Bigger than Hitler – Better than Christ
Bigger than Hitler – Better than Christ
Rik Mayall
In this electrifying autobiography, Rik stands naked in front of his vast legions of fans and disciples and invites them to take communion with the blood he has spilled for them during his thirty year war on show business.He invented alternative comedy with The Young Ones, he brought down the Thatcher administration with The New Statesman and he changed the face of global culture with his masterpiece Bottom. Not only was his number one single Living Doll the saviour of rock 'n' roll but he also rescued the British film industry with the vast revenues created by his legendary movie Drop Dead Fred. In 1998, he survived an assassination attempt and spent five days in a coma before he literally came back from the dead. Having completed countless phenomenal feature films, TV series, live extravaganzas and radio voice-overs since then, Rik Mayall is now poised on the brink of a whole new epoch-shattering revolution.For the first time ever, Rik reveals in print the deep inner truth behind his gargantuan ascent to the pinnacle of international light entertainment – the mental hospitals he has broken out of, the television executives he has assaulted, the drugs he has definitely not taken, the charities he has bankrupted, the countless pregnancies he has engendered, and so much more.
Bigger than Hitler—Better than Christ
Rik Mayall
Copyright (#ulink_ce827a87-cb95-548c-b6db-a0b341246bc1)
The Publisher wishes to point out that due to ‘contractual obligations’, the author has exerted his right to insist that the text of Bigger Than Hitler Better Than Christ be reproduced ‘exactly like what has come off my typewriter, right?’
In addition, the Publisher has been prohibited from proof-reading or otherwise editing the author’s text, and as such all mistakes and infelicities are entirely those of The Rik Mayall.
HarperNon-Fiction
A division of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd.
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London SE1 9GF
www.harpercollins.co.uk (http://harpercollins.co.uk/)
Published by HarperCollinsEntertainment 2006
First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsEntertainment 2005
Copyright © Rik Mayall 2005
Rik Mayall asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this ebook on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins ebooks
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Source ISBN: 9780007207282
Ebook Edition © JUNE 2010 ISBN: 9780007375431
Version: 2016-09-15
The Rik Mayall Books (est. 2005)
Give me your hand small ordinary person, and walk with me—for I shall be your guide. You don’t have to worry with me for I shall not give you a quick feel-up or anything like that. For I am nice. And a lot nicer than those other cunts who write books and stuff.
Table of Contents
Cover Page (#ua79cce88-f7f4-56f8-9740-2e131d19c847)
Title Page (#uac474e56-e122-5082-9dff-6aa09423ca66)
Copyright (#ud3633abe-b9d7-5232-90ff-d462f4f8b715)
Excerpt (#u950af56e-5e73-5809-a354-95fe5d370841)
FOREWORD (#uc4d32901-9e2c-5568-a86d-e5aad3b21a56)
INTRODUCTION (#u96a67343-18e5-52e8-8e39-39b81fe5ca7f)
MY GREAT LIFE (#u89707896-3ba5-5ed3-bc2e-4635367f7db8)
SHOWBUSINESS GOLD (#u095cc6ad-160c-59ab-ab09-6a1e5ec67de6)
MANCHESTER (#ue0014889-205e-5db5-bab8-07502e21bc1a)
CONQUERING AMERICA (#ud9cc2047-6f46-5925-96ce-e53430ab245b)
CRACKING THE SMOKE (#uc0329222-cb94-5352-9531-20c99683b4bc)
WHY I WAS NEVER IMPRISONED FOR BEATING ESTHER RANTZEN TO DEATH (#u72508e00-87d9-5116-9935-fe1f16238e6a)
THE YOUNG ONES (#udb7e8234-dd52-5bc9-a6d3-8b37decd35dd)
THE YOUNG ONES (#u87c5df34-c98d-5a69-b43b-7e3c55d6e0c0)
APRIL 16TH 2005: 2.55AM (#uf2fca909-736f-51ee-a79f-0ea7ff6c9e62)
COMEDY MOSH PIT (#ub853adee-5a04-5a57-8921-648286b42af4)
[AMUSING CHAPTER TITLE HERE] (#uad8a796d-9ad5-528c-b37e-51616ce75214)
HOW TO CREATE EDGE CUTTING TELEVISION PROGRAMMES (#uaadcfd1d-8886-50fb-8c9e-6de36b4ef1e9)
ANOTHER BIT OF MY PART IN THE DESTINY OF THE NATION (BRITAIN/BRINGING DOWN THATCH (#ud112b66e-3751-580d-9bb7-4100d8bd961f)
SEX (#u5e0c2cb0-e85c-53ab-b366-64dd42bb3f2f)
DROP DEAD FRED (#u4f466672-8fc9-52ef-b3cf-9623581f5fc0)
MORE GREAT STUFF (#ue66a9ee5-e050-5cbf-a299-2ac2ba082e7c)
HOW I DESTROYED BRITISH TELEVISION (#u39d97f9b-9a52-57c1-a1ff-ea91ffea0b76)
PRE-AWARD-WINNING GUEST CHAPTER WRITTEN BY KEVIN TURVEY (#u132cfbbf-d4d2-55b2-85b6-a0d7b1151c32)
SECRETS I WILL NEVER DIVULGE FROM THE BLOOD-SPATTERED TRENCHES OF THE SHOWBUSINESS FRONT LINE (#u03efaf57-bfc0-583b-a777-09d989abf750)
THE GREAT COVENT GARDEN BLOODBATH (#u0d4f0fbc-b822-508f-9aa9-549c66dd0ee2)
MAVIS WENT TO MOSCOW (#u754c723a-165b-5bcf-98fe-ea5f9963c88c)
GOING DOWN ON THE BILL (#u82baaad1-bc25-5830-9ab7-d12da2d13f70)
ALL MY GREAT SHOWBUSINESS FRIENDS (#uc463e854-2871-5519-8bf2-f6e8aeab7509)
A NATION CLENCHES ITS BUTTOCKS (#u87534f59-7b3d-5acb-938e-4fbb487c4a8c)
BIGGER THAN ADOLF BETTER THAN JESUS (#u5acc7535-2443-5ae2-bdad-3ad10e458cd1)
WHAT DOES A MAN WITH A TWO FOOT COCK HAVE FOR BREAKFAST? WELL, THIS MORNING I HAD A BOILED EGG (#uec91daba-12ab-51c1-aed4-972ba1e70f38)
RIK’S HOT BROTH (#u66a863a0-f117-5592-9fac-9ed90c99f454)
GUEST HOUSE PARADISO (#ua379839f-0a0a-5886-8143-5f4cd3417f6f)
PERU (#u3835dd8b-5b9a-5a50-8473-363fb086f742)
ONLY SURVIVING PAGES FROM THE SECOND GREATEST BOOK EVER WRITTEN (#u9e003397-6272-5968-bc9b-47b378affb61)
THE PINNACLE OF LIGHT ENTERTAINMENT (#ubf6cb31c-dee5-52d3-90b8-a90a1cbbafec)
D-DAY THE MUSICAL (#u4b00953a-9277-5579-b319-f988218cddc0)
MAXIMUM ENTERTAINMENT EXPERIENCE (#u2604263d-b9af-53b8-a133-f996c4cc8551)
QUICK MAYALL (#u2f5f6420-ae54-52e3-9001-ab69c0a4a0eb)
NO SLEEP TILL LLANDUDNO (#u47586645-09d9-5164-8f7c-c68833c081e1)
A-RAQ (#ub8411e69-4853-582e-a849-c569533e2fd4)
EVERYTHING GOOD COMES IN THREES (#ua2c57ff4-305a-589f-8a3e-3122e899f3c3)
By the Same Author (#u3455e4e0-4da0-5961-81c1-cb34df4488ad)
About the Publisher (#u6b713ae0-e226-51a5-a4f7-7f7327f3ca85)
FOREWORD (#ulink_4b95ed26-efe3-5cf8-8771-b984426f69dc)
Good afternoon. You know how like when you’re writing a book, loads of great ideas come to you. Well that’s what’s happening to me. And you know how you’re at the beginning of this book reading this now, well so am I, so it’s like we’re locked together, you and me, you know what I mean. Not like that, obviously, not dirty front bottom style, although we could be if you wanted, especially if you’re a jugged-up kind of bird who’s up for it. In fact, thinking about it, only really if you are a jugged-up bird who’s up for it
. Anyway, the thing is, here we are together, you and me. Except no, we’re not really, are we? Because I’m writing this bit now and it’ll be a different time when you’ll be reading it, won’t it? I mean, you know, think about it, it could be millions of years from now that you’re reading it. I mean my now, not your now. Your now would be right now, wouldn’t it? See, I was right. About both nows. You might even be someone from another planet. Or someone else from that planet. Or someone from a completely different planet. Or both of them. Or something. Or, oh forget all that. (Unless you are someone from another planet, in which case. Hello. Good afternoon to you too.)
So, basically, no one knows when or where you are reading this. So that’s kind of cool isn’t it. You know. Mysterious. I mean, this might be written on a cave wall some time after the next apoca-lyps. I just thought of that. Or somewhere else. Or not even there. But the thing is that none of this really matters so don’t worry about it because it’s not important because what I’m saying is, loads of people have written loads of books but the thing to remember about this book is that it’s better. A lot of books are just a load of old wank so they can fuck off. And if you don’t believe me, you can fuck off too. In fact, if you want a fight, I’m there. I’m pretty good at fighting so you’d better watch out. Better-watch-out-he’s-pretty-good-at-fighting is my middle name. Always has been. No it hasn’t. That’s bollocks. This isn’t working. Let’s start again.
Good afternoon. You know how—oh just forget this fucking page. It’s shit.
