by Rik Mayall
Rubber was burning, people were diving out of their cars to get out of my way as we screamed along the interstate highway towards what me and the Americans call The Dream Factory.
I swatted the door open like a big fly that was in my way a bit in the door frame, and was made of door, and walked into wardrobe where I stood and looked around the room in a medium shot. I was panting like someone quite out of breath and mildly perspiring which I hid with my acting technique.
There was a silence.
“Are you the guy?”
“I’m the guy.”
Carlos and Tony, the big swinging screenwriting gods who had phoned me in London, stepped out of the shadows. Big, white, New York, guns. We high fived. We upper four B’ed. We middle sixthed. We went to see the headmaster. We rusticated each other and we nearly got expelled.
“Are you packing, Rik Mayall?”
“No, my pants are too tight.”
They slipped me a piece. They gave me a gun as well. But I refused it.
“You’ll have to learn the script,” they said, as one.
“I’ve learnt it already,” I said as one as well.
“Shit man, we knew you were a top acter but to learn the whole script in a two hour flight, that’s blown our goddamn fucking minds,” they said high fiving the furniture.
“Cool it guys,” I said, “Daddy’s here. Now, send in the wardrobe people*.”
In they came.
“Green,” I said, “with red hair.”
“Sure thing, Rik Mayall,” said the wardrobe people and they went away immediately muttering, “he looks very good for twenty. He’s lost a lot of weight. Great muscle tone as well. If I was a chick I’d fancy him.”
“I am and I do,” said a chick.
“I’m going for a sex change,” said one of the guys.
“So are we,” said the others. And they did.
I didn’t hear any of this conversation and I went to work, making subtle rewrites to the script with one hand and discussing Drop Dead Fred Two with the other†.
Double crikey with lots of gosh – this script is a work of genius, I thought broodily to myself playing my cards close to my chest. All it needed was someone to realise it and make it live and breath. Now I understood the telephone call. There wasn’t an acter alive or dead in America who could begin to wonder how to cope with beginning to think about the concept of how to commence the first glimmer of an entree into the dark pulsating heartbeat of this gargantuan figure, Drop Dead Fred, who was going to dominate the now-closing century. Thank God Olivier was dead. Not because he was better than me and would have taken the part from me and played it himself and I would have had to walk away and watch him bankrupt Working Title Films*. No, far from it. It was because poor Lawrence was too old and decrepid to play a part like Fred and he would have had to try and hang himself with his arthritic old fingers. I couldn’t live with that. I’m a nice guy. I don’t say unpleasant things about that cunt.
Even Orson couldn’t have done it. Orson couldn’t fly. They certainly didn’t have a crane that could lift him. There was indeed only one man in the world who could bring this to life. This piece of cinema was going to overshadow everything that had gone before in the artform and was going to bring the century of film to a shuddering climax. I would be the coda.
“This movie will save the film industry,” I said quietly in case someone stole these words and put them on posters for their films. Nothing is private aboard the Hollywood love machine.
As soon as I was on the set and the news got out, other top quality film acters came to watch me work. It was like an acting masterclass. There were over two hundred and fifty top name Hollywood stars gathered around the camera. I don’t want to say their names because I’d rather protect their identities and in no way wish to demean their craft. But I’ll say here and now that the fat one was there, that nasty one with the skin problem, and the really absurd one with the ridiculous haircut. All of them watched me from their own auditorium which they had designed for them by a top designer whose name I also won’t mention. Thankfully, I am never more at home than in a theatrical environment. So rather than being intimidated, I was infused. As you probably already know, viewer, they call me Mr Theatre.
The director, Ate De Jong, said “Turn Over*” which I did. Then I got up again. Everybody loves that joke and they all howled with laughter. A good joke like this always puts people at their ease on a first day’s shooting. As the raucous laughter echoed around the set, I noted the looks of joy upon the faces of the sound department as they realised how important sound is to me.
People tried to give me flowers.
