by Rik Mayall
HEIMI: Can you run fast?
RIK: Like an Olympiad.
HEIMI: Good. Like dogs?
RIK: Like dogs is my middle name.
HEIMI: Looks like we’re in business then. I’m smelling money already.
RIK: What is it?
HEIMI: Police.
RIK: Are they bringing Z Cars back!?
HEIMI: No, pretty Rik, grab a hold of something solid, it’s even bigger than that. Hold your breath. Intercom buzzes Oh fuck, hold on Rik. Into intercom What is it? Oh right, put him straight through. Picks up phone and becomes nice Hello Director General. I take it you got my message…That’s right. She’s fourteen and she’s prepared to testify. Add to that the photographs that would be found in your house should there be an anonymous tip-off leading to a police search, and I think you’re looking at about fifteen years. Of course I’ll hold for a moment. To Rik It is police and it is television but it’s not exactly a police television programme if you get my meaning. Into phone Ah that’s quite all right Director General. I’m glad that you have reached the right decision. It’s not a good programme that Panorama. I should drop it if I was you…Beg pardon? The reporters? The ones that came here to question me? No, I have no recollection of any reporters making contact with me and neither does my assistant. All my very best wishes to you and your wife, Director General. We never had this conversation. You don’t know me. Bye for now. To Rik Oh dear, sorry about that, I should have mentioned you whilst I had him on the line. Anyway, where were we?
RIK: The television work you’re lining me up for.
HEIMI: Ah yes, the police dog training video.
RIK: The what?
HEIMI: The police dog training video – they’re looking for someone to play a hooligan.
RIK: Oh I see, it’s a joke, very good Heimi, ha ha ha!
HEIMI: Do you see a smile on my face?
RIK: No, sorry.
HEIMI: Good, now let me see. Consults diary You’re not going to be anywhere near Watford on Friday morning at about 10 o’clock are you?
RIK: No.
HEIMI: Just as well. There’s going to be a nasty gas explosion. It’ll be very tragic. But business is business. Ah, now, let me see. You need to be at Hendon Police Training Centre next Wednesday at 8.30am.
RIK: Will they send a car for me?
HEIMI: Oh good heavens no.
RIK: And what sort of deal are they offering?
HEIMI: Deal?
RIK: Money.
HEIMI: Oh good Lord, he comes in here and he wants to talk to me about money. Trust me Rikky-boy there will be money. There is always money somewhere along the line. Sound of Heimi standing up and Rik getting suddenly very nervous, and very carefully not turning his back on Heimi. Lovely to see you again Rikky, make sure your health insurance is up to date and don’t mention anything to anyone.
RIK: Thanks Heimi. Thank you very much. I love your work Mr. Fingelstein.
HEIMI: I can neither confirm nor deny my identity at this juncture but I would like to take this opportunity to wish you all the best for the future. Now, make sure you leave all your details with Big Joan and I’ll be seeing you soon.
RIK: All right, well, bye then Heimi.
HEIMI: Be good. This conversation never happened.
Sound of the door opening followed by the sound of sticky tape tearing away from skin and a large cassette recorder crashing to the floor.
And that, viewer, is how I came to be represented by Heimi Mad Dog Fingelstein. It’s just like that dear dear friend of mine, lovely Peter whats-his-name used to say – no, sorry, it’s gone.
THE YOUNG ONES
Bang, bang, bang, bang, went her head against the toilet door. I’m always doing it with starlets in toilets at film premieres but this film was one of the best I’d seen. I wasn’t in it but it was great all the same, although I did have three lines in that one with what’s-his-name in it – the bloke with the leg – but it wasn’t much to shout about. The main thing is that I’m hard and cool. Like a Kidderminster Bruce Willis.
“Oh Rik, you’re the best.” She could barely speak. Back bottom stuff is always best with American girls.
Bang, bang, bang – her nose went next. I’ve always been such a passionate lover but I thought crikey, I’d better get out of here. There’s blood and teeth everywhere and there’s papperatsi* all over the place outside.
“Check you later, babe, which is American for cheerio, thank you for a charming afternoon in the toilet. I have to go now.”
“Oh Rik, you’re the best lover ever, I can’t wait to not tell anyone about this and keep our secret safe,” she said. “Thank God British television is so shit nowadays. Everyone will go and see my movie now.”