INTRODUCTION (#ulink_82ddb8f3-ebbc-5175-9d13-b0804651db28)
In the beginning was the word, and the word was Rik Mayall. Do you see what I did there? That’s the kind of guy I am. Unconventionable. And don’t say that I’m not because I am. And my career as a showbusiness legend spans decades and all of them (the decades that is) are choc full of successful movies, theatre events in the West End (and other places), cutting edge comedy television formats, number one hit records, funny and challenging chat show nonappearances and, most importantly, a string of highly inventive and genre-bursting (make that exploding and with some serious megatonnage as well) commercial television and radio product endorsements. People do not, and I repeat not, shout “fat unfunny has-been” at me in the streets. That has never happened—read my lips—ever. A lot.
Now, you know me, I’m a nice guy. You can ask anyone. So that’s proof. Anyway, I want to tell you what happened to me the other day. Things happen to me all the time. That’s what it’s like if you’re big famous. And I’ve always been down with my ordinaries
. Did you see that footnote? I wrote that. Anyway, when I say “down” with my ordinaries, I’m not saying, down with them as in “down with Thatcher”
, I mean down as in that expression “down with the kids” meaning happening and cool and groovy not, you know, like, you know, anything else. So, I like to think that I’m down with the kids [maybe change this]. What I’m trying to say is that I like children. Oh fuck, look just erase all this, forget about it. What I’m really trying to say is that I like you a lot and I’m down with you—actually, I need to stop saying “down with”. I’m “in with” you—oh God that sounds as though I want to get your stuff all over my fingers. Look, just go to the next paragraph. I didn’t mean it and it’s all shit.
What I’m really definitely trying to say here and now is that I AM THE RIK MAYALL. Good. That’s sorted. Moving on. We’re really getting somewhere now.
Picture the scene. Maybe it’s a Tuesday afternoon—fuck it, it is—this is my book. This happened, right. It’s last Tuesday. I’m in a crowded pub, having the third of three halves—I’m quite a big drinker
—when bang! It hit me straight between the eyes! I say it, it was more of a he—a big hard bloke with tattoos—you know the type. What had happened was that I had accidentally stumbled penis first against the arse cheeks of his girlfriend as I hurried to the Gents toilets to not take drugs. At first, I thought it might be one of those sudden unscheduled violence workshops that my great showbusiness mates
often spring on me which look to all the world like they’re beating the shit out of me but which are, in fact, all part of the acters’ craft. Anyway, it wasn’t. So forget about that. So, back to last Tuesday, and the next thing I know is I’m carrying out an emergency landing on the pavement outside the pub which is when a small pale man in a red overcoat came up to me.
“You’re Rik Mayall, aren’t you?” he said to me.
“I am he,” said I
.
“Rik Mayall! No, no, I can’t believe it! You are The Rik Mayall! You must be some kind of God, The Rik! The son of God or something! You have changed my life! When I saw first saw you in “Boom! Boom! Out Go The Lights” on the television in the early eighties, I laughed so much I coughed up half a lung and had to be taken to hospital. And after I watched you on Top of Pops with Cliff Richard, I was pissing blood for a week. To this day, my girlfriend and I like to tape the Andrex commercials and do sex to the sound of your voice as you bring the Andrex puppy to life with your challenging portrayal. It’s the only thing that’s kept our relationship together. Are you a God, Rik Mayall? You must be. You are like a shining beacon in the darkness of British light entertainment. And now I see you as just a mass of blood and teeth. You must be having another one of your many Rik Mayall show-business accidents.”
That. Was the moment. Suddenly there was a thundercrack. I looked up and the clouds parted. I found myself in a blinding shaft of golden light. I’m not joking. This happened. There I was standing in the lesser known alleyways of London’s Soho as if chosen, locked in a vast sunbeam of divine glory. It suddenly became clear to me. I was in the middle of having an epiphany. It was a sign from above. It was my divine destiny calling to me. It was everyone’s divine destiny. For I realised that what the people of this great land needed—this good ship Albion as I like to call it (although it’s not strictly a ship, it’s more of an island really) was a book. By me. It would provide a sauce of happiness and solace to my ordinaries (who I love) as they have to face up to living with all the shit they put on the television nowadays. (Have you seen it? It’s complete bollocks isn’t it.
) It would be like a gift to all my fans. Well not strictly a gift as they’d have to pay for it but you get the general idea. What’s a few quid when there’s people starving in the world? You haven’t got an answer for that, have you?
“I’m going to write a book,” I said out loud.
“Wha-wha-wha-wha-what?” (He was stammering, that’s not a typo. It’s actually rather good writing. I don’t know why he was stammering. Perhaps he was masturbating while looking at me. It happens.) Wha-wha-wha-wha-what?” He repeated. “The Good Book?”
“No, The Great Book.”
On hearing my plan, the man in the red overcoat—you know, the one I was talking to a minute ago outside the pub—his bowels spontaneously evacuated and he dropped to his knees, trembling.
“Oh God in heaven help me,” he intoned [or something that means speak only kind of grander].
“Yes, you heard right Roger [check name]. Pretty soon there are going to be only two types of people in this world: those who have read my book and those who haven’t. The line is drawn in the sand and you’ve got to decide which side you’re on.”
“Crikey Rik Mayall, you’re so right there like you always are and I respect you for it.”
“I know, thanks.”
So, as you stand there with this book in your hands (maybe you’re at home in your “front room” or whatever ordinary people call their living areas—or maybe you’re in that Godawful shit hole for the friendless, with the coffee and the easy chairs—what’s it called? – Waterstones, that’s it) you can think to yourself that you are part of this call to destiny and you can see that this is a whole new front that I’ve opened up here on my war on showbusiness. And I bet you anything you like that this will be every bit as successful as all the other great stuff that I’ve done over the years. And if you don’t believe me then I’ve got just one word to say to you: fuck off. (I did it again then, did you get that? What you’ve got to realise here is that you’re stuck slap bang in the middle of a firestorm of red hot literary cluster missiles of explosive word play and punctuation.
Hold on…) There you go.
As my old Gran used to say—actually I don’t want to get into that now, it’s too sordid. Just forget it.
Anyway, what I want you to know is that whatever else happens in the next few hours or days or weeks or however long it’s going to take you to read this book, I’m going to be honest and true to you my viewers. Notice I said viewers there and not viewer because I know what’s going to happen. This is going to be massive. We’re talking daytime television here. I’m going to rip apart the very fabric of popular culture and put it back together again in my own image. This is a whole new world order and this one is screaming in your face to get your kit off, and go for it. I worship at the church of excess (and I don’t mean like those Australians, In Excess – I don’t remember them biting the head off a whippet). So you’d better watch it. I’m a swear-word-using hell-raising bare-bottomed anarchist at the gates of dawn and I can say what the fucking hell I like and if you want some failed celebrity’s wank book, you can stick it up your arse
because this eagle has landed. When I come for you, you’d better be ready, you’d better grab hold of something, put your head between your knees and jam a cork up your arse because when you read what I’ve got to say, you’re going to shit your kidneys. And if you don’t like it then get out of the way. This is the new bible, motherfucker
, and it’s me at the controls and I’m coming straight at you—in your face, down your throat and out your trousers. I live on the edge. I’m out there in Edge City—right on the very edge of Edge City, teetering over a byss.
Now this baby’s written, just remember that it’s always out there. Everything is always out there. You must never forget that. Everything is out there doing everything to everyone. Sometimes for everyone, sometimes not. Who’s to know? I’m not everyone. Nor everything. No thing is everything and no one is everyone. But I’m more than most. A lot more than most. No, a lot more than everybody. I have a theory. But that’s a secret. Oh sod this, it’s late now I’m going to bed.
Harper Collins, Esq.
77-85 Fulham Palace Road
London W6
August 5, 2004
Dear Harper (if I may call you Harper—I mean apart from last night I’ve never met you before but I think we have a deeper understanding now—and if I can’t call you Harper then you’d better stop reading now because believe me, I’m going to call you Harper for the rest of the letter and if each time you look at Harper and see that I haven’t put Mr Collins and then get offended, well you’re just going to have to pack it in Harper and stop being so pathetic).
All I’m trying to get the chance to say is, thank you very much for last night. The food was absolutely delicious and please accept my apologies for the wallet incident. You must admit that the leather trim on yours is very similar to the one on mine even though it is a different colour. Apologies also for calling you a spod-faced fuck-hole, I think maybe one of the waiters might have spiked my drink. It happens sometimes—there are people everywhere trying to mess with my head. Anyway, it’s all in the past now and we’re both man enough I’m sure to rise above it and move on. But don’t get me wrong, I’m not coming onto you or anything Harper, I’m not that kind of guy as I’m sure you’re not—or indeed Mrs Collins for Christ’s sake. I mean look at her. I have. I mean, I would. That’s a compliment. Oh fuck, don’t read that last bit you’ve just read. Oh, you know what I mean. Christ, writing letters is a bitch isn’t it? I’m just saying that I’m not calling you a whoopsie, all right? Not that I would have a problem if you did drop from the other bomb bay, so to speak—I’m an all-inclusive kind of guy and I’m everybody’s friend. In life, I don’t really have any enemies. None at all. Well, apart from some other professional live “performers”. Well, quite a lot really. But let’s not think about them. Cunts. I just ignore them. Apart from them, I have no enemies—least of all anyone in the minorities. That’s something that I think Tony B has taught us all. Tony and I are such good friends—I don’t think I need to say anymore—walls have eyes or whatever it is they have. Wallpaper or something, I don’t know. How should I know? Ask a fucking builder.
Anyway, I digress. What I really want to say to you, Harper, is that I’m well fucking happy that you have agreed to publish my book. I knew that once you’d met my agent Heimi you would know in your soul what the best decision would be. I know he has a peculiar manner, especially when he mentions your family and the leaking gas main, but that’s just his way. And don’t worry, the “Mad Dog” in Heimi Mad Dog Fingelstein isn’t a nickname or anything. Heimi Mad Dog Fingelstein is his actual name. And having said that, it is true about his close relationship with the current Chief Inspector, so he would walk away if anything came to court. It’s all food for thought.
