Bigger than Hitler - Better than Christ

by Rik Mayall

  Now, enigma codes are a thing. When I’m cracking one off*, I often think about stuff and one of the things that I’m often thinking about is my own enigma. I don’t have codes to my enigma, because if someone comes up to me and says, “Hey Rik Mayall, love your work, what is it about your enigma?” What I say to them is, “Who are you? Are you a journalist?” And they usually say, “I’m sorry I don’t know what you’re talking about.” And off I go enigmally – top lit so that it’s one of those shadowy shots walking away from a big close-up opportunity. What that says to the audience is that I am a wild out of control acter and I don’t need a close up. My statement has been made by my eyes and now I’m making it with the back of my shoulders as I receed down the alley into the mist. That’s what really gets the gusset wet. If you went up to Jenny Agutter and said, “Hey, Jenny, have you ever seen any of Rik Mayall’s stuff?” and she said, “no” then you must be asking the wrong person. So go ask someone else.

  So, here I am at the typewriter, fingering away like a man possessed. But possessed with what? A question that I will leave hanging in the air. Just over there by that picture of me on the wall if you like. It’s a good one. Or somewhere else. Anywhere you like. Space is ours, viewer, to float about in and be cool. Anyway, this is what I want to talk about, watch. Watch and read, obviously. One day last 1980s, to say a big kindly thank you for typing all my great material on The Young Ones, I promised that I would take Little Ben-Elton out on the road and show him how to do stand up comedy. I had already torn the nation apart with the “Kevin Turvey and the Bastard Squad featuring The Young Ones” live tour, of course, and it seemed only fair to allow Little to soak up some great comedy radiance and ride on my coat tails for a bit to learn his craft. Little was a bright boy and I knew that with my help and advice he would go far. I still think that. He just needs to knuckle down.

  Wolverhampton is always a tough gig. The Germans knew that during the war and even the hardcore Nazi bombers wouldn’t go there because they were too frightened. They knew they’d have a real war on their hands with the Wolves. And that’s an actual fact. So they went and bombed Coventry instead.

  The fans in Wolverhampton are so hard that they have a mosh pit for comedy gigs or rather, The Abattoir, as it is known locally. In a Wolverhampton axent obviously. Stage nutting, chair eating, carpet assaulting, toilet molesting, everything – you name it, the Wolverhampton fans do it. The place was jam-packed, there were people hanging from the balconies and we had managed to squeeze in an extra couple of hundred by locking the fire doors.

  Little was frightened to go on but I told him that I was there if anything should go wrong – and he did well. Got a few laughs and there were only a couple of attempts to attack the stage and eat him.

  Then it was my turn on stage and within a split second, the whole place was rocking*. The Master was at the mic. People were haemorrhaging they were laughing so much, bleeding from the eyes and leaking from every orifice. All the St Johns Ambulance brigades from all over the Midlands were on standby because they knew I was in town with my talent. And boy, wasn’t I just. Kidneys and livers were suddenly seizing up and spontaneously imploding all over the place and people were literally trying to commit suicide because they couldn’t laugh any more. And those that could were beginning to cough up their larynxes like there was no tomorrow. Which there wasn’t for a lot of them. Crikey it was a good night, viewer. Never mind the Luftwaffe, this was Rik Fucking Mayall†.

  I was detonating one of my legendary woofers (which means that I was telling one of my more popular anecdotes which I presumed would take the roof off the place‡ like they usually do) but I made the fundamental mistake of hinting that Wolverhampton’s greatest sons, Slade, were slightly not hard. And BLAM! Suddenly it was as though time had stopped. The earth had been switched off.

  “What’s wrong with that?” I asked. Silence. And that’s when it turned nasty. There was a whistling through the air followed by an ugly thud. It was a severed head. And after that, they threw everything they had at me. They even threw their unfashionable flared trousers. Some of them were still in them. I was dodging all these terrifying blood-drenched missiles until I was hit by a security guard. I don’t mean I was hit by security guard as in he thumped me, I mean he was one of the things that was thrown at me. He hit me at Mac 4. He had been thrown from the back of the stalls. And he was still in his chair. I looked down at his twitching, spasming body.

