Russell Brand convicted — Russell Brand, the comedian and actor, was found guilty of one count of rape and three counts of sexual assault at Southwark Crown Court after a three-week trial. The verdict caps a career that was built on a persona of outrageous, sexually explicit humour — a persona that, as the trial has now established, masked predatory behaviour. Understanding how Brand became a star requires looking at the era that celebrated him: the lad culture of the 2000s, which normalised casual sexism and allowed him to hide in plain sight.
A Career Built on Shock and Excess
Brand first came to prominence as a stand-up comedian whose act revolved around graphic descriptions of sexual encounters. He simulated sex acts on stage and joked about oral sex in crude detail. Broadcasters including MTV, Channel 4 and the BBC poured money into his projects. His 2007 memoir, My Booky Wook, topped the Sunday Times bestseller chart for seven weeks and sold 600,000 hardback copies in the UK. In it, he portrayed himself as a shameless womaniser, recounting visits to lap-dancing clubs, threesomes and sexual encounters in toilets. The book was widely praised for its apparent honesty and humour. Even his own barrister described his comedy as a product of its time, noting that it was once seen as radical and different.
The Cultural Climate That Enabled Him
The late nineties and early noughties in Britain were a period when casual sexism was often celebrated. Lad magazines dominated newsstands, their pages filled with topless models and half-naked celebrities. In 1999, FHM projected a naked of TV presenter Gail Porter onto the Houses of Parliament without her knowledge; she later spoke about the damage it did to her mental health. Behaviour that might now be called toxic masculinity was frequently dismissed as harmless male humour, or excused as ironic. As Sarah Ditum, author of Toxic: Women, Fame and the Noughties, explains, there was an appetite for taboo-breaking, and Brand was seen as a talented stand-up who tapped into it. But she argues that his act has dated badly, and that few would now defend it knowing it reflected his real-world behaviour rather than an ironic performance.
Ditum suggests that people mistook irony and self-awareness for truthfulness and trustworthiness. The very jokes Brand made about being a sexual monster were taken as proof that he was not one in reality. This dynamic, she implies, helped him evade scrutiny. A former TV executive, speaking anonymously, described a system in which a charismatic star was too valuable to lose. Women who might have complained did not feel empowered to speak up, and those who did were often dismissed as troublemakers. During the trial, one complainant told the court she did not report what happened because she did not think she would be believed in those laddish times.
Enablers and a Reckoning
Jo Caulfield, a comedian who worked on the same circuit as Brand in the early 2000s, says she initially found him charming but now sees that he was enabled and that nobody would speak out against him. She describes a hierarchy in television where junior staff were discouraged from making a fuss if a star behaved inappropriately. While safeguarding standards have improved in some areas, she says the reluctance to upset a money-making star persists. Brand’s memoir ends with him acknowledging he had done terrible things. The court has now given that admission a far more serious meaning.
