Bigger than Hitler - Better than Christ

by Rik Mayall

  “Lemme tell you somethin’ here, Rik,” he said (this really truly happened and you absolutely have to do it in a Little Richard accent to make it work). “You gotta keep the audience waiting before you get on that stage. This gets the audience high. And when the audience cain’t get no higher, you git on that stage and you take ‘em higher. You take ‘em higher and higher til they cain’t git no higher. And when you git ‘em as high as they can go [slight pause], that’s when you get off that stage*.”

  Listening to Little Richard’s advice was a momentous moment for me for many reasons. The success of Kevin Turvey opening most of my shows from an offstage mic a good five minutes before I got on was all down to Little Richard. Now that’s rock ‘n’ roll.

  Anyway.

  I like to think of live stand-up comedy like a flying fortress aeroplane. They call me the Dresden firestorm of light entertainment. Rik “Dresden firestorm of light entertainment” Mayall is my middle name. You swoop down low when you first come on stage and the nose gunner opens up with a couple of tweeters (small “warm up” jokes) like howling violent abuse at the audience, getting into a serious fight with the microphone or completely and utterly losing your temper with everything and committing suicide by throwing yourself into the orchestra pit. And then you open up your bomb bay doors and you hit the audience right between the eyes with your first woofer (the really heavy stuff, a “biggie”. Hilarity immediately prevails causing major spinal trauma from laughing-related whiplash injuries and spontaneous bowel eruptions). You might be pretending that you’ve forgotten to do your flies up and then when you do your flies up, you pretend that you’ve caught your nob in them. BANG! Off comes the roof and the audience are in the palm of your hand, fouling themselves with mirth and television executives are queuing up at the stage door waving cheque books. All of which reminds me of the night I found myself in a bar. It was not a strip bar – I want to make that perfectly clear. Even though it was in Soho and was called GIRLS GIRLS GIRLS and the waitresses weren’t wearing much – that’s because it was a bar for hardcore feminists like me – and a place where women could be respected properly. Right sisters?

  Anyway, there I was sitting there just being Rik Mayall, you know, being great and drinking some beer and doing some really good pub chat like I do with some great mates whose names escape me when BLAM! The door came in. Actually, it didn’t, it opened. Outwards. Or inwards, it depends where you were standing. Anyway, it was a moody day and the wind was lashing. The door opened and a man in full BBC uniform came in. It was Paul Jackson.

  “Hello Rik Mayall.”

  “Hello Paul Jackson,” I acknowledged selflessly. “Hey Paul?” I decided to hit him with a diamond bullet of a line just to show him my love and respect. What you have to remember, viewer, is that Paul Jackson was the Head of the BBC. He had great woofers and tweeters chucked at him all day long by comedy greats and didn’t even crack a smile.

  “What is it Rik Mayall?”

  “Have you let rip? Because I think I can smell one.” Paul collapsed to the floor in hysterics spraying the room with bodily fluids like those sprinkler things that people have on their lawns when it’s been sunny and the ground is a bit dry.

  “Great one Rik Mayall, another one of your cutting edge lavatorial gags.”

  “Just keeping it real and living the dream, Paul.”

  “What’s all this I hear from Britney about you working for ITV?”

  It went quiet. There was a chill. Everyone in the pub looked at me. And then they looked at Paul. And then they looked at me again, and then at Paul again, and it went on like this for a few seconds. It was like one of those spaghetti western moments – with great music and lots of close ups obviously. Actually, it was better than that. I did one of my moodies and took out a cigarette. I lit it and took a drag broodily – didn’t cough – and moved my eyes into the light. It was a good shot. I took a deep breath ready to say something meaningful and plot-laden when BANG! The door came in again – only it was a different door [check pub]. New paragraph.

  Here we are. The door came in. It was Andy Harries, the Head of ITV.

  “Fucking hell, it’s The Rik Mayall, blazing qasar of light entertainment,” he said in a northern accent (ITV). “I thought I’d find you here.”

  “Hello, Andy Harries, trouble at t’mill?” I quipped with a satirical nod to the regional stereotyping of old fashioned comedians.

  “Is that Paul Jackson, head of the BBC?” Andy asked.

  “It sure is,” I breathed like Clint in that other one with the guy with the big horse.

  Andy Harries blanched.

  “Eeeurgh!” gasped Paul Jackson. “Are you blanching at me? There’s only room for one broadcasting behemoth in this adult cocktail porno lounge*. Step outside.”

  “I don’t step outside,” said Andy Harries. “I step inside.”

  “So do I,” said Paul Jackson.

  “In that case, I step all over the place,” said Andy Harries.

  “Well you don’t step where I step,” said Paul Jackson.

  “Oh get on with it,” I said.

  “Okay Rik Mayall,” they said as one.

  “Look guys, we can do this,” I said, “we’re the big three here. We can sort this out.”

  Let me give you some backstory, viewer*. Andy Harries wanted me to go to ITV to make a series of dramatic films under the title Rik Mayall Presents…You probably know them. They were great. But Paul Jackson wanted me to do more comedy at the BBC. It was shaping up to be another Waterloo.

  “Please don’t fight,” shouted a bottomless barman.

  “The Rik Mayall is more than just a white knuckle ride of early evening comedy television formats,” said Andy Harries. “He can also tear up† serious acting like a freshly napalmed jungle. There are so many more quivers to his arsenal than just his comedy genius. He can act the shit out of a sewer.”