That’s when my blood ran cold. That’s right, my blood ran ice cold at that very moment. She’s right, I thought. The condition of British television is beyond repair. The art form is dead. A year from today there will be just a vast pyre of useless TV sets as the British public go streaming to the cinema instead. This is a situ-fucking-ation. I left the toilet cubicle like a car bomb and went outside.
“Hey Rik Mayall, give us a smile,” said a papperatsi. Whap! Half his camera went back into his eye socket.
“Leave the fuck me alone, I’m incognito,” I howled enigmally and was gone.
The rain was lashing down and I was looking a lot like Clint. In fact, a lot of people walking past me said, “Hey bloke, you look a lot like Clint, only better.”
“Thanks complete strangers,” I said, and carried on my way muscularily.
“Excuse me sir,” said another one.
“Yes non-entity.”
“Are you going to be Rik Mayall, international light entertainment leviathan?”
“No,” I said.
“Get away.”
“Don’t talk to me like that.”
“No I meant ‘get away’ as in you are going to be Rik Mayall.”
“No, I’m not. I’m going to be The Rik Mayall and much more besides.”
“Blimey bloody crikey, can I have your autograph?”
“Not yet – I am only a partially formed foetus of a comedy legend. Give me a chance.”
“Thanks anyway.”
And that was his fifteen minutes gone. Like that ridiculous blond painter Andrew War Hole used to say. Even though they only lasted about a minute and a quarter.
On I mooded into the nearest pub. I won’t tell you the name of it because it’s important to protect the privacy of pubs. Pubs have far too much unwanted intrusion these days. Anyway, the thing is, huge genre-shifting ideas like The Young Ones don’t just come along like that. But this one did. There I was at the bar ordering a drink:
“I’ll have a pint of hang on a fucking minute – I’ve got an idea. I’ll write a situation comedy.”
Close up on the Rik doing that eye thing. Chicks gasp. Guys slit their wrists. End of shot. I’m young, I thought to myself, there’s one of me, so I’ll call the show The Young One. But no, I won’t be selfish, I am a socialist after all, I’ll put some of my great mates in it as well, and call it The Young Ones. Plural. Good.
I went straight home after another few pints and a donna kebab and I stayed up late writing the first series. I got through nine typewriters that night under the barrage of my relentless unstoppable fingering. They call me Mr Typewriter.
The cock crowed – ooer obviously* – and I got up the crack of Dawn (nice girl/ooer obviously again) and I got out of bed like a raging undetonated warhead and went straight off to the BBC.
“It’s punk rock, it’s radical, it’s anarchy, it’s four guys in a house together on a one way ticket to oblivion and there’ll be bands – good ones – playing live and it’s just a big two fingers to the establishment, and television will never be the same again. Ever.” Silence. All the television executives looked at me as they sat around the table in their pastel coloured jackets and shirts.
“I know where I’ve seen you before,” one of them said
. “Weren’t you that dreadful northerner on that Kick Up the Eighties programme that no one could understand? When you were talking, you didn’t make any sense. You kept going on in that ridiculous accent like you were from Lancashire or somewhere. Who on earth let you make that? Oh it was made in Scotland wasn’t it? They’re light years behind us. They’re just a bunch of alcoholics who wear skirts. They don’t know how it’s done. Now, you mentioned something about having pop music in the show?”
“Yes I did.”
“But that’s a silly idea. Drama is drama and pop music is pop…”
“It’s called rock ‘n’ roll.”
“Well, whatever you silly people want to call it. You can’t put your music into drama programmes. It’s just not done. Now, tell me, you’re not Jewish are you?”
“So what if I am. Are you some kind of racist?”
“Oh no, no no no. It’s just we have to be very careful. Where do you hunt?”
“Oh this is ridiculous.”
“How many bedrooms do your parents have in their house?”
“What?”
“You are Jewish aren’t you?”
“Oh I’ve had enough of this. I’m going to prove this once and for all. Say hello to Mr Todge.” And out came The Behemoth. “That’s what I think of your poncey middle class attitudes,” I said in my West Midlands drawl.
“Pardon,” they said.
“Now listen up, I’m a hardcore socialist. I’m a man of the people. All the people are one and I am one and I am at war with the establishment and my first battle is to get something decent on TV.”
