by Rik Mayall
Anyway, get back to me as soon as possible and maybe drop in* next time you’re in town (but please call ahead if you’re planning to so I can get the toilet reinforced and the house underpinned).
Cheers! Mine’s a double (or a large one or whatever they call it with sherry),
Rik Mayall (acter, comedian and top British phenom)
Mark Rogers
EMI Records
46 Brook Green
London W6
3rd March 1988
Yo Mark man,
Was it you that had the heart attack? Anyway, never mind about that, I’m told you’re the guy to talk to about rock. And that’s fucking cool with me. Man. (Sorry I nearly forgot.) Because I am rock. And I’m just hanging here with some chicks, blowing on a few joints, drinking some Jack Daniels with my shirt buttons open to the waist and I’m thinking about getting another hurty tattoo done. Not sure whether to go for a snake design or a topless lady on a motorbike. You do know that when I say topless lady, I don’t mean a woman who’s just driven her Harley Davidson at 100 m.p.h. under an unexpectedly low bridge. Or maybe I’ll just go for both designs or even combine the two so that the topless lady on the motorbike is wearing the snake around her neck like a scarf. It’s all the same to me because I don’t care. I’m too busy chilling out with my chicks here and listening to heavy rock pop music like I do most days at this time of the afternoon in Stourbridge. It’s really loud as well.
Anyway, Mark man, the thing is that now that the legendary greatest band ever, Bad News, have finally ridden their Harley Davidsons into the byss (like on that Bat Out Of Hell record cover), I thought it was time to throw down (meaning record) a few cuts (songs) for my first ever solo concept album, AN UNEXPECTED SPURT OF EVIL, which is enclosed (which means it’s in the envelope marked PLEASE DON’T NICK – IT’S VERY VALUABLE AND DON’T THINK ABOUT DOING IT BECAUSE I KNOW WHERE YOU LIVE WHOEVER YOU ARE AND THAT’S NOT A LIE SO JUST DON’T DO IT, OKAY?). So that’s where the tape is, Mark, ‘kay? You’ll see that it’s a C90 tape and it’s nearly full up so I think that means that it is practically a whole double album which is great because then we can have one of those gatefold sleeves with a big band photograph or a big fantasy illustration of me on a motorbike with a chick, driving really fast whilst I’m drinking some whisky and smoking lots of cigarettes or those little Cherillo things like Clint. Everyone’ll rave about it and think that I’m great. And they can show it to their girlfriends too whilst they listen to me rock.
At the moment, all the tracks (the tunes on the tape) are just hard raw recordings of me singing the songs and playing my acoustic guitar, so you’ll have to imagine what they will sound like when I’ve got the band together and there are some really heavy drums and good guitar solos. Also, once I’m in the studio, man, with the guys and a top producer, I will be able to sing much louder. On the tape, I don’t sing very loudly because it distorts a bit on the cassette player and the neighbours complained quite a lot this time. Obviously, the full album will be an awful lot longer – maybe even a triple album – because I would really like – sorry, dig – to have some massively long guitar and drum solos if at all poss (means possible). Thank you.
The concept behind this concept album is really important to me, man, and is something that I think I could talk about for a long time in interviews like in my favourite magazine, Kerrang. The concept is that other rock music is either really heavy and shouty or really loving and tender but (you’re gonna like this Mark baby – maybe skin yourself up a J (this means roll a cigarette with marijuana in it)), this album is going to be really heavy AND loving and tender. I reckon that with some clever marketing (which is where you dudes come in) we could unite the two Heavy Rock factions.
Anyway, before we go any further, it’s probably best if you actually listen to the album and see what you think. If I were you, I would stretch out on a couch (preferably leather) with your shirt off and your hair down, smoke a few more Js and drink some bourbon and let the music drift over you. A few blondes with their jugs out sitting around on motorbikes would also be good but it’s up to you. Anyway, here goes…
So hey man, like, what do you think? Pretty powerful I think you will agree. (You have listened to it all the way through haven’t you? If not, then make sure you do.) Good, now, as far as the band’s name is concerned, I have given this a lot of thought and I have decided that I want to call it, MEPHISTOFELES HAS RISEN. Maybe we could put a couple of dots over the “O” in Mephistopheles like Motorhead do. As for the image, I’m thinking epic and Nordic is the way we should go. I would also like the members of the band to have kind of viking stage names like Fjord Rockstack, Adolf Car-Accident and Thor Arse – stuff like that. Rock is a serious business. There are Monsters of Rock and there are Monsters of Light Entertainment and I am one of both.
So, I’ll leave it with you, man. I know it’s a lot to take in all in one go (which is what a lot of chicks say to me when I’m doing my good loving on them).
Take it easy man,
The Rik “Rock is my middle name” Mayall, A.K.A. Colin G. Grigson.
S.C. Johnson Ltd
Frimley Green
Camberley
Surrey
23 rd November 1988
Dear Shake ‘η’ Vac,
Actually, forget about it. It was just a thought. It doesn’t matter.
Keep up the good work.