“No,” I staged a tantrum, “no adulation on set. We’re working here.” The audience backed off respectfully, putting their awards they were going to shower me with back into their handbags.
Silence. All you could hear was my heart bumping.
“Sound, turn over and…action!”
I moved my head slightly to the left into the light.
“Cut! That’s beautiful,” said Ate.
More applause. I was beginning to worry about my ears. Ate fell to his knees, weeping: “We’ve already got two seconds in the can and it’s still spring.”
My co-star Phoebe Cates was the most beautiful woman I had ever seen. There must have been a reason why God had made me marry before I met Phoebe. And then I saw Kevin Kline and I knew that God had saved Phoebe for Kevin. God knows, I’m not an adulterer – I don’t even know the meaning of the word. I don’t even know that it means having it off with loads of birds that aren’t your wife. Kevin is Mr America and I am Mr Europe or maybe Mr Rest-of-the-world – only time will tell. I am history in the making and it’s a historical fact that my Andrex commercials have been heard all over the world. You name it – Zanzibar, Wales, my Bottom has been seen in Croatia.
What was extraordinary about the film was that everyone was beautiful – not just Phoebe. For those of you who were in it and are reading this, read that first line of this paragraph again because it’s good. But what I brought to the set was all the classlessness and quality and love that is so English to American sensibilities. I was a whole new concept for them. They basked in my making-them-feel-nice. The cast were always telling me how happy I made them – as did the accountants because of all the money that the global cinema audience was about to shower upon them.
The shoot* was near Chicago, and the thing is that no one was murdered in Chicago whilst I was there. In fact, there was no crime at all. A whole new love had descended on the land. This was not a wishy washy hippy love. This was a true Judeo-Christian-Moslem non-denominational love. The chief of police from Chicago came to the set with some prostitutes who wanted to meet me. They were out of work and hungry because all the crime had stopped. At first, they tried to attack me and threw sachets of heroin at me because they were no longer employed. But then I spoke to them and all the other criminals who came to meet me and made them all realise that they should look for more worthwhile employment, and I made them smile for the first time in their lives. Because of my words, everywhere you looked, there were prostitutes that hadn’t been slept with, guns that hadn’t been fired and drugs that hadn’t been taken (especially not by me). It was as though the sun had come out. It was a very happy time for America and I’m sure this helped make Drop Dead Fred the bestselling movie of the nineties. That’s what we call films in America – movies. It’s short for “moving,” which is what my films usually are. And this one was very moving.
It wasn’t until I realised how big an American film set is and the amount that a talented acter can bring financially to such a large body of people that I realised how much prosperity I would bring to a vast swathe of the global entertainment industry. Even Britain with all its heart-breakingly bad films would have a knock on effect from this, recouping all the money that had been lost to the nation and making the industry appear profitable and worthwhile.
As you know, truth is the big word in
my life. It is the word. It’s the only word I know. Actually. That’s why it’s heavy – a heavy job for me to tell you, viewer, how things came about. But it’s a fact that I am the man who saved the British film industry. And there are millions of talentless people in the British film industry that don’t accept that – or even know it. No one has ever said thank you. Not that I expect thanking. It’s not in the British cultural make up to want people to say thank you to you. But in other countries all over the world, people come up to me with Drop Dead Fred posters asking me to sign them and then they thank me for what I have done and give me things. Some of the things they give me are shit but what do you expect from Eastern Europe?
The thing about Drop Dead Fred is that I gave myself to the film. You know that scene where my head was squashed – the really powerful dramatic one that makes people go “Fucking hell, look at that”? Well get this, that was no special effect. I did the whole thing with my own head. And that’s why (although only one reason) it became more than just a film. It became a bible for film makers and film enjoyers and film watchers and film critics*and anything associated with the art that is pointing a camera at a bunch of acters and filming them. At last, the film industry had discovered how to make films. I had shown them.