But the mood had changed. There was silence in the room. They all sat there slack-jawed.
“Crikey,” they said after a moment, “do you feint when you read dirty magazines?”
I saw my opening. It was now or never. “Who’s in charge here?” I brooded, my manhood still unfurled like a fire hose.
“Paul Jackson.”
“Okay, I want to see him. Now!” And I slammed my fist on the desk. Ow! Shit!
And out I strod. I didn’t even close the door. Anarchy is my middle name. Rik Anarchy Mayall or R.A.M. to my great mates. Not in a homoey way though. Not that I’ve got anything against the gay – sexual equality is my middle name and I’ve always been a rock hard feminist and homosexualist and some of my best darkies are friends.
Cut to: Paul Jackson’s office (just outside the door). SPLAM! I smashed the door open and walked into the office like a torpedo.
“Rik Anarchy Mayall here, Paul Jackson,” I said but I shouldn’t have bothered because he wasn’t there. I waited a couple of hours outside and read a magazine. I think I had a hot chocolate as well from the drinks machine. Then he came back. I think he must have been out for lunch.
“Paul Jackson, it’s Rik Mayall,” I repeated.
“Rik Mayall, oh my God! I’ve seen you countless times at The Comedy Store and you’re fabulous.”
“No, Rik Anarchy Mayall here, Paul Jackson.”
“Pardon,” said Paul Jackson.
“Anarchy is my middle name. You can call me R.A.M. because I ram everything that moves.”
“Do you mean sexually?”
“I mean anythingly. I ram everything out of the way of alternative comedy.”
“Alternative comedy? What’s that?”
“It’s something I’ve just invented.”
“Shit my pants, you’re the guy I’ve been looking for. Everything at the BBC is so slack and flaccid. We need a guy like you. This is just a sad right-wing old-fashioned upper middle class flat-minded soulless organisation of victorian leftovers that needs a shock of nuclear energy like your own unique brand of originality. So please come and work for us Rik Mayall.”
“Okay,” I said. “Modern television is a wasteland of shit.”
“You’re right it is.”
“I know.”
“I like your balls.”
“Thank you Paul Jackson, I like yours too, but we’ll need some Rock ‘n’ Roll if we want this baby to fly. Don’t you know that there are vital thrusting new bands out there that we need to get on the television like Rip Rig and Panic and other ones as well that I can’t think of at the moment. They need a voice and I’m going to give it to them.”
“So what’s the name of the show?”
“The Young Ones.”
“But that’s the name of a film.”
“Yes, but not just any film. It’s only about the finest piece of cinema ever committed to celluloid. Comedy and pop music together – and so shall it be again. It’s my mission to cure popular culture.”
“My god, you’ve invented post-modernism,” said Paul and dropped to his knees.
“No.”
“No harm trying.”
“Try anything and you’re dead.”
“Okay, sorry, but you have to do those sorts of things at the BBC in the late nineties.”
“But this is the early eighties, Paul.”
“Oh shit yeah, sorry Rik Mayall, I think you’re great.”
“Don’t put me on a pedestal Paul. I’m not a god. I’m a socialist, I’m a wide-eyed anarchist at the gates of dawn. So let’s go forth and lightly entertain everybody.”
“Damn right, Rik,” he said and slammed his fist on the table. “Ouch.”
“I’ve just done that one Paul. My comedy’s way ahead of yours.”
“Don’t freak out, Rik, man. It was an homage.”
“Respec Paul.”
“That’s early next century, Rik, man.”
“Oh yeah! Oh fuck all this, let’s stop all this talking and get on with the story.”
“Good thinking Rik Mayall.”
“I’ll do the last line.”
“Gotchya.”
“Shut up.”
“Okay.”
“No! I said, I’ll do the last line, now shut up!”
“Sorry.”
“This is the last line of dialogue Paul, say anything after this and I’m not writing it.”
See?
So I phoned all the non-entities that I knew, told them I was going to give them their first brake in showbusiness and that very afternoon, we made the first six episodes of The Young Ones. The following day I was mobbed. Things happened fast in those days.
Because of the success of The Young Ones, Channel 4 phoned me and said, “Can you invent the Comic Strip please?” It was a busy life. I went home, got some of my typewriters out, dusted off the old finger and I was at it. Then I started writing.