The thing is, things only happen when they’re happening, so let’s happen them Harpo, and seeing as things ended on a sour note last night, I thought I’d set our balls rolling (that’s a media expression) on some hot ideas for my book. First off, I’ll need a researcher. This is important. I’ve had a massive career—even though I’m only in my late thirties (and firing on all cylinders in the trouser department before you start)—and there are so many pinnacles in light entertainment that I have conquered, that when I try to remember them all, I see a vast mountain range. Like the Alps. Or maybe the Himalayers. Whichever are bigger. Something like that. You know what I mean. I am an equal opportunities employer as well, so be cool, but she will need to be quite young and fit and I will need to conduct auditions. I’m sure you must have sorted yourself a bit of top bird to work in your office—well if she’s got any mates or sisters then perhaps they could apply for the job. It’s also important that applicants don’t scare easily as I can form violent sexual friendships when I’m deep in the cut and thrust of creative thought. I must say, I’m really looking forward to blouse-storming (just another media expression Harper, drop the Valium and keep up) with my researchers so it might be a good idea to hire a hotel room for us to work in, preferably without windows or curtains that function. I will supply a rider (this is a show business term for a list of stuff like drugs and gin/sherry which stars have to have in their dressing rooms) (not that I ever take illegal drugs) with all my requirements on it like lubricants (creative ones) and juice (this means alcohol) and drugs (legality is irrelevant because I don’t ever take any, so get loads). Although actually you’d better definitely slip in some illegal ones, you never know what chicks are going to pop. Or where. Or sometimes how. The fuck. Did. She. Do. That? Eh? Sort of thing. You see, Herpe, it’s important to have everything you need when you’re bouncing ideas around (another media biggie Herpes—this letter is shaping up into being a bit of a Krakatoa of happening media and marketing buzz expressions isn’t it, me old arse-wrench?). In case you’re wondering, buzz expression is a buzz expression in its own right.
Oh yeah, listen up Herpar this is important—you know how last night you mentioned something about someone or other editing my book? Well, I want to say right now and I’m doing it right now and what I’m saying is this—no I’m not, I’m commanding it (in a close up), NO ONE FUCKS WITH MY WORDS. Read it again, you lefty twat, NO ONE FUCKS WITH MY WORDS. Because if I read through my book and find that someone’s been messing about with my oeuvre, I’ll be straight round to your little office with some of my associates to rip your head off and shit in the hole. And I won’t wipe my bottom. Is that clear? You’ve been warned. I’m pretty sure it was the great Graeme Green himself who said, “don’t fuck with my words, man,” and I’m down with that. (Down means down which means – oh just look it up). And another thing, Harps, and this is a biggie. A really important big biggie, so take all your clothes off and kneel down in front of me, sweating and paying attention. Right? I have got in my possession a fabulous mesmerising archive of correspondence that has been gathering and breeding and swarming around me like napalm throughout my raging blood-drenched Hiroshima of a professional north AND south career. See that! Did you see that? That’s creative writing that is. And that’s what I’m going to put in my book. Everything I’ve ever written and ever done in my life is creative and it’s all going in, man. Notes, poems, journals, letters, great letters too. That’s what they are. Great ones. And if you don’t think they are then you’re a cunt. Point proved. Anyway, I just want you to know that I’m very very very very committed to righting enough words. Who knows, I might even put this letter in. No one likes a little one.
As far as publicity for the book is concerned, this is really where I’ll come into my own (that’s not a media expression although I did once see someone do this in Bangkok—not that I’ve ever been there). I am very well known by all the global media networks—they follow my every move—I only have to crack one off and it’s in the papers. I’m talking metaphorically, I have never—repeat never—been caught masturbating.
So, I think that just about raps things up. I’m sure Heimi will be in touch soon to tie up all the loose ends contract-wise.
Big up Harpo, respec (that’s “street” slang),
Rik Mayall, The.
P.S. Don’t fuck any of this up Harper—you’re dealing with frightening people here.
P.P.S. Love to the wife.
P.P.P.S. Did it heal up for her?
DIARY EXERT
March 7th 1966
A prare to God.
Dear R. Father, what are in heaven, hello be they name. How are you today? My name is Richard Mayall. And that’s not a lie. Firstly, many thanks for choosing me above all other people. I want to make sure that thine choice is the right one oh Lord. And it is so thou knowest that already. I want thou to know that I have never doubted you, ever ever. I wanted to ask you a question which I thought I would write in my diary so thou could read it as well. We could read it together—thou and me—as I write it. I am going to start a new paragraph now Lord because I want this question to be important.
There. You see, Lord, what it is is that often in the middle of the night I find myself thinking about the angels and the heavenly host—and hostess—and I was wondering, Lord, if thou could clear something up for I. You know how like in the pictures of angels that you see in books, all the lady angels always wear sort of short white shirt kind of things, well if I were to be surrounded by angels, both man and lady angels, and they are all flying around above me up in the air over my head, and if I looked up in the air and saw these angels flying above me and thought to myself “Oh look, there are some selestial bodies. I’m so glad that God has chosen me to be his special one.” Well, what would happen if at that very moment I looked up and there was a lady angel just above me and I accidentally saw her girl’s pants? Would I go to hell? And if I did, would I have to fall all the way down from the sky to the middle of the earth and hurt myself? And will there be hospitals in hell for me? I’ve been worrying about this a lot, dear Thou. If you could clear this up for me as soon as possible, I would be eternally greatful.
I hope thou ist keeping well.
Best wishes,
Richard Mayall.
Mr Clutterbuck Masters Common Room King’s School Worcester
August 20 1969
Dear Sir,
I know you said I should not write to you again because you might have to tell the Headmaster but I felt I should tell you that I now know who let off the fire alarm during break last Thursday. It was not me, it was Lancaster, which proves that he is not handicapped because he would have had to stand up out of his wheelchair to do it. I also saw him doing the hundred yards sprinting practice last week as well so he is a bloody liar. Sorry to swear Sir, but it makes me so cross when other pupils break school rules. If you like, I can help you lift him out of his wheelchair so that you can beat him. One day he will thank us all for this.
You are very good at beating, Mr Clutterbuck. You have a very good slipper action and it certainly hurts a lot. You are much better than Mr Cunley, who said he was going to beat me the week before last for cribbing and then he put his hand down the back of my trousers. I am sure this is against the law but I do not like to tell tails. He smells of LSD and he doesn’t cut his hair very much so I think he must be a hippy. I will say no more.
I hope you have a very nice holiday in Benidorm with Mrs Clutterbuck.
Best wishes,
Richard Mayall.
MY GREAT LIFE (#ulink_b56ac0e8-b464-57ce-8046-8b1b8c9c36bf)
“Fucking hell, look at the size of his cock!” said the mid-wife who delivered me. “It looks like he’s got three legs. Perhaps he should be called The Tripod.” This is true. She really said this. But I was called Richard instead and the rest is history.
I went to school at the local primary school, right? That’s where I went to school. I didn’t have to pay anyone, I just got in. No questions, no bodies. I was in. The infants. I don’t want to talk too much about it because it was like sucking shit through a shoot. But I tell you what. And I’ll tell it you now. It was a Tuesday night, 17
December 1968. Choir concert. Got that? Me too. All the infants were there. All the parents were there. This is true, this. My fucking class teacher, Mrs “please kick me in the face violently” Andrews lined up all the tables against the wall and told us all to stand on them facing the audience.
“Call that a stage?” I thought, “I’d rather slam my bollocks in the fridge door.” But I got on the stage and I was right, it was a shit stage. And that bitch Andrews stuck me right up at the left hand side of it, right at the edge and at the back. I was practically off stage (which means not on stage). And I’m never off stage. I’m always on. I’m on now, look. And guess what. No but really, guess what. No don’t actually, I’ll tell you. I’m doing it right now or I will after I’ve done this sentence. And I’m getting there now. Right here we are, I’m there. Told you I would be. So shit off if you don’t believe me. Right what was I going to say? Bollocks. Oh I know, shut up and listen. New paragraph—this is good.
Mrs Andrews said to me—and get this because this is true—“Now Richard, pay attention and stop doing that to Penelope. I have something important to say to you. The success of the whole of this evening’s concert depends on it. So pay attention, it’s very very important. Now Richard, I don’t want you to sing this evening. Not at all. Not one note. I want all of the other children to sing but not you. Because you’ve got a horrible voice. So what I want you to do is just move your mouth as if you’re singing but not actually sing. If you sing, you’ll spoil the whole evening’s entertainment. Have you got that?” she said rather too emphatically an inch from my face. What do you think of that? Me too. I wasn’t going to take that. Me neither. Or me. She was dealing with Rik Mayall (i.e.
me). That’s what she didn’t know. She used to call me Richard. Bitch. I wasn’t going to take that lying down. “Right, Richard,” I said to myself. “What are we going to do? I’ll tell you what we’re going to do. We’re going to steal the show. Let’s do it. (Like a firestorm, obviously.)” So, what I did was just that. Fantastically too. I pulled faces at the audience while I was mouthing the wrong words to Away in a Manger, made extremely vulgar gesticulations and upstaged the entire cast (there were about thirty opponents up there, don’t forget. This was thirty to one.) I transformed the whole evening into a breakthruough comedy entertainment format. You should have heard them laugh when Annette Jennings’ knickers and tights suddenly came shooting down her legs, tangling up her shoes and she fell into the front row. It was all going on. Hilarity prevailed. Quite a few people had a good time until suddenly, the Headmaster grabbed me by the ear, pulled me off the stage onto the floor of the auditorium (form 3B) and marched me to the corner of the room and made me stand face to the wall in FULL FUCKING VIEW OF MY AUDIENCE thinking it would humiliate me. Like fuck. That’s when it all kicked off big style. So the Headmaster ordered me out of the hall. And that’s when I threw my first really good tantrum. I bit Mrs Andrews in the face, ran a mock with my matches in the cloakroom causing over eight thousands pounds worth of damage, flooded the girls’ toilets, and shat in the gym master’s holdall
. As a seven year old, you can only take so much.