  “Save yourself, Rik,” he said with his dying breath. “You’ve got to get out of here now.”

  “I never surrender,” I said.

  “Oh and Rik? I hope you don’t my mind my saying –”

  “What is it? What is it? Hurry up and do the line, I’m busy dodging body parts.”

  “Love your work.”

  “Thanks.”

  The crowd was like a heaving churning maelstrom of fury. I decided I’d better get the hell out of there.

  “Thank you Wolverhampton. You’ve been marvellous. See you next time. Be good.” But when I looked around, I saw that the exits were barricaded as more furiously psychotic Slade fans slathered and howled for my blood. It was me against the world. I was moments from death. A disembowelled usherette hit the stage in front of me. There was ice cream and ribs everywhere. It was either think quick or die, so I decided to think quick. What shall I think about I thought. I didn’t have much time. Whatever it is, I’d better do it quickly. I know, I thought. Well what is it then? I thought back. I’ll tell you, I thought. Well go on then, what is it? I thought back again. I’ll tell you. Go on then. I’ll seduce them with my comedy. Nice thinking. And it was.

  It was a comedy miracle. Just like something out of the Bible. I stole one of Ben Elton’s jokes and got a laugh.

  “A funny thing happened to me on the way to the theatre, tonight,” I thrilled. “I was walking past an Elizabethan Horse Shop and the farrier said, “Hello Rik Mayall, big fan, lots of love, can I interest you in a horse?” and I said to him, “nay.”

  I was saved. The blood-drenched hell-pit was mine once again. I had prevailed. Next night of the tour – Broadmoor. Easy.

  The thing is viewer, I have always been great and I have always loved appearing live. It’s like I’m appearing live all the time but I do find it’s best with a live audience. Every town is different and has its own personality and I treat them all in a different way. I’m clever that way, clever but careing. On the south coast, for example, wherever that is, I find the audiences tend to be a lot older and it takes a lot longer to get them going*. But after an hour in the company of The Master (me) they’re usually boffing each other in the aisles and snorting crack off each others genitals with joy. I’ve always been able to knock them dead in the retirement homes. In other places, like Glasgow, they appreciate more physical comedy. One time, when I was on Tour with Andy de la Tour (no relation), I got a nine minute standing ovation when a fan ran on stage and I battered him to death with a tyre iron. But wherever it is that I go, one thing’s for certain, I’m always dangerous. I am a comedy outlaw, a punk icon. To this day, people still spit at me in the street.

  [AMUSING CHAPTER TITLE HERE]

  While I was storming the ramparts of the British establishment, tearing up the rule book and sticking it to the squares*, Peter “Peter Richardson” Richardson was becoming the greatest film directer of his generation. I used to like to give “Peter Richardson” (as I like to call him) a hand which I did by starring in all of “Peter Richardson”‘s landmark productions such as War, Beat Generation, Summer School, Dirty Movie, A Fistful of Travellers Cheques, Gino, Bad News etc, etc, etc, – there’s so many I could talk about – which I could if I felt like it but I won’t right now. It’s just another one of my things. But the only down side of my breakthruogh performances in these films was that I showed up a lot of the other members of the cast for their poor acting abilities. That is why so many of “Peter Richardson”‘s films didn’t have me in them. We thought we would give the others a
chance to shine too. I’ll mention no names†. Let’s just say that the history of light entertainment has not been as kind to others as it has been to me, and it’s not fair to kick a man or a woman when they’re down. Although there was that time with that nasty little Scottish shit in that awful late nineties pile of drivel that I somehow got involved with. I know you’re supposed to be nice to disabled people but there are some times in life when you just have to push people down staircases. Teeth and claret* all over the floor of the Celebrity Squares set. How we laughed. If only the cameras had recorded it, we could have shared the moment. Although, thinking about it, maybe it was Blankety Blank? Oh who gives a toss. Let’s just go to another paragraph.