Yours etc,
Rik Mayall, The (Mr)
SEX*
A question for you viewer: what do you do when a jealous husband catches you red-handed with his wife and you’ve got a pork pie up your arse? It’s questions like this that international celebrities like me are faced with perpetually. And I ask you this question in my own special way, thinking on my feet, unless I’m lying down, which I always don’t, but picture the scene right, a top posh bird’s flat somewhere in the south of England or wherever’s special to you – wherever that is, that’s exactly where it was. Ouch! Stuff about Rik coming atchya†. That’s synchronicity that is. Anyway, this story is true this is, it really is, listen. What happened is that I had just been to see that movie with Mickey Rooney in it, you know, that incredibly great film Nine and a Half Weeks. If you’ve seen the movie (and if you haven’t there’s very little point reading this chapter so you might as well move on to the next one because all the following stuff is big boys hot-time stuff for real men and ladies from the dark side. So you’d better finish up your Ribena and get out of town because we’re going in.) Now you’ll remember that Mickey Rooney and that blonde bird Kim Wild get down to some breakthruough cinematic erotica on the kitchen floor by the fridge and Mickey Rooney starts putting loads of groceries all over Kim Wild and then they have it off. Well, I think they have it off – I missed the second half of that scene when I went to see it at the cinema because I had to pop out for a wee at that point actually and not for any other revolting ignoble reason as the security guards claimed when they caught me in the Ladies and had me thrown out of the cinema. And the only reason I’ve got a subscription to Readers Wives, Razzle and Big Ones International is because I am interested in all forms of media – which is newspapers and magazines and comics and television and stuff – and don’t want to feel that there are any gaps in my knowledge. I also have a subscription to Radio Times but it doesn’t mean I masturbate over it, does it?
Anyway, I was in this posh bird’s flat and I said to her in my alluring way, “Do you want some food, love?”
And she said: “No thanks Rik Mayall, I thought we were going to do some having it off?”
“That’s what I meant, bird. We can do some having it off with food on top.”
“Oh crikey, blimey, you top acters are so [fill in word that means louche and Risk A].”
So I went to the fridge like a nuclear submarine, opened it up and stood there with my six pack glistening, my biceps trembling and my calves flexing. But the fridge was empty! My Mickey Rooney/Kim Wild shagging with food concept lay in ruins on
the kitchen floor.
“Bird, get your coat, we’re going to my secret West End apartment which I rent in order to have somewhere to do hot romancing on actresses without my wives and families finding out*.”
“Great, Rik Mayall, let’s go now.” And we did, straight out of the door (we put some clothes on first obviously – I’m not a naturalist – although I am very natural. Which is curious really. Maybe I’ll come back to this later.) We went straight across the pavement and caught a bus to where my secret flat is (if you’re reading this Selina, it’s all made up – I don’t really have a flat – it’s just a joke*) and when we got inside, my bird took all her clothes off and got onto the kitchen floor. I took all my clothes off and went to the fridge, opened the door and stood there with my six pack glistening, my biceps trembling and my – never mind, I’ve done that bit. I looked inside the fridge and the first thing that caught my eye was a piece of Edam cheese. Now, a word of advice for you viewer. Cheese and sex are not happy bed fellows. It’s like coco-pops and dangleberries – you’ll never know whether it is a dangleberry or a coco-pop until it’s stuck in your teeth and then it’s too late. If you find yourself in a situation like this and you’ve only got brown food to play with (like HP sauce) then I suggest you keep your reading glasses on and keep a flashlight handy under the duvet. It’s tricky to tell what’s what in the darkness and I’m not talking about that rubbish band either. Curry sauce is another one that you should avoid at all costs, especially if it’s Vindaloo – it’ll sting for weeks.
Anyway, I thought “no fucking way!” in my great way to the Edam and looked for something else. Next to the Edam was a pot of crab paste [print carefully]. Fish products are another bad idea for obvious reasons so I continued my search until I found the only other food product in the fridge – which was a pork pie. I stood there erotically for a moment and thought to myself, “What would Mickey Rooney do?” And that’s when it hit me like an out of control petrol tanker that is rolling down a cliff on fire. “Slice it,” came back the reply. Good reply I reckoned butchly, and that’s what I did. I sliced up the pork pie and inserted it between the cheeks of my arse to bring it to body temperature which is a highly respected advanced food love technique, especially when you’re moving backwards towards the bird to show off the slices of pork pie to arouse her. I have always been a highly considerate lover.
“Hurry up Rik Mayall,” said the bird. “I’ve been waiting here for half an hour for you to infuse me with your sensational love making and all you’ve been doing is squatting over a mirror trying to bloo tak slices of pork pie to the inside of your buttocks. It just doesn’t give me the horn.”
And then out of the blue after another fifteen minutes, she said, “Oh bollocks to this, I’m going back to Keith Chegwin.” Ha! So what, what did I care? Less is more, as I say to so many birds as I fold my pants at the foot of their beds next to my trousers giving them a side shot of my torso*. I’ve always been known as “Catnip to Women†” which means that I am to women what catnip is to cats which means that they go bonkers and can’t get enough of me (the women not the cats). I could make a pussy joke here but I’m not that sort of comedian and if you’re looking for that sort of gag‡ then you’re in the wrong book. That is bad comedy. And you ought to know by now that Rik Mayall doesn’t do bad comedy. La bad comedie, ce n’est pas moi (which is French for something or other. It fucking is. Look it up if you don’t believe me.)