The thing is, I was very misunderstood at school. Quite often, when the other children were playing kiss chase in the playground, I was tied up in the toilets with my pants stuffed into my mouth. Even the teachers used to spit on me as they passed me in the play ground.
I’m putting all this in the book, viewer, because I want to show you what a hard life I’ve had and how I rose above it. It’s really very Jesusy when you think about it. I remember as though it was yesterday when the Headmaster was beating me in his study one day and I looked up at him and said, “Judge not lest ye be judged you fat motherfucker.” He just went on beating me. His house burnt down shortly afterwards. I had nothing to do with this.
Picture the scene: Spring 1967. Got it? Everyone else was on the Isle of White watching Jimmy Hendrix burning his guitar but I was at school. They had decided to change the state school system so that no one would be equal anymore. The rich would go to one sort of school and the poor would be put in holding pens before they were taken off to factories. It was different in those days. We had factories and people went there and made things. They were called jobs. You don’t have them now. There was still a Labour Party in those days. Nowadays there are just slaves on the other side of the world that make stuff for us. Unless we bring them over here to do it. Then we call them immigrants and pay them fuck all and make them live in the old holding pens that the white working class used to have. Until they’re fucked up and knackered and useless and then we send them home again. Or to somewhere in Croatia where they’re made into dog food.
Now, it’s worth knowing, viewer, that the old education system was governed by an exam called the Eleven Plus. This was an exam which separated the creepy frightened kids that behaved themselves at school and managed to learn something from the stupid kids who didn’t give a shit and were happy. You took it when you were eleven and, rich or poor, you were divided into two groups and “educated” in one of two separate schools depending on your ability. But the rich who were in control of the state at the time decided that they were going to destroy this system and replace it with two different kinds of schools—good well-equipped schools for the children of the wealthy, and sad empty blank voids for the children of the poor. So, I was in the shit. Big time. Lots and lots of shit. You had to be eleven to take the Eleven Plus, you see. It was the last year they were doing it before they scrapped it forever and I was only nine! Plus my mum and dad weren’t rich so I had no chance of an education. Fucky-fuck-fuck, shitty pants and deary me, I’m bollocksed, I thought. EXCEPT, my mum and dad just happened to be teachers
, so they prepped me up for the Eleven Plus exam and I got into an expensive school full of posh kids called the King’s School Worcester—when I was nine! How’s about that for cool? And that’s where I taught people how to drink and lose their virginity and be happy because I was a nice bloke and they were all wankers. I’ve always been like that, I’ve always offered a helping hand to others on life’s, you know, whatever. I was the youngest in the school but almost straight away I fell in with the hard guys like Simon Rex and that other one with the ginger hair, you know, that psycho who liked to do that thing with cats and a screwdriver. He’s dead now, thank fuck.
So nobody knew anything about anything. No one found the bodies. There were no traces and I passed the Eleven Plus! I did it. All on my own. Yes I did. Prove it if you can then. Get this, I was the youngest kid in England to ever pass the Eleven Plus. And I still am. Didn’t put that in the credits for Filthy, Rich and Catflap did they? BBC fuckholes. I’d got into a big posh school. But it was the very last year they were allowing kids like me to sit the Eleven Plus. After this, ordinary kids weren’t allowed to have well-equipped schools and teachers that could teach. But then. Now wait for this. You’ll like this, this is nasty. Just when everything was great, suddenly there’s this other kid at King’s called Gretisson who grassed (this is cool prison slang for told on) on me to Mr Cunley. The little shit (ugly too. And probably still is. I hope so.) gave him a list of all the boys who he thought were smoking and Cunley went through our desks at lunchtime and found our cigarettes. It was either six of the best or a one pound fine.
“How about this?” I said to him, “what about a ten shilling fine and three of the best? Do you play that kind of game?”
“Hold on a minute, Mayall. Did you say what I thought you just said?”
“Believe it if you need to, Mr Teacher Man,” I intoned moodily. Or was it huskily? It was a long time ago. I can’t remember
. “How do you want this baby to come down?”
His face fell. He held both of his hands up defensively, backing away. “Whoah…Hold on there Mayall,” he croaked (no he didn’t really, he died a long time later. I had nothing to do with that either.) “Listen, I’m way out of my league here or whatever it is that they say in films. I’m not used to dealing with guys like you. I’m scared, man.”
I leant forward, took my ten Number Six back out of his top pocket along with the five pounds that he had fined the other guys in my posse.
“Shall we just say this never happened?”
“Thanks.”
“Not a problem, friend,” I said and patted him encouragingly on his shoulder. Then I turned on my heel.
“Ow fuck,” I said, “why do I keep doing that to my heel?” And I breezed, well, hobbled, looking cool, out of the room. Closing the door. After I’d left, obviously. Never works the other way round. I’ve been in that situation before. Told you it was nasty.
I swore a lifelong debt of hatred to Gretisson for that. And as for Cunley, I still have sharp stabbing memories of him when I run up the stairs quickly. Enough said.
I fucked up my “O” Levels not because I was stupid and naughty but because I was a wide-eyed anarchist at the gates of dawn even then and the world was against me, especially the teachers and the examination board because they had heard of me and they were jealous. I was like the Outsider and I don’t mean like the one in that shit book by Albert what’s-his-face. The only “O” Level that I did get was in English—it was a breakthruogh cutting edge grade six. And that was a pass, not like they say. That’s right, a pass. And that’s a fact, viewer. Rik Mayall got an “O” Level. In English. Go back and read that last sentence again—and read it out loud. Go on. Although what you do is your own business. That’s the thing about life. People. They’re all over the place. It’s exciting—and dull. And you don’t even have to do what I say if you don’t want to because I’m Rik Mayall, so don’t worry about it or even think about it. It’s as though you haven’t read the last paragraph which if you haven’t, well then, that’s fine. See if I care. Which I do and I don’t. See? That’s the beauty of my enigmas.
Headmaster’s Wife
Headmaster’s Office
King’s School
Worcester
April 14 1972
Dear Headmaster’s Wife,
I think I might be in love with you. I have seen you looking at me and I think you would probably like to do some fucking with me. Please do not tell your husband because he is a real old bloody bastard and I bet he cannot get erections like I can. I bet he needs that stallion cream like they sell in nude magazines. We could make love to each other on his bed. I want to do this to you because I am Gretisson, the nasty one with the curly hair. Please do not tell your husband because I will be expelled. My parents vote Labour as well. Please come round to my study and masturbate me whilst I read my magazines with naked women in them. You can even see my balls if you like and smoke some of my drugs which will make you high like a hippy at Woodstock and you can take all your clothes off and wear flared trousers and show off your midriff and not wear a bra. And you can call me Man and we can masturbate together to the Beatles (but not their disappointing phase) and wear those ridiculous blue glasses like John Lenin wears and sit around and talk about the sky and the trees. We could go and watch Bob Dillon singing out of tune and complain about the Vietman war together and read Oz Magazine and fight the power. I am Gretisson and I want to do it with you all night long.
Best wishes,
Gretisson.
Mr Priddy
Masters’ Common Room
King’s School
Worcester
April 15th 1972
Dear Mr Priddy,
You are a complete spasmo. That’s what I think. And if you give me yet another straight “A” in class for one of my appalling essays which I crib anyway, I will creep into your bedroom in the middle of the night with a knife between my teeth like in that film that was on the TV a couple of weeks ago and I will kill you in your sleep. Yes I will. This is not a joke. This is for real. I know where you live. Just off the parade—the one with the shit orange curtains. So just watch out. Please don’t tell the headmaster that I have sent you this death threat because I will be expelled.
Best wishes,
Spencer (the one with the speech impediment and the girl’s haircut who’s always blaming Mayall when he gets pushed down the stairs).
DAIRY EXERPT
January 14th 1970
I think I did a bit of a fib today Lord because I felt obliged to tell Mr Townsend that Gretisson had some what are called “gentleman’s publications” if I can use such disgusting words in front of you dear Lord. Sure enough, when Mr Townsend went to Gretisson’s locker he found some. And thankfully, Gretisson has been suspended for this outrage. Of course this action means that I will now have a much better chance of getting the part of Othello in the school play. So if I might ask for forgiveness from you dear Lord for any advantage I may have got by telling Mr Townsend this but, in its own way, it was a selfless act Lord meaning that the part of Othello will be performed so much better by me and bring more joy to the audience which is my motorvation. All I care for is my fellow humans on yours and my planet. That is why I stitched Gretisson up and used my superior intelligence to take care of matters. He will thank me in later life. Thou and I both know that oh Lord. It is good that I know how equal everybody is aren’t I. If only the people in the government were not more like me. I have got nothing against Harold Wilson, I mean I know he doesn’t comb his hair very well and his pipe smoking is a bit common but he does his best. Maybe one day I could be Prime Minister. It is up to you dear Lord.
Thank you for making me milk monitor this term. As you probably already know, this is a very important position which I am going to take very seriously and I told everyone in the class that we should not drink all the milk and save it up and send it to the people who are starving in poor countries. But Redfern got some other boys together and they punched and kicked me after double maths. I knew that this was a test oh Lord and I took the test and I didn’t cry and I remembered all of their names when I reported them to the Headmaster. I had almost all of them beaten and three of them were put in detention. A job well done. I have got three boys expelled and two boys, including Gretisson, suspended since the start of term. I trust I am doing what is required of I.
I hope you are keeping well.
Fondest wishes,
Richard Mayall.
Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.
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Rik Mayall
In this electrifying autobiography, Rik stands naked in front of his vast legions of fans and disciples and invites them to take communion with the blood he has spilled for them during his thirty year war on show business.He invented alternative comedy with The Young Ones, he brought down the Thatcher administration with The New Statesman and he changed the face of global culture with his masterpiece Bottom. Not only was his number one single Living Doll the saviour of rock 'n' roll but he also rescued the British film industry with the vast revenues created by his legendary movie Drop Dead Fred. In 1998, he survived an assassination attempt and spent five days in a coma before he literally came back from the dead. Having completed countless phenomenal feature films, TV series, live extravaganzas and radio voice-overs since then, Rik Mayall is now poised on the brink of a whole new epoch-shattering revolution.For the first time ever, Rik reveals in print the deep inner truth behind his gargantuan ascent to the pinnacle of international light entertainment – the mental hospitals he has broken out of, the television executives he has assaulted, the drugs he has definitely not taken, the charities he has bankrupted, the countless pregnancies he has engendered, and so much more.
