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Russell Brand – can we adopt him please?

Posted by Vicky Anderson on December 18, 2007 2:12 PM | 

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THE arts editor asked for my two cents with the old end of year entertainment round up yesterday, and I had a little think about what had rocked the world o’ comedy this year. It mainly consisted of the usual suspects – John Hegley brought Uncut Confetti back to the city, Daniel Kitson proved himself a truly unmissable talent with It’s the Fireworks Talking, and Lee Mack flew the flag for the ‘local hero’ award.


But one man’s onslaught on the city of Liverpool over the past 12 months deserves proper “honorary Scouser” kudos, and that’s Russell Brand. I can’t even be bothered being balanced about this anymore – the man is incredible at what he does and just keeps getting better.


He played the city three times this year, each time courting more attention until he ended up telling the Queen he fancied her granddaughter at the Royal Variety Performance and made the national news.


I fought this obsession, I really did. Someone so over-exposed could never be worth the hype, and the above Royal faux pas really shouldn’t have been funny, I tried to reason. But Brand is ubiquitous right now because he is really good enough to be. Sure, over the year he has given a slagging to my old reporting stamping ground, the Ormskirk Advertiser –



– and he called a colleague of mine an “arsehole” reading from another of our titles at his Summer Pops gig (pictured at the top) after taking umbrage to a turn of phrase, but what can you do.


His radio show, daft TV projects, newspaper columns, the sublimely absurdly-titled autobiography My Booky Wook and his considerably more over-the-top live gigs demonstrate he is everywhere at the moment because he is working his tightly-clad, firm and probably beautifully toned behind off (hellooo, nurse). I’m not saying I’m going to be running out to watch St Trinian’s, in which he also stars, but Brand has become a national treasure this year, and that success has got to be in some part down to him turning on the charm in Merseyside at regular intervals. Can we keep him? Can we, can we?

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