst thousands of people. This kind of adoration made it so easy for you to do everything you did.
The Trews ceased in 2015. Your ego had won again. You became addicted to the attention – the likes, the subscribers, the headlines. It was time to reign it in.
"I'm not going to be doing the Trews, I'm not going to be on Twitter or Facebook, I'm going to be learning because I know real change is coming, and I want to be part of that."
Next up was Under the Skin, a podcast where you share intellectual conversations with thought leaders like Yuval Noah Harari, Naomi Klein, and Gabor Maté. You had honed your intelligence, asked insightful questions, and finally learned the power of listening.
This was the year you got married. Who was the woman who finally nailed you down? I obsessively Googled. Laura née Gallacher. For God's sake, she writes children's books about magical everyday play and makes soap for fun. She couldn't get more wholesome if she tried.
I was in recovery when you published your next book, Recovery: Freedom from Our Addictions. This is your approachable take on the almost century-old 12-step program that has helped many recover from addiction.
You caused a stir by reimagining and profiting from a sacred text, but despite the book’s ethical dubiousness, I underlined, scratched and dogeared my copy, recommending it to everyone I suspected was having a hard time.
You continued to upload content, but more of a spiritual nature. It was helpful and seemed aligned.
Self Isolation & Mental Heath
How I Got Over Heartbreak
The Role of God in Recovery
Then. My dream came true in 2020. You were coming to Perth again – Russell Brand: Recovery Live. I was incredibly excited. I, along with my addict friends, bought backstage tickets to meet you in person. This was my moment. But of course, Covid happened. You cancelled your show and returned home. What next?
I got on with my "new normal", which was busier than ever. Then, curious, one day, I searched for you on YouTube.
Gone were the thoughtful videos that left me feeling seen and inspired, and here was a new voice and message – "the voyage to truth and freedom."
The REAL Reason We Locked Down
We Can't Let Them Do This
They Are Trying To SILENCE Dissent
Things had changed. You had changed.
The title of your videos – sensationalist, paranoid and conspiratorial – and the look on your face – wild and desperate. You shouted like Trump and seemed to have an allegiance to problematic people who dismiss nuance for drama.
I closed the laptop and left you there. I needed time to unpack what you were selling because you were selling something. I just didn’t know what yet.
Russell Brand accused of rape, sexual assault and abusive behaviour
You would think that as much of a fan as I was, I would be shocked. Horrified. But I wasn't. Nor was I surprised. It was like something I always knew to be true had finally been said out loud.
You posted a video the night before the news broke:
"Amidst this litany of astonishing, rather baroque attacks are some very serious allegations that I absolutely refute… To see that transparency metastasised into something criminal, that I absolutely deny, makes me question: is there another agenda at play?"
Your 6.6 million "awakening wonders" were quick to your defence. "I knew they would come for you. You're too close to the truth."
The years you spent transitioning from “predator to prophet”, as one wise Redditor called it, paid off. You won't be cancelled. This new, loyal audience will serve you. Self-proclaimed critical thinkers who believe they see beyond the lies.
But these same people blindly believe what you say, what Jordan Peterson says, what Joe Rogan says, and what any other persuasive man with a frail ego says. All without question. Just like I believed what you said for 15 years.
You go where the attention goes. And when that first conspiratorial video hit one million views, you got high – just like you did when you first tried heroin. It took you away from yourself.
“Men tell half the truth to feel half as bad.” This is what an ex-boyfriend (well, a man who used me for sex) once said. I never forgot it.
I heard your confessions but didn’t register them as confessions then. They were just funny anecdotes from a man I would want to like me if we had met.
I was the cool girl. The one that laughed at sexist jokes. Took as many drugs as the boys. Was up for anal. Up for anything.
“Go ahead, shit on me, I don’t mind, I’m the Cool Girl.” - Gillian Flynn
But remember what you taught me? Question everything. Push against power. Don’t believe the lies.
I finally see the truth. And I will stay free. Free from men like you.
Nx
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