Bigger than Hitler—Better than Christ
Rik Mayall
Copyright (#ulink_ce827a87-cb95-548c-b6db-a0b341246bc1)
The Publisher wishes to point out that due to ‘contractual obligations’, the author has exerted his right to insist that the text of Bigger Than Hitler Better Than Christ be reproduced ‘exactly like what has come off my typewriter, right?’
In addition, the Publisher has been prohibited from proof-reading or otherwise editing the author’s text, and as such all mistakes and infelicities are entirely those of The Rik Mayall.
HarperNon-Fiction
A division of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd.
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF
www.harpercollins.co.uk (http://harpercollins.co.uk/)
Published by HarperCollinsEntertainment 2006
First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsEntertainment 2005
Copyright © Rik Mayall 2005
Rik Mayall asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this ebook on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins ebooks
HarperCollinsPublishers has made every reasonable effor to ensure that any picture content or written content has been included or removed in accordance with the contractual and technological constraints in operation at the time of publication
Source ISBN: 9780007207282
Ebook Edition © JUNE 2010 ISBN: 9780007375431
Version: 2016-09-15
The Rik Mayall Books (est. 2005)
Give me your hand small ordinary person, and walk with me—for I shall be your guide. You don’t have to worry with me for I shall not give you a quick feel-up or anything like that. For I am nice. And a lot nicer than those other cunts who write books and stuff.
Table of Contents
Cover Page (#ua79cce88-f7f4-56f8-9740-2e131d19c847)
Title Page (#uac474e56-e122-5082-9dff-6aa09423ca66)
Copyright (#ud3633abe-b9d7-5232-90ff-d462f4f8b715)
Excerpt (#u950af56e-5e73-5809-a354-95fe5d370841)
FOREWORD (#uc4d32901-9e2c-5568-a86d-e5aad3b21a56)
INTRODUCTION (#u96a67343-18e5-52e8-8e39-39b81fe5ca7f)
MY GREAT LIFE (#u89707896-3ba5-5ed3-bc2e-4635367f7db8)
SHOWBUSINESS GOLD (#u095cc6ad-160c-59ab-ab09-6a1e5ec67de6)
MANCHESTER (#ue0014889-205e-5db5-bab8-07502e21bc1a)
CONQUERING AMERICA (#ud9cc2047-6f46-5925-96ce-e53430ab245b)
CRACKING THE SMOKE (#uc0329222-cb94-5352-9531-20c99683b4bc)
WHY I WAS NEVER IMPRISONED FOR BEATING ESTHER RANTZEN TO DEATH (#u72508e00-87d9-5116-9935-fe1f16238e6a)
THE YOUNG ONES (#udb7e8234-dd52-5bc9-a6d3-8b37decd35dd)
THE YOUNG ONES (#u87c5df34-c98d-5a69-b43b-7e3c55d6e0c0)
APRIL 16TH 2005: 2.55AM (#uf2fca909-736f-51ee-a79f-0ea7ff6c9e62)
COMEDY MOSH PIT (#ub853adee-5a04-5a57-8921-648286b42af4)
[AMUSING CHAPTER TITLE HERE] (#uad8a796d-9ad5-528c-b37e-51616ce75214)
HOW TO CREATE EDGE CUTTING TELEVISION PROGRAMMES (#uaadcfd1d-8886-50fb-8c9e-6de36b4ef1e9)
ANOTHER BIT OF MY PART IN THE DESTINY OF THE NATION (BRITAIN/BRINGING DOWN THATCH (#ud112b66e-3751-580d-9bb7-4100d8bd961f)
SEX (#u5e0c2cb0-e85c-53ab-b366-64dd42bb3f2f)
DROP DEAD FRED (#u4f466672-8fc9-52ef-b3cf-9623581f5fc0)
MORE GREAT STUFF (#ue66a9ee5-e050-5cbf-a299-2ac2ba082e7c)
HOW I DESTROYED BRITISH TELEVISION (#u39d97f9b-9a52-57c1-a1ff-ea91ffea0b76)
PRE-AWARD-WINNING GUEST CHAPTER WRITTEN BY KEVIN TURVEY (#u132cfbbf-d4d2-55b2-85b6-a0d7b1151c32)
SECRETS I WILL NEVER DIVULGE FROM THE BLOOD-SPATTERED TRENCHES OF THE SHOWBUSINESS FRONT LINE (#u03efaf57-bfc0-583b-a777-09d989abf750)
THE GREAT COVENT GARDEN BLOODBATH (#u0d4f0fbc-b822-508f-9aa9-549c66dd0ee2)
MAVIS WENT TO MOSCOW (#u754c723a-165b-5bcf-98fe-ea5f9963c88c)
GOING DOWN ON THE BILL (#u82baaad1-bc25-5830-9ab7-d12da2d13f70)
ALL MY GREAT SHOWBUSINESS FRIENDS (#uc463e854-2871-5519-8bf2-f6e8aeab7509)
A NATION CLENCHES ITS BUTTOCKS (#u87534f59-7b3d-5acb-938e-4fbb487c4a8c)
BIGGER THAN ADOLF BETTER THAN JESUS (#u5acc7535-2443-5ae2-bdad-3ad10e458cd1)
WHAT DOES A MAN WITH A TWO FOOT COCK HAVE FOR BREAKFAST? WELL, THIS MORNING I HAD A BOILED EGG (#uec91daba-12ab-51c1-aed4-972ba1e70f38)
RIK’S HOT BROTH (#u66a863a0-f117-5592-9fac-9ed90c99f454)
GUEST HOUSE PARADISO (#ua379839f-0a0a-5886-8143-5f4cd3417f6f)
PERU (#u3835dd8b-5b9a-5a50-8473-363fb086f742)
ONLY SURVIVING PAGES FROM THE SECOND GREATEST BOOK EVER WRITTEN (#u9e003397-6272-5968-bc9b-47b378affb61)
THE PINNACLE OF LIGHT ENTERTAINMENT (#ubf6cb31c-dee5-52d3-90b8-a90a1cbbafec)
D-DAY THE MUSICAL (#u4b00953a-9277-5579-b319-f988218cddc0)
MAXIMUM ENTERTAINMENT EXPERIENCE (#u2604263d-b9af-53b8-a133-f996c4cc8551)
QUICK MAYALL (#u2f5f6420-ae54-52e3-9001-ab69c0a4a0eb)
NO SLEEP TILL LLANDUDNO (#u47586645-09d9-5164-8f7c-c68833c081e1)
A-RAQ (#ub8411e69-4853-582e-a849-c569533e2fd4)
EVERYTHING GOOD COMES IN THREES (#ua2c57ff4-305a-589f-8a3e-3122e899f3c3)
By the Same Author (#u3455e4e0-4da0-5961-81c1-cb34df4488ad)
About the Publisher (#u6b713ae0-e226-51a5-a4f7-7f7327f3ca85)
FOREWORD (#ulink_4b95ed26-efe3-5cf8-8771-b984426f69dc)
Good afternoon. You know how like when you’re writing a book, loads of great ideas come to you. Well that’s what’s happening to me. And you know how you’re at the beginning of this book reading this now, well so am I, so it’s like we’re locked together, you and me, you know what I mean. Not like that, obviously, not dirty front bottom style, although we could be if you wanted, especially if you’re a jugged-up kind of bird who’s up for it. In fact, thinking about it, only really if you are a jugged-up bird who’s up for it
. Anyway, the thing is, here we are together, you and me. Except no, we’re not really, are we? Because I’m writing this bit now and it’ll be a different time when you’ll be reading it, won’t it? I mean, you know, think about it, it could be millions of years from now that you’re reading it. I mean my now, not your now. Your now would be right now, wouldn’t it? See, I was right. About both nows. You might even be someone from another planet. Or someone else from that planet. Or someone from a completely different planet. Or both of them. Or something. Or, oh forget all that. (Unless you are someone from another planet, in which case. Hello. Good afternoon to you too.)
So, basically, no one knows when or where you are reading this. So that’s kind of cool isn’t it. You know. Mysterious. I mean, this might be written on a cave wall some time after the next apoca-lyps. I just thought of that. Or somewhere else. Or not even there. But the thing is that none of this really matters so don’t worry about it because it’s not important because what I’m saying is, loads of people have written loads of books but the thing to remember about this book is that it’s better. A lot of books are just a load of old wank so they can fuck off. And if you don’t believe me, you can fuck off too. In fact, if you want a fight, I’m there. I’m pretty good at fighting so you’d better watch out. Better-watch-out-he’s-pretty-good-at-fighting is my middle name. Always has been. No it hasn’t. That’s bollocks. This isn’t working. Let’s start again.
Good afternoon. You know how—oh just forget this fucking page. It’s shit.
INTRODUCTION (#ulink_82ddb8f3-ebbc-5175-9d13-b0804651db28)
In the beginning was the word, and the word was Rik Mayall. Do you see what I did there? That’s the kind of guy I am. Unconventionable. And don’t say that I’m not because I am. And my career as a showbusiness legend spans decades and all of them (the decades that is) are choc full of successful movies, theatre events in the West End (and other places), cutting edge comedy television formats, number one hit records, funny and challenging chat show nonappearances and, most importantly, a string of highly inventive and genre-bursting (make that exploding and with some serious megatonnage as well) commercial television and radio product endorsements. People do not, and I repeat not, shout “fat unfunny has-been” at me in the streets. That has never happened—read my lips—ever. A lot.