  I remember it so clearly, as clearly as if it was yesterday which is amazing really because it wasn’t yesterday. It was a long time ago. I can’t remember exactly when, but I do know that it wasn’t yesterday although I can remember it like it was. I can do things like that. I’ve probably already told you. I can’t remember. I’m like that. You just can’t stop me when I’m off and running, so get your brain around this anecdote for a mother. One day, back in the mid-eighties, I was sitting in this cool place, or somewhere else, it doesn’t really matter. I can’t remember. Anyway, it suddenly came to me SLAM! and it was there in front of me. An idea. It was time to create another landmark BBC situation comedy vehicle for me and my show business cohorts. So, I called up Little Ben-Elton and told him to get his typewriter out and went to see Paul Jackson, the head of the BBC, and told him I was putting the old team back together again to finish off the last remnants of the fetid diseased art form that was family entertainment.

  “Good idea, Rik Mayall,” he said and we were on†.

  While Little typed up my great gags and tried to pass them off as his own, I went looking for Nigel Planer who played Neil in The Young Ones, a powerful individual acter of stupendous insight and vision who would help me take British television by the scruff of the neck and shout “Hey Britain, wake the fucking crikey up!” in its face.

  I found him sitting on a park bench.

  “Hey Nige, it’s Rik!”

  “Who?”

  “Rik Mayall, your great mate and fellow comedy colossus.”

  “Hello.”

  “I need you for my breakthuogh new situation comedy idea.”

  “Great.”

  “I’ve got a really big one here and I’m not talking about my penis – although it is enormous.”

  “Who did you say you were?”

  “Look, Nige, stop messing around, I know you’re an amusing guy but this is serious. I need you to do a job.”

  “But I don’t need to go.”

  “Great gag but no, now listen to me for a moment, we need to finish off the last dregs of the old guard of comedy. Think of me like Karl Marx – only with better hair. This show will be like a death camp for old-style light entertainment. When we have finished, art will be purified, refreshed and blonde.”

  “Radical man.”

  “Exactly. You’ve hit the nail right on the head which means that you’re absolutely right.”

  “Great.”

  “It’ll be like old times – only better.”

  “Who did you say you were again?”

  Suddenly, my mobile telephone rang. This being the mid-eighties, I kept it in a supermarket trolley because it was too heavy to carry, and I heaved it out – almost slipping a disc in the process – and held it up to my ear. It was my talented and better looking comedy partner Adrian Edmondson.

  “Have you got the cunt yet?”

  “Yes I think so, Adrian, thank you for calling.”

  “Good, get him to sign the contract, I need his money.”

  “Yes yes, Adrian, of course, great idea, I’m doing it now.”

  “Hey queer, don’t you owe me some money?”

  “How much would you like, Adrian?”

  “Another fifty grand or it’s the other kneecap.”

  “Oh Christ, Adrian, that’s fine, fifty grand, no problem. And hey, great mate, can I have some my children back now?”

  “No.”

  “You said that after the last instalment, I could have some back.”

  “No I didn’t.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Just shut your fucking mouth and send me the cheque, and remember, you’ve never said or done anything funny in your life, got it?”

  “Yes, sorry sir.”

  “Shut up your blabbering. You know it makes me vomit. Listen, I want the money by sun down or you’ll hear another one of your children squealing on the phone.”

  “Okay, great idea, no problem.”

  And that, viewer, is how I came to make Filthy, Rich and Catflap which became a huge gaping cult. The critics hated it though. Bastards. The thing is you see, it wasn’t The Young Ones and the “critics” were so stuck in the early eighties – and this was the mid-eighties. I was so way ahead of them, you see – it’s not that the show was a pile of bollocks, it’s just that I was screaming forward like one of those Japanese bullet trains that go about two hundred miles an hour, only this one was on fire with heavy metal pop music playing at full blast on the in-Japanese-bullet-train-that’s-on-fire stereo hi-fi system. I should have slowed down to let the critics catch up but you know what I’m like. Anyway, I know that Filthy, Rich and Catflap was great and you know it was great – and that’s all that matters. Never mind what the critics say. They’re all utter utter utter bastards*.