Mohammered L. Fayed
Harrods
Shop
Nightsbridge
In London
14th December 1990
Dear Mohammered L.,
Shut up and listen. I’ve got a fucking great idea for your pre-Christmas sales drive. If you give me five hundred thousand quid, I’ll come into your store twice a week for a month and wander around buying lots of stuff and saying how great it is. I can say all this in one of my trademark loud voices that I’m so good at. You could do with some proper slebrity endorsement. What do you reckon? Are we on? Please forward cheque and it’s a deal.
Keep up the good work. Job done.
Yours with, erm, whatever it is that they say at the end of letters like this,
The Rik Mayall (hi-profile acter and stand-up icon)
CONDOM MEMORANDUM
TO: Derek Henderson
C.E.O. Jureck Condoms
FROM: The Rik Mayall
Showbusiness phenomenon
February 20th 1991
Dear Derek,
My agent Heimi Fingelstein has just called me – that was him on the phone just now, you can dial 1471 and do ringback if you don’t believe me (and I don’t fuck about and talk bollocks so you’d better believe me) – and he said that you want me to endorse your new range of Maximum Warrior condoms. I wanted to write and tell you that this is fucking great. No, seriously, it’s fucking really fucking great and I’ve got tons and tons of solid workable ideas about ad campaigns and scripts and stuff involving me and condoms and birds and nobbing and stuff and already I can see that this is shaping up to be another Mattahorn in my great career. See how I did a lot of swearing back there a few sentences ago, well that’s me all over because 1 live on the edge, the cutting edge – they call me The Edge Cutter.
You know about me and capitalism, Derek, and if you don’t then you really bloody well ought to because me and the capitalists are extremely in bed together hardcore style which is the thing which makes your wanger-anorak advertisement concept such a total cock-ripping baby-maker in my opinion and that’s the one that really counts in showbusiness – which is what everyone in showbusiness says except maybe some people who don’t but hey Derek, let’s get real, they’re just cunts anyhow so just forget I ever said it. It didn’t happen. I’m not here. Walk away. Job done. Goodbye.
Hey Derek, got you right between the eyes there. I’m not actually finishing the memo there as you might have thought, I’m just being dramatic which is kind of what you pay for when you hire the showbusiness Schlieffen Plan which is what I am. I mean yes, some people say that my memos are too long but hey, get out of Denver, baby, they’re just wrong. Wrong. That’s all I ever say. Wrong. That’s the only word I use. Wrong. There, I just did it again. Anyhow, first off – and I’ve been thinking about this a lot for lots of reasons which I’ll get to in a moment – I’m not one hundred per cent comfortable with the name. Mmm, big one, isn’t it. If you want me to be the face of your condoms (not literally of course – although it’s a thought) for the next twenty years then you should listen up because this is important. Maximum Warrior Condoms – the Maximum and Condoms bits are great but are you sure about the Warrior part? There are other warriors – some big and some small. For example (E.G.), Samurai warriors are Japs and we don’t want people thinking that our brave boys have got Jap-sized nobs. The British warrior has historically always had an apocalyptic nob. Hey, this is a time of war after all and any suggestion that our Tommies have small cocks is just NOT GOOD FOR morale. (Do you see the thinking behind that there? Passion, right? Correct. Read on.) Well get this Der, this is going to work – how about Maximum Chieftain Tank Condoms? Or Flying Fortress Condoms? How about Aircraft Carrier Condoms? It’s got a good ring to it and I’m not making a joke there. Blitzkrieg or Firestorm condoms would also look good on the shelves in the chemists. These are all concepts that we need to slalom around in our media dune buggy, you know like those great ones that bounce about the place in the sand looking hard. You could have me in one with a suntan and an obligatory bird. That’s going to sell a lot of rubber johnnies, my friend.
But hey hey hey Derek, hold everything, I don’t want us to fall out about the name here or anything. I mean, you’ve probably got quite a big cock yourself. I mean, working for Maximum Warrior like you do you’re bound to and there’s no way that I want to cast aspersions on it or in it or whatever you do with them (the aspersions, not your cock obviously). I mean I’ve hardly got to know you. But I bet Mrs Henderson’s a bit of a top bollocks
bird, isn’t she? I don’t want you to feel that I’m hitting on Mrs Henderson, Dickie, if I may call you Dickie. It’s just that who knows? Maybe when we get to know each other better we might like to get into a bit of wife swapping. Obviously I’d have to check her out first or maybe you could send a photograph. I can’t promise anything but so long as she’s up to scratch and jugged up then you’re on. At the moment I’ve got myself a Japanese wife and you know what they say about it going from side to side, well it’s not true.
Anyway, supposing that we stay with the Maximum Warrior name as opposed to Maximum anything else (like Field-Marshall perhaps) – here’s a few fabulous cutting edge ideas that I’ve come up with as part of your marketing campaign.