Now, you know me, I’m a nice guy. You can ask anyone. So that’s proof. Anyway, I want to tell you what happened to me the other day. Things happen to me all the time. That’s what it’s like if you’re big famous. And I’ve always been down with my ordinaries
. Did you see that footnote? I wrote that. Anyway, when I say “down” with my ordinaries, I’m not saying, down with them as in “down with Thatcher”
, I mean down as in that expression “down with the kids” meaning happening and cool and groovy not, you know, like, you know, anything else. So, I like to think that I’m down with the kids [maybe change this]. What I’m trying to say is that I like children. Oh fuck, look just erase all this, forget about it. What I’m really trying to say is that I like you a lot and I’m down with you—actually, I need to stop saying “down with”. I’m “in with” you—oh God that sounds as though I want to get your stuff all over my fingers. Look, just go to the next paragraph. I didn’t mean it and it’s all shit.
What I’m really definitely trying to say here and now is that I AM THE RIK MAYALL. Good. That’s sorted. Moving on. We’re really getting somewhere now.
Picture the scene. Maybe it’s a Tuesday afternoon—fuck it, it is—this is my book. This happened, right. It’s last Tuesday. I’m in a crowded pub, having the third of three halves—I’m quite a big drinker
—when bang! It hit me straight between the eyes! I say it, it was more of a he—a big hard bloke with tattoos—you know the type. What had happened was that I had accidentally stumbled penis first against the arse cheeks of his girlfriend as I hurried to the Gents toilets to not take drugs. At first, I thought it might be one of those sudden unscheduled violence workshops that my great showbusiness mates
often spring on me which look to all the world like they’re beating the shit out of me but which are, in fact, all part of the acters’ craft. Anyway, it wasn’t. So forget about that. So, back to last Tuesday, and the next thing I know is I’m carrying out an emergency landing on the pavement outside the pub which is when a small pale man in a red overcoat came up to me.
“You’re Rik Mayall, aren’t you?” he said to me.
“I am he,” said I
.
“Rik Mayall! No, no, I can’t believe it! You are The Rik Mayall! You must be some kind of God, The Rik! The son of God or something! You have changed my life! When I saw first saw you in “Boom! Boom! Out Go The Lights” on the television in the early eighties, I laughed so much I coughed up half a lung and had to be taken to hospital. And after I watched you on Top of Pops with Cliff Richard, I was pissing blood for a week. To this day, my girlfriend and I like to tape the Andrex commercials and do sex to the sound of your voice as you bring the Andrex puppy to life with your challenging portrayal. It’s the only thing that’s kept our relationship together. Are you a God, Rik Mayall? You must be. You are like a shining beacon in the darkness of British light entertainment. And now I see you as just a mass of blood and teeth. You must be having another one of your many Rik Mayall show-business accidents.”
That. Was the moment. Suddenly there was a thundercrack. I looked up and the clouds parted. I found myself in a blinding shaft of golden light. I’m not joking. This happened. There I was standing in the lesser known alleyways of London’s Soho as if chosen, locked in a vast sunbeam of divine glory. It suddenly became clear to me. I was in the middle of having an epiphany. It was a sign from above. It was my divine destiny calling to me. It was everyone’s divine destiny. For I realised that what the people of this great land needed—this good ship Albion as I like to call it (although it’s not strictly a ship, it’s more of an island really) was a book. By me. It would provide a sauce of happiness and solace to my ordinaries (who I love) as they have to face up to living with all the shit they put on the television nowadays. (Have you seen it? It’s complete bollocks isn’t it.
) It would be like a gift to all my fans. Well not strictly a gift as they’d have to pay for it but you get the general idea. What’s a few quid when there’s people starving in the world? You haven’t got an answer for that, have you?
“I’m going to write a book,” I said out loud.
“Wha-wha-wha-wha-what?” (He was stammering, that’s not a typo. It’s actually rather good writing. I don’t know why he was stammering. Perhaps he was masturbating while looking at me. It happens.) Wha-wha-wha-wha-what?” He repeated. “The Good Book?”
“No, The Great Book.”
On hearing my plan, the man in the red overcoat—you know, the one I was talking to a minute ago outside the pub—his bowels spontaneously evacuated and he dropped to his knees, trembling.
“Oh God in heaven help me,” he intoned [or something that means speak only kind of grander].
“Yes, you heard right Roger [check name]. Pretty soon there are going to be only two types of people in this world: those who have read my book and those who haven’t. The line is drawn in the sand and you’ve got to decide which side you’re on.”
“Crikey Rik Mayall, you’re so right there like you always are and I respect you for it.”
“I know, thanks.”
So, as you stand there with this book in your hands (maybe you’re at home in your “front room” or whatever ordinary people call their living areas—or maybe you’re in that Godawful shit hole for the friendless, with the coffee and the easy chairs—what’s it called? – Waterstones, that’s it) you can think to yourself that you are part of this call to destiny and you can see that this is a whole new front that I’ve opened up here on my war on showbusiness. And I bet you anything you like that this will be every bit as successful as all the other great stuff that I’ve done over the years. And if you don’t believe me then I’ve got just one word to say to you: fuck off. (I did it again then, did you get that? What you’ve got to realise here is that you’re stuck slap bang in the middle of a firestorm of red hot literary cluster missiles of explosive word play and punctuation.
Hold on…) There you go.
As my old Gran used to say—actually I don’t want to get into that now, it’s too sordid. Just forget it.
Anyway, what I want you to know is that whatever else happens in the next few hours or days or weeks or however long it’s going to take you to read this book, I’m going to be honest and true to you my viewers. Notice I said viewers there and not viewer because I know what’s going to happen. This is going to be massive. We’re talking daytime television here. I’m going to rip apart the very fabric of popular culture and put it back together again in my own image. This is a whole new world order and this one is screaming in your face to get your kit off, and go for it. I worship at the church of excess (and I don’t mean like those Australians, In Excess – I don’t remember them biting the head off a whippet). So you’d better watch it. I’m a swear-word-using hell-raising bare-bottomed anarchist at the gates of dawn and I can say what the fucking hell I like and if you want some failed celebrity’s wank book, you can stick it up your arse
because this eagle has landed. When I come for you, you’d better be ready, you’d better grab hold of something, put your head between your knees and jam a cork up your arse because when you read what I’ve got to say, you’re going to shit your kidneys. And if you don’t like it then get out of the way. This is the new bible, motherfucker
, and it’s me at the controls and I’m coming straight at you—in your face, down your throat and out your trousers. I live on the edge. I’m out there in Edge City—right on the very edge of Edge City, teetering over a byss.
Now this baby’s written, just remember that it’s always out there. Everything is always out there. You must never forget that. Everything is out there doing everything to everyone. Sometimes for everyone, sometimes not. Who’s to know? I’m not everyone. Nor everything. No thing is everything and no one is everyone. But I’m more than most. A lot more than most. No, a lot more than everybody. I have a theory. But that’s a secret. Oh sod this, it’s late now I’m going to bed.
Harper Collins, Esq.
77-85 Fulham Palace Road
London W6
August 5, 2004
Dear Harper (if I may call you Harper—I mean apart from last night I’ve never met you before but I think we have a deeper understanding now—and if I can’t call you Harper then you’d better stop reading now because believe me, I’m going to call you Harper for the rest of the letter and if each time you look at Harper and see that I haven’t put Mr Collins and then get offended, well you’re just going to have to pack it in Harper and stop being so pathetic).
All I’m trying to get the chance to say is, thank you very much for last night. The food was absolutely delicious and please accept my apologies for the wallet incident. You must admit that the leather trim on yours is very similar to the one on mine even though it is a different colour. Apologies also for calling you a spod-faced fuck-hole, I think maybe one of the waiters might have spiked my drink. It happens sometimes—there are people everywhere trying to mess with my head. Anyway, it’s all in the past now and we’re both man enough I’m sure to rise above it and move on. But don’t get me wrong, I’m not coming onto you or anything Harper, I’m not that kind of guy as I’m sure you’re not—or indeed Mrs Collins for Christ’s sake. I mean look at her. I have. I mean, I would. That’s a compliment. Oh fuck, don’t read that last bit you’ve just read. Oh, you know what I mean. Christ, writing letters is a bitch isn’t it? I’m just saying that I’m not calling you a whoopsie, all right? Not that I would have a problem if you did drop from the other bomb bay, so to speak—I’m an all-inclusive kind of guy and I’m everybody’s friend. In life, I don’t really have any enemies. None at all. Well, apart from some other professional live “performers”. Well, quite a lot really. But let’s not think about them. Cunts. I just ignore them. Apart from them, I have no enemies—least of all anyone in the minorities. That’s something that I think Tony B has taught us all. Tony and I are such good friends—I don’t think I need to say anymore—walls have eyes or whatever it is they have. Wallpaper or something, I don’t know. How should I know? Ask a fucking builder.
Anyway, I digress. What I really want to say to you, Harper, is that I’m well fucking happy that you have agreed to publish my book. I knew that once you’d met my agent Heimi you would know in your soul what the best decision would be. I know he has a peculiar manner, especially when he mentions your family and the leaking gas main, but that’s just his way. And don’t worry, the “Mad Dog” in Heimi Mad Dog Fingelstein isn’t a nickname or anything. Heimi Mad Dog Fingelstein is his actual name. And having said that, it is true about his close relationship with the current Chief Inspector, so he would walk away if anything came to court. It’s all food for thought.