And it all started with just a telephone call on Christmas Eve* and it went on to become an international showbiz phenomeminem, no, global, no, trans-global, nay again, universal. In fact, it was outside the universe. It was trans-universal. The world had changed and I was at the vanguard of the change. Not that I talk about this. I practically find it impossible to blow my own trumpet. And that’s the truth and if you don’t believe me then fuck off. No offence.
MORE GREAT STUFF
Picture the scene, viewer. No, not that one, you disgusting fuckhole. If that’s what you’re looking for then you’re in the wrong book. Made me feel quite ill. Anyway, picture this scene: Cows with horns, circling vultures, a bit of that twig stuff sticking out of the corner of my mouth, cowboy boots on a chair and I’m wearing them sitting on another chair next to that chair and I’m looking out at the horizon. This is me in my hotel sweet on Sunset Boulevard. Films stars coming here and there. Chicks in those really short skirts that look as though someone’s just put some gaffer tape around their arses. Just hanging out. Me that is, not the chicks arses. Although they might be. And good luck to them if they are.
And that’s when it happened. I heard a voice through the door: “Shit man, I can’t like motherfuckin’ believe it man. It’s like whoah! – I’ve got a friggin’ letter for you man.”
It was the postman.
“Wait a minute, Mr Postman,” said I, “it’s just like being in that Carpenters’ song.”
I opened the door like a cluster bomb of early evening television comedy formats. The postman looked at me in that American way as if to say, “That’s the best joke I ever heard.”
“Have a nice fuckin’ day, motherfucker,” said Postie as he walked off whistling and muttering, “shit man, I ain’t never fuckin’ whistled before.”
I tore the letter open like a battering ram. “Dear Rik,” it said. Nice start, I thought. I can’t tell you what else it said because it’s confidential and has to remain in the national archives until it is de-classified in fifty years time. But I can paraphrase a bit. Basically it said, “Dear Rik, love your work, you are an inspiration to me. Great idea getting into bed with the Americans. All the best, Tony Blair, M.P.”
Tony Blair, M.P.? I mused in a brooding close up. I’ve heard of Tony Blair. He’s that good looking young M.P. that I’ve been keeping my eye on (which is not a gay thing although I’ve got nothing against them). And M.P. means Member of Parliament – that’s good, I thought he’d end up there.
It was like a tap on the shoulder from fate telling me that there was work to be done back in Blighty, or on the other side of the “love gulf” as I like to call the Pacific. This very letter – the contents of which I cannot divulge – made me feel the tug of my homeland. Like every Englishman worth his salt (not that I take very much) I decided to save my love for the people who sprang from the same sod* as I. It was a turning point in my life. It was time to shrug off my accursed modesty like a used chrysalis. Was this a new maturity? All I knew then was that I must concentrate one hundred per cent on what was so important in mine and so many other people’s lives – me.
And so began my relationship with Tony and Cherie. We met. We talked. We bonded. Now I’ve met a lot of famous people in my life especially in voice-over work but none that I have felt so at one with, instantly. It was as though we had been friends since childhood. But with Cherie, there was something else. Something more than friendship. And so it was that we grew closer.
Every man has a crucifix to hide and I am no exception. I will never openly discuss the love that Cherie and I have made because of the damage that it will do not only to Tony and Cherie themselves, but also to the British people. It’s not as though I’m going to reveal in print that Cherie and I have been on/off lovers for a long time now, or passionate pillow-biting adultarees as I like to think of us. And, believe me, she can bite a lot of pillow with a mouth like that. I’ve always adored Till Death Us Do Part. Alf Garnett is a huge inspiration to me.