THE YOUNG ONES
I invented the word “radical.” That’s right. I made it up. It’s no coincidence that the word radical begins with R. In fact, it is almost an anagram of Rik. It’s got an R and an I in it. That’s 66.6666666% reoccurring there. Which is pretty good in anyone’s book. Especially mine. And what you must remember in a Rik Mayall book is never look down, never go back, never leave the boat. Just keep pushing forward into the jungle. I’m with you all the way, viewer, holding your hand and not giving you a feel up –remember my promise?
So there I was wandering in the West Midlands which is in the middle of England but which is not Middle England. Which is an interesting concept in itself. Think of all those working class people who are ignored because they are not what is considered Middle England but actually do live in the middle of England. There’s a hole ethnic group right there who have been ignored and disenfranchised for years. Well, that’s what alternative comedy is all about. The eighties were hard times. There were no mobile phones, no eye pods [pads?], no laptops, no speed bumps, no boy bands, and to make matters worse, there was a war going on in Vietnam.
I’d never done television on this scale before. But I was sure I could make it work. I was Rik Mayall after all – I still am – I could make anything work. I knew The Young Ones was a good idea. It was what I wanted to see on the television. That’s how I knew it was a good idea. And it was produced by the Variety Department at the BBC because if you wanted music – rock ‘n�
�� roll – in your programme you had to go to the Variety Department instead of the Comedy Department. Which was great because they had more cash. And it just felt right – like The Goons who had Max Geldray in the middle. Only instead of Max Geldray, we had Motorhead.
During the filming of the second series of The Young Ones, an assassination attempt was made on my life. You might think I’m joking here. I can almost hear you viewer, laughing and saying, “Ha ha, great gag, wild one, I love you and so do all my friends – the ones that I admire anyway.” But no, viewer, you’re wrong. You’re all wrong. It’s not a joke. It’s a fact. An assassination attempt was made on my life in 1983. Someone, somewhere, wanted me dead. Unseen forces within the British broadcasting establishment realised that once the show hit the television screens, the world would never be the same again. The old order was being swept away but it didn’t want to go without a fight. As noble rebel leader and figurehead of the new wave of comedy genius that was coming up from the streets, I was targeted. I’ll tell you what happened. Right now.
You know how people come up to you sometimes and say, “Hey Rik…” Actually, you probably don’t but people are always coming up to me and saying, “Hey Rik, The Young Ones is the best television programme ever made.” Well, they can fuck off because it’s better than that. You’re my public aren’t you, viewer? So, if anyone comes up to you and says that to you, then punch them in the face and go into their house and meddle with their wiring. Remember, you and me are wild anarchists who live on the edge and we don’t care whether we live or die. Go into their houses and do it now. Done it? Cool. Move on. You’re one of mine now. Or I’m one of yours. Whichever you like better. There’s no authoritarian structure in our movement. We are all equal. They are few, we are many.
So, what happened was, I had written The Young Ones, right? I wrote it and I’d like to see someone who says that I didn’t because they’d be seriously big time wrong, right? Because I did and my name’s at the end of it. If you go out and buy a tape or a DeeVeeDee right now from a shop – I don’t know, any type of shop – you just go to the sort of shop that sells it and you put it on the tape or your telly thing – whatever kind of telly thing you’ve got – I don’t care what type you’ve got – just put it on and you watch one of the episodes – whichever one you want, it’s not important – just put it on and watch it and then where it says who it’s written by well that’s where my bloody name is, isn’t it? Right? So, tell me I’m wrong. Right, so, I wrote it, okay? And I want to say here and now that I never saw the copy of the script that said that Alexei, who was playing dangerous escaped criminal madman Brian Damage Bolowski in the episode entitled Sick (correct? hardcore fans*), was to smash me in the face with the butt of his shotgun. This mysterious little extra piece of action was added in a covert and highly suspicious manor. There I was acting out the scene as written – or scripted as we say in the acting world – when suddenly, Alexei smashed me in the face as hard as he could, knocking me completely unconscious. It was all made to look as though it was in the script and I had just mistimed it (and the actual shot of my character Rick coming round and recovering in the episode is me coming round and recovering genuinely. This, viewer, is a fact and would make an amusing little anecdote in its own right were it not for the fact that all was not what it seemed.)