The thing is, things only happen when they’re happening, so let’s happen them Harpo, and seeing as things ended on a sour note last night, I thought I’d set our balls rolling (that’s a media expression) on some hot ideas for my book. First off, I’ll need a researcher. This is important. I’ve had a massive career—even though I’m only in my late thirties (and firing on all cylinders in the trouser department before you start)—and there are so many pinnacles in light entertainment that I have conquered, that when I try to remember them all, I see a vast mountain range. Like the Alps. Or maybe the Himalayers. Whichever are bigger. Something like that. You know what I mean. I am an equal opportunities employer as well, so be cool, but she will need to be quite young and fit and I will need to conduct auditions. I’m sure you must have sorted yourself a bit of top bird to work in your office—well if she’s got any mates or sisters then perhaps they could apply for the job. It’s also important that applicants don’t scare easily as I can form violent sexual friendships when I’m deep in the cut and thrust of creative thought. I must say, I’m really looking forward to blouse-storming (just another media expression Harper, drop the Valium and keep up) with my researchers so it might be a good idea to hire a hotel room for us to work in, preferably without windows or curtains that function. I will supply a rider (this is a show business term for a list of stuff like drugs and gin/sherry which stars have to have in their dressing rooms) (not that I ever take illegal drugs) with all my requirements on it like lubricants (creative ones) and juice (this means alcohol) and drugs (legality is irrelevant because I don’t ever take any, so get loads). Although actually you’d better definitely slip in some illegal ones, you never know what chicks are going to pop. Or where. Or sometimes how. The fuck. Did. She. Do. That? Eh? Sort of thing. You see, Herpe, it’s important to have everything you need when you’re bouncing ideas around (another media biggie Herpes—this letter is shaping up into being a bit of a Krakatoa of happening media and marketing buzz expressions isn’t it, me old arse-wrench?). In case you’re wondering, buzz expression is a buzz expression in its own right.
Oh yeah, listen up Herpar this is important—you know how last night you mentioned something about someone or other editing my book? Well, I want to say right now and I’m doing it right now and what I’m saying is this—no I’m not, I’m commanding it (in a close up), NO ONE FUCKS WITH MY WORDS. Read it again, you lefty twat, NO ONE FUCKS WITH MY WORDS. Because if I read through my book and find that someone’s been messing about with my oeuvre, I’ll be straight round to your little office with some of my associates to rip your head off and shit in the hole. And I won’t wipe my bottom. Is that clear? You’ve been warned. I’m pretty sure it was the great Graeme Green himself who said, “don’t fuck with my words, man,” and I’m down with that. (Down means down which means – oh just look it up). And another thing, Harps, and this is a biggie. A really important big biggie, so take all your clothes off and kneel down in front of me, sweating and paying attention. Right? I have got in my possession a fabulous mesmerising archive of correspondence that has been gathering and breeding and swarming around me like napalm throughout my raging blood-drenched Hiroshima of a professional north AND south career. See that! Did you see that? That’s creative writing that is. And that’s what I’m going to put in my book. Everything I’ve ever written and ever done in my life is creative and it’s all going in, man. Notes, poems, journals, letters, great letters too. That’s what they are. Great ones. And if you don’t think they are then you’re a cunt. Point proved. Anyway, I just want you to know that I’m very very very very committed to righting enough words. Who knows, I might even put this letter in. No one likes a little one.
As far as publicity for the book is concerned, this is really where I’ll come into my own (that’s not a media expression although I did once see someone do this in Bangkok—not that I’ve ever been there). I am very well known by all the global media networks—they follow my every move—I only have to crack one off and it’s in the papers. I’m talking metaphorically, I have never—repeat never—been caught masturbating.
So, I think that just about raps things up. I’m sure Heimi will be in touch soon to tie up all the loose ends contract-wise.
Big up Harpo, respec (that’s “street” slang),
Rik Mayall, The.
P.S. Don’t fuck any of this up Harper—you’re dealing with frightening people here.
P.P.S. Love to the wife.
P.P.P.S. Did it heal up for her?
DIARY EXERT
March 7th 1966
A prare to God.
Dear R. Father, what are in heaven, hello be they name. How are you today? My name is Richard Mayall. And that’s not a lie. Firstly, many thanks for choosing me above all other people. I want to make sure that thine choice is the right one oh Lord. And it is so thou knowest that already. I want thou to know that I have never doubted you, ever ever. I wanted to ask you a question which I thought I would write in my diary so thou could read it as well. We could read it together—thou and me—as I write it. I am going to start a new paragraph now Lord because I want this question to be important.
There. You see, Lord, what it is is that often in the middle of the night I find myself thinking about the angels and the heavenly host—and hostess—and I was wondering, Lord, if thou could clear something up for I. You know how like in the pictures of angels that you see in books, all the lady angels always wear sort of short white shirt kind of things, well if I were to be surrounded by angels, both man and lady angels, and they are all flying around above me up in the air over my head, and if I looked up in the air and saw these angels flying above me and thought to myself “Oh look, there are some selestial bodies. I’m so glad that God has chosen me to be his special one.” Well, what would happen if at that very moment I looked up and there was a lady angel just above me and I accidentally saw her girl’s pants? Would I go to hell? And if I did, would I have to fall all the way down from the sky to the middle of the earth and hurt myself? And will there be hospitals in hell for me? I’ve been worrying about this a lot, dear Thou. If you could clear this up for me as soon as possible, I would be eternally greatful.
I hope thou ist keeping well.
Best wishes,
Richard Mayall.
Mr Clutterbuck Masters Common Room King’s School Worcester
August 20 1969
Dear Sir,
I know you said I should not write to you again because you might have to tell the Headmaster but I felt I should tell you that I now know who let off the fire alarm during break last Thursday. It was not me, it was Lancaster, which proves that he is not handicapped because he would have had to stand up out of his wheelchair to do it. I also saw him doing the hundred yards sprinting practice last week as well so he is a bloody liar. Sorry to swear Sir, but it makes me so cross when other pupils break school rules. If you like, I can help you lift him out of his wheelchair so that you can beat him. One day he will thank us all for this.
You are very good at beating, Mr Clutterbuck. You have a very good slipper action and it certainly hurts a lot. You are much better than Mr Cunley, who said he was going to beat me the week before last for cribbing and then he put his hand down the back of my trousers. I am sure this is against the law but I do not like to tell tails. He smells of LSD and he doesn’t cut his hair very much so I think he must be a hippy. I will say no more.
I hope you have a very nice holiday in Benidorm with Mrs Clutterbuck.
Best wishes,
Richard Mayall.
MY GREAT LIFE (#ulink_b56ac0e8-b464-57ce-8046-8b1b8c9c36bf)
“Fucking hell, look at the size of his cock!” said the mid-wife who delivered me. “It looks like he’s got three legs. Perhaps he should be called The Tripod.” This is true. She really said this. But I was called Richard instead and the rest is history.
I went to school at the local primary school, right? That’s where I went to school. I didn’t have to pay anyone, I just got in. No questions, no bodies. I was in. The infants. I don’t want to talk too much about it because it was like sucking shit through a shoot. But I tell you what. And I’ll tell it you now. It was a Tuesday night, 17
December 1968. Choir concert. Got that? Me too. All the infants were there. All the parents were there. This is true, this. My fucking class teacher, Mrs “please kick me in the face violently” Andrews lined up all the tables against the wall and told us all to stand on them facing the audience.
“Call that a stage?” I thought, “I’d rather slam my bollocks in the fridge door.” But I got on the stage and I was right, it was a shit stage. And that bitch Andrews stuck me right up at the left hand side of it, right at the edge and at the back. I was practically off stage (which means not on stage). And I’m never off stage. I’m always on. I’m on now, look. And guess what. No but really, guess what. No don’t actually, I’ll tell you. I’m doing it right now or I will after I’ve done this sentence. And I’m getting there now. Right here we are, I’m there. Told you I would be. So shit off if you don’t believe me. Right what was I going to say? Bollocks. Oh I know, shut up and listen. New paragraph—this is good.
Mrs Andrews said to me—and get this because this is true—“Now Richard, pay attention and stop doing that to Penelope. I have something important to say to you. The success of the whole of this evening’s concert depends on it. So pay attention, it’s very very important. Now Richard, I don’t want you to sing this evening. Not at all. Not one note. I want all of the other children to sing but not you. Because you’ve got a horrible voice. So what I want you to do is just move your mouth as if you’re singing but not actually sing. If you sing, you’ll spoil the whole evening’s entertainment. Have you got that?” she said rather too emphatically an inch from my face. What do you think of that? Me too. I wasn’t going to take that. Me neither. Or me. She was dealing with Rik Mayall (i.e.
me). That’s what she didn’t know. She used to call me Richard. Bitch. I wasn’t going to take that lying down. “Right, Richard,” I said to myself. “What are we going to do? I’ll tell you what we’re going to do. We’re going to steal the show. Let’s do it. (Like a firestorm, obviously.)” So, what I did was just that. Fantastically too. I pulled faces at the audience while I was mouthing the wrong words to Away in a Manger, made extremely vulgar gesticulations and upstaged the entire cast (there were about thirty opponents up there, don’t forget. This was thirty to one.) I transformed the whole evening into a breakthruough comedy entertainment format. You should have heard them laugh when Annette Jennings’ knickers and tights suddenly came shooting down her legs, tangling up her shoes and she fell into the front row. It was all going on. Hilarity prevailed. Quite a few people had a good time until suddenly, the Headmaster grabbed me by the ear, pulled me off the stage onto the floor of the auditorium (form 3B) and marched me to the corner of the room and made me stand face to the wall in FULL FUCKING VIEW OF MY AUDIENCE thinking it would humiliate me. Like fuck. That’s when it all kicked off big style. So the Headmaster ordered me out of the hall. And that’s when I threw my first really good tantrum. I bit Mrs Andrews in the face, ran a mock with my matches in the cloakroom causing over eight thousands pounds worth of damage, flooded the girls’ toilets, and shat in the gym master’s holdall
. As a seven year old, you can only take so much.
The thing is, I was very misunderstood at school. Quite often, when the other children were playing kiss chase in the playground, I was tied up in the toilets with my pants stuffed into my mouth. Even the teachers used to spit on me as they passed me in the play ground.
I’m putting all this in the book, viewer, because I want to show you what a hard life I’ve had and how I rose above it. It’s really very Jesusy when you think about it. I remember as though it was yesterday when the Headmaster was beating me in his study one day and I looked up at him and said, “Judge not lest ye be judged you fat motherfucker.” He just went on beating me. His house burnt down shortly afterwards. I had nothing to do with this.