The way I like to look at it is that I was doing a service for the country. Tony was a very busy man. He couldn’t apply himself to the task of satisfying his wife sexually while at the same time trying to rid the country of the working class and help the Americans to eradicate the Middle East. He needed help, which is where I came in. My award-winning lovemaking ensured that Cherie was a better Prime Minister’s wife and therefore Tony was a better Prime Minister*. Consequently, it’s a better world that we live in today. And our children – Cherie’s and mine – are lucky to have my genes and not their assumed father’s, because although Tony is beyond question in all political, moral and spiritual stuff, he wouldn’t have given them their brooding Heathcliff-like individuality and accomplished close-up abilities like I could.
Anyway, I’m not the sort of guy who puts things like that in books.
HOW I DESTROYED BRITISH TELEVISION
The Young Ones destroyed rock ‘η’ roll; Filthy, Rich and Catflap butchered light entertainment; The New Statesman brought down the Thatcher administration and Bottom was an all-out attack on existence itself. These are true words, viewer, read them and weep. Done it? Good. Now dry your eyes because there are important things to be told and no one – I repeat – no one, is innocent*.
I remember that day so well. The Soho pavements were lightly drizzled with rain. That’s why I had my raincoat on with the deep pockets. And I was walking along with my great friend Adrian Edmondson (who I love like a brother and is a much better acter than me). We had important business to attend to – show business. We were researching something, although I can’t remember exactly what it was. Not because my brain’s fucked because of all the years of drinking which I haven’t done or the fact that I fell off my quad hog. Let’s just say we were desperately not looking for drugs. We were spreading our large S and before we knew what had happened we found ourselves in a peep show. Now, the only reason that we had gone into the peep show was that we both find them very sexist (although Adrian finds them more sexist than I do because he is much more morally sound than I am) and we wanted to find out just how sexist the peep show was so that we could tell on it and have it closed down. And that’s where we met Paul Jackson, the Head of the BBC.
“Fucking hell, I mean, shit, hi Paul, what are you doing here in this one man cubicle?” I enquired.
“I’ve got a bit of a cold so I’m looking for some tissues that someone might have left in here.”
“That’s a coincidence,” I said, “so am I.”
There was an awkward silence. I don’t know why, because we were both telling the truth.
“Anyway,” I said, “I’ve just had a great idea for a television series.”
“Oh great,” said Paul, “that’s
why I’m in here just in case you might come in here saying something like that. Is that why your trousers have come down?”
“Yes that’s right, isn’t it Adrian?”
“Shut up, I’m not here,” said Ade and he wasn’t actually in the next cubicle masturbating because he doesn’t do that sort of thing. He must have been projecting his voice from a nearby charity organisation that he was donating money to.
“So why have your trousers come down?” asked Paul.
“Because that’s the title of my new great comedy show – I mean, ours, mine and Adrian Edmondson who isn’t here. It’s called Wanking erm, no, it’s called Used Tissues, no, no, it’s called 50 pence slots, no, erm, it’s called Paul Jackson, no, forget all that, it’s called Adrian Edmondson is not in the next cubicle masturbating.”
“Shut up fuck pig!” Adrian didn’t shout from the next cubicle.
“No,” I said thinking on my feet, “it’s called Bottom.”
“What’s it about?”
“It’s about me and Adrian Edmondson being brilliant on television and it’ll Ghana lots and lots of awards and bring the country to its knees with amusement.”
“You’re on,” said Paul zipping up and running.
“Phew that’s a relief, Ade,” I said.
“Shut up,” he said, “I’m trying to pull this bird.”
“What, through the slot?”
“Yeah, I’ve already got half her head through.”
“Nice one. Is it because you’re offended by the sexism of it all?”
“Yeah, I’ve just got to get my hands on her and get her home.”
“Great. Can I help?”
“No, fuck off.”
“Good gag, great mate.”
So, we took her back to my place where she beat us both up and left. So we had nothing to show for our day’s work but an idea for an award-winning TV series. All we had to do was write it. Which is no bother if you’re a legendary duo of dangerous gorilla humorists. Ade did the typing and he allowed me to go to the off licence to buy all the drinks. And what I really enjoyed about writing with Ade was that having your legs broken can be great fun and very funny.