  HOW TO CREATE EDGE CUTTING TELEVISION PROGRAMMES

  One day, on a dark elevenses Wednesday, I was just finishing explaining to the Worcester Police (who are terrifically good and always on my case) that I had nothing to do with the fire at Worcester Cathedral twenty years ago. I was a bit hungry but I didn’t have any food in so I went off to Sainsbury’s (but before I went I thought I’d put on my Australian underwear because I didn’t want to take any chances) and that’s when it happened. I saw this tree and I thought, “God isn’t that interesting – nature. I know, I’ll go on holiday.” And I did and it was while I was there that I thought to myself how sick and tired of racism I was. Especially racism in light entertainment. It makes me furious. I have been trying to get Lenny Henry banned for years.

  Anyway, there I was on the beach with a cigarette in one hand, banana dakiri in the other and I’d got my “I fucked Greg Dyke” T shirt on because I like to be controversial wherever I go – even though no one had heard of Greg Dyke then – this was years ago. I was just sitting there watching all the people wandering past me thinking, “Fucking hell, that’s The Rik Mayall on the beach,” and then they formed into small delegations that would come forward to me and ask for my autograph and I would engage them in conversation for a moment, offer them sex and see if they had any drugs on them (which I don’t take and anyway they always say they haven’t got any. Little shits. It’s heart lifting moments like this that are always just like my old friend whose name escapes me used to say…oh let’s not bother with that, it’s not very good.)

  Anyway, I want to stop the book here and now to tell you my great anecdote about the theatre director and big impresario type, Richard Eyre. It’s very good, but first things first, some background information. The Government Inspector is a play written by some Russian twat or other called Nikolai Gogol. God knows how he thought up that name. And it’s all about pre-revolution-ary Russia, (if you can believe anybody in their right mind would be interested in a play about that! No one would want to see bollocks like that especially at the National Theatre – mind you, no one goes to that shit hole anyway.) So Richard Eyre’s thinking, I’ve got a pile of bollocks to show to acres of no one in a shit hole. What am I going to do? I know, I’ll get Rik Mayall. He’s a problem solver. He’s a curse lifter. I can see it now, jam packed bars, fabulous reviews, but most importantly bums on seats. (Pervert.)

  Clever man, Richard Eyre. Good director. Good lay as well. I never said that. Quick get out of here to the next paragraph. Fuck.r />
  Anyway this arse-faced play’s all about these poshos and aristos who wander around with canes and groovy hair and this twat comes to town called Klestakov (that’s me – fucking good too) and he is mistaken for the government inspector and he ponces about and everybody sucks his cock (metaphorically speaking) because they think he’s the government inspector even though he isn’t. That’s the basic gag. See what I mean? What a pile of bollocks. And Richard Eyre was the director, right? And he came to all the rehearsals, right, but then he didn’t even bother to come on stage for the performance! I was on stage every night for three months and he didn’t come on once! I only ever saw him off stage, giving notes, advising people and, you know, helping. It’s a nice angle and I don’t think he ever got caught once. Nice one, Rich, respect. See what I mean? He had a good life. He didn’t have to put on his costume. He didn’t have to do his make up. He didn’t even have to fuck any of the extras! Bit of a miscalculation actually. Some of them were quite tasty (but not Marian Farley – I don’t want to imply there was anything wrong with her twadge but she tasted FOUL. Take it from Rikky, DON’T GO THERE.) Anyway, I’ve got this brilliant story about him. And it’s true. So it’s more than just a story, it’s a hot news item – a showbusiness nugget of golden truth, if you will. Or if you won’t. I don’t fucking care.

  I want you to know here and now that I’m not bitter about bad reviews when I very occasionally get them. Lesser talents get spiteful and angry. I turn the other cheek. It’s like water off a duck’s back – not that I do things like that with ducks. I’m just not like that. Anyway, let’s walk away from this. It’s turning ugly and I don’t do ugly. I can feel a cloud hanging over my typewriter, a cloud that screams, “I smell death and I want it now – I want my veins to burst so that rivulets of blood stream down my arms as I howl for release from seven types of agony.” Kind of thing. You know typewriters. Let’s just forget about it.