Picture the scene: Spring 1967. Got it? Everyone else was on the Isle of White watching Jimmy Hendrix burning his guitar but I was at school. They had decided to change the state school system so that no one would be equal anymore. The rich would go to one sort of school and the poor would be put in holding pens before they were taken off to factories. It was different in those days. We had factories and people went there and made things. They were called jobs. You don’t have them now. There was still a Labour Party in those days. Nowadays there are just slaves on the other side of the world that make stuff for us. Unless we bring them over here to do it. Then we call them immigrants and pay them fuck all and make them live in the old holding pens that the white working class used to have. Until they’re fucked up and knackered and useless and then we send them home again. Or to somewhere in Croatia where they’re made into dog food.
Now, it’s worth knowing, viewer, that the old education system was governed by an exam called the Eleven Plus. This was an exam which separated the creepy frightened kids that behaved themselves at school and managed to learn something from the stupid kids who didn’t give a shit and were happy. You took it when you were eleven and, rich or poor, you were divided into two groups and “educated” in one of two separate schools depending on your ability. But the rich who were in control of the state at the time decided that they were going to destroy this system and replace it with two different kinds of schools—good well-equipped schools for the children of the wealthy, and sad empty blank voids for the children of the poor. So, I was in the shit. Big time. Lots and lots of shit. You had to be eleven to take the Eleven Plus, you see. It was the last year they were doing it before they scrapped it forever and I was only nine! Plus my mum and dad weren’t rich so I had no chance of an education. Fucky-fuck-fuck, shitty pants and deary me, I’m bollocksed, I thought. EXCEPT, my mum and dad just happened to be teachers
, so they prepped me up for the Eleven Plus exam and I got into an expensive school full of posh kids called the King’s School Worcester—when I was nine! How’s about that for cool? And that’s where I taught people how to drink and lose their virginity and be happy because I was a nice bloke and they were all wankers. I’ve always been like that, I’ve always offered a helping hand to others on life’s, you know, whatever. I was the youngest in the school but almost straight away I fell in with the hard guys like Simon Rex and that other one with the ginger hair, you know, that psycho who liked to do that thing with cats and a screwdriver. He’s dead now, thank fuck.
So nobody knew anything about anything. No one found the bodies. There were no traces and I passed the Eleven Plus! I did it. All on my own. Yes I did. Prove it if you can then. Get this, I was the youngest kid in England to ever pass the Eleven Plus. And I still am. Didn’t put that in the credits for Filthy, Rich and Catflap did they? BBC fuckholes. I’d got into a big posh school. But it was the very last year they were allowing kids like me to sit the Eleven Plus. After this, ordinary kids weren’t allowed to have well-equipped schools and teachers that could teach. But then. Now wait for this. You’ll like this, this is nasty. Just when everything was great, suddenly there’s this other kid at King’s called Gretisson who grassed (this is cool prison slang for told on) on me to Mr Cunley. The little shit (ugly too. And probably still is. I hope so.) gave him a list of all the boys who he thought were smoking and Cunley went through our desks at lunchtime and found our cigarettes. It was either six of the best or a one pound fine.
“How about this?” I said to him, “what about a ten shilling fine and three of the best? Do you play that kind of game?”
“Hold on a minute, Mayall. Did you say what I thought you just said?”
“Believe it if you need to, Mr Teacher Man,” I intoned moodily. Or was it huskily? It was a long time ago. I can’t remember
. “How do you want this baby to come down?”
His face fell. He held both of his hands up defensively, backing away. “Whoah…Hold on there Mayall,” he croaked (no he didn’t really, he died a long time later. I had nothing to do with that either.) “Listen, I’m way out of my league here or whatever it is that they say in films. I’m not used to dealing with guys like you. I’m scared, man.”
I leant forward, took my ten Number Six back out of his top pocket along with the five pounds that he had fined the other guys in my posse.
“Shall we just say this never happened?”
“Thanks.”
“Not a problem, friend,” I said and patted him encouragingly on his shoulder. Then I turned on my heel.
“Ow fuck,” I said, “why do I keep doing that to my heel?” And I breezed, well, hobbled, looking cool, out of the room. Closing the door. After I’d left, obviously. Never works the other way round. I’ve been in that situation before. Told you it was nasty.
I swore a lifelong debt of hatred to Gretisson for that. And as for Cunley, I still have sharp stabbing memories of him when I run up the stairs quickly. Enough said.
I fucked up my “O” Levels not because I was stupid and naughty but because I was a wide-eyed anarchist at the gates of dawn even then and the world was against me, especially the teachers and the examination board because they had heard of me and they were jealous. I was like the Outsider and I don’t mean like the one in that shit book by Albert what’s-his-face. The only “O” Level that I did get was in English—it was a breakthruogh cutting edge grade six. And that was a pass, not like they say. That’s right, a pass. And that’s a fact, viewer. Rik Mayall got an “O” Level. In English. Go back and read that last sentence again—and read it out loud. Go on. Although what you do is your own business. That’s the thing about life. People. They’re all over the place. It’s exciting—and dull. And you don’t even have to do what I say if you don’t want to because I’m Rik Mayall, so don’t worry about it or even think about it. It’s as though you haven’t read the last paragraph which if you haven’t, well then, that’s fine. See if I care. Which I do and I don’t. See? That’s the beauty of my enigmas.
Headmaster’s Wife
Headmaster’s Office
King’s School
Worcester
April 14 1972
Dear Headmaster’s Wife,
I think I might be in love with you. I have seen you looking at me and I think you would probably like to do some fucking with me. Please do not tell your husband because he is a real old bloody bastard and I bet he cannot get erections like I can. I bet he needs that stallion cream like they sell in nude magazines. We could make love to each other on his bed. I want to do this to you because I am Gretisson, the nasty one with the curly hair. Please do not tell your husband because I will be expelled. My parents vote Labour as well. Please come round to my study and masturbate me whilst I read my magazines with naked women in them. You can even see my balls if you like and smoke some of my drugs which will make you high like a hippy at Woodstock and you can take all your clothes off and wear flared trousers and show off your midriff and not wear a bra. And you can call me Man and we can masturbate together to the Beatles (but not their disappointing phase) and wear those ridiculous blue glasses like John Lenin wears and sit around and talk about the sky and the trees. We could go and watch Bob Dillon singing out of tune and complain about the Vietman war together and read Oz Magazine and fight the power. I am Gretisson and I want to do it with you all night long.
Best wishes,
Gretisson.
Mr Priddy
Masters’ Common Room
King’s School
Worcester
April 15th 1972
Dear Mr Priddy,
You are a complete spasmo. That’s what I think. And if you give me yet another straight “A” in class for one of my appalling essays which I crib anyway, I will creep into your bedroom in the middle of the night with a knife between my teeth like in that film that was on the TV a couple of weeks ago and I will kill you in your sleep. Yes I will. This is not a joke. This is for real. I know where you live. Just off the parade—the one with the shit orange curtains. So just watch out. Please don’t tell the headmaster that I have sent you this death threat because I will be expelled.
Best wishes,
Spencer (the one with the speech impediment and the girl’s haircut who’s always blaming Mayall when he gets pushed down the stairs).
DAIRY EXERPT
January 14th 1970
I think I did a bit of a fib today Lord because I felt obliged to tell Mr Townsend that Gretisson had some what are called “gentleman’s publications” if I can use such disgusting words in front of you dear Lord. Sure enough, when Mr Townsend went to Gretisson’s locker he found some. And thankfully, Gretisson has been suspended for this outrage. Of course this action means that I will now have a much better chance of getting the part of Othello in the school play. So if I might ask for forgiveness from you dear Lord for any advantage I may have got by telling Mr Townsend this but, in its own way, it was a selfless act Lord meaning that the part of Othello will be performed so much better by me and bring more joy to the audience which is my motorvation. All I care for is my fellow humans on yours and my planet. That is why I stitched Gretisson up and used my superior intelligence to take care of matters. He will thank me in later life. Thou and I both know that oh Lord. It is good that I know how equal everybody is aren’t I. If only the people in the government were not more like me. I have got nothing against Harold Wilson, I mean I know he doesn’t comb his hair very well and his pipe smoking is a bit common but he does his best. Maybe one day I could be Prime Minister. It is up to you dear Lord.
Thank you for making me milk monitor this term. As you probably already know, this is a very important position which I am going to take very seriously and I told everyone in the class that we should not drink all the milk and save it up and send it to the people who are starving in poor countries. But Redfern got some other boys together and they punched and kicked me after double maths. I knew that this was a test oh Lord and I took the test and I didn’t cry and I remembered all of their names when I reported them to the Headmaster. I had almost all of them beaten and three of them were put in detention. A job well done. I have got three boys expelled and two boys, including Gretisson, suspended since the start of term. I trust I am doing what is required of I.
I hope you are keeping well.
Fondest wishes,
Richard Mayall.
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Rik Mayall
Тип: электронная книга
Жанр: Биографии и мемуары
Язык: на английском языке
Издательство: HarperCollins
Дата публикации: 28.04.2024
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О книге: In this electrifying autobiography, Rik stands naked in front of his vast legions of fans and disciples and invites them to take communion with the blood he has spilled for them during his thirty year war on show business.He invented alternative comedy with The Young Ones, he brought down the Thatcher administration with The New Statesman and he changed the face of global culture with his masterpiece Bottom. Not only was his number one single Living Doll the saviour of rock ′n′ roll but he also rescued the British film industry with the vast revenues created by his legendary movie Drop Dead Fred. In 1998, he survived an assassination attempt and spent five days in a coma before he literally came back from the dead. Having completed countless phenomenal feature films, TV series, live extravaganzas and radio voice-overs since then, Rik Mayall is now poised on the brink of a whole new epoch-shattering revolution.For the first time ever, Rik reveals in print the deep inner truth behind his gargantuan ascent to the pinnacle of international light entertainment – the mental hospitals he has broken out of, the television executives he has assaulted, the drugs he has definitely not taken, the charities he has bankrupted, the countless pregnancies he has engendered, and so much more.