  “But this guy is the nob gag supremo,” retorted Paul Jackson. “You can’t tame him with serious films.”

  “Damn right I can,” said Andy Harries. “Just look at the costars who have waged brutal bloody wars to work with him. We’ve got Helena Bonham Carter, Martin Clunes, Saffron Burrows, Phil Daniels, Amanda Donohoe, Lee Evans, Frances Barber, Michael Kitchen, Eleanor Bron, Peter Capaldi, Michael Maloney and Stuart Hall from It’s a Knockout‡. You guys just can’t compete.”

  Paul was stunned. “I can’t do this. This is too big for me. I’m walking.”

  “Not so fast,” said Andy Harries.

  “Okay then,” said Paul Jackson and slowed down. Then he stopped and turned round. “No, I’ve changed my mind. This ends here.”

  They squared up to each other. Then they triangulated. And then, when it looked as though it was going to turn real hardcore ugly, I thought I had better break it up. But something stopped me.

  “Stand back Rik Mayall,” it said. “Let them fight. It’s better for the whole of the British nation’s broadcasting impasse this way.”

  “Thanks,” I said.

  “Don’t mention it,” it said.

  “I just did,” I said.

  “Oh don’t start on that one again.”

  I didn’t. We were cool.

  But right there in front of me, right then and there, it was like a TV executive slaughter house: blood, teeth, filofaxes, hair pieces, surgical supports, clip boards, boots with zips up the sides, tie clips, cuff links, enormous portable telephones (this was 1992), widely flared ties, white jeans, designer framed glasses that are dark at the top and not at the bottom, button-down shirts, and T-shirts with ironic slogans on the front – for the weekend. Everywhere. A member of the public tried to intervene and suddenly the whole place had erupted. There was a blizzard of objects: Sony Walkmans (with cassettes), Wayne’s World videos, Madonna Sex Books, Take That albums, Big Breakfast calendars, Femidoms, You’ve Been Tango’ed adverts, Los Angeles riots and lots and lots of tissues.

  Then, suddenly, CRASH! The door was caved in in an explosio
n of splinters and a vast shadow filled the frame. It was Robbie Coltrane. (Handy hint: If you ever get into a game of “my showbiz mates are harder than your showbiz mates” then you will always win if you say that Robbie Coltrane is your showbiz mate. But only say this if he genuinely is your showbiz mate because if he isn’t and he finds out, he’ll have you alive. I saw him eat a table once.) The fighting ceased in the blink of an eye. Everyone returned to their seats and pretended that nothing had happened as Robbie strode across the room like a colossus and ordered himself a bottle of whisky.

  “Hello Robbie Coltrane,” said I.

  “Hello Rik Mayall,” said Robbie (in a Scottish accent obviously). Then he picked me up affectionately and sat me on his shoulder. “Now then,” he said, “what’s the problem, big man?”

  “Top telly executives are fighting over me again. What can I do?”

  “It’s tough a one, Rik, but you’ve got to follow your heart. They’ve been fighting over me too. But I’ve made a decision – I’m going to ITV to do Cracker. You should do the same.”

  “Surely they wouldn’t want the two of us to play the part, Rob.”

  “No, I mean, you should go to ITV, it’s where all the top guys are going now.”

  “Nice one Rob, I think you’re right. It’s time I spread my talent far and wide.”

  “Not a problem wee Richie.”

  “Thanks very much Robbie, although it’s a bit scary up here on your shoulder, can you put me down now?” And he sat me kindly on his favourite ashtray.

  “Don’t mention it,” said Robbie as he stubbed out his Guards cigarette on my head, ate the empty whisky bottle and left.

  And so it was. We were both now working for the great ITV, Robbie making Cracker and me making Rik Mayall Presents. This had nothing to do with the fact that ITV pays sixteen times more money than the BBC.

  Rik Mayall Presents was a series of six movies. Movies is what you go and see when you go and see telly at the cinema. It’s like telly only bigger. Only what was good about doing them on ITV was that they were on the telly (the one at home) and my viewers could go to the toilet during the commercial breaks. Consideration is my middle name. They were huge artistic successes that would have conquered America if they had been released on the telly at cinemas there, but hey, I can’t do everything can I? I was too busy attending all those award ceremonies and prize receivings, accepting all the countless tropheys, awards, cups, plaque, medals, bar bills, maybe that should have been plaques back there, film offers and plaudits (which I do know how to spell. See “unexplained death of English teacher” section of whichever chapter it’s in*.)

  THE GREAT COVENT GARDEN BLOODBATH

  It was a Tuesday afternoon. I remember it so well. I was sitting in my exclusive private members’ club in Soho with a young actress. You know her name and you know her face but let’s call her X for legal reasons. She won’t mind me saying that because you’ll never guess. So there I was in my Soho Club and all was well in my world. It was 1988 and I had just received showers of critical acclaim for the Bad News album, the first New Statesman series, my sold out tour of Australia with Little Ben-Elton, and feature films like Eat The Rich, Strike, More Bad News, Mr Jolly Lives Next Door, and my genre-displacing management training video, Managing Problem People. But the icing on the cake was my appearance in The Common Pursuit at the Phoenix Theatre in the heart of London’s West End, which is like a second home to me. Actually, I’ve already got a second home, better make that my third home. It was a wonderful play by my great friend Simon Gray – who is now Lord Gray. Who is big mates with Harold

  Pinter. And anyone who is big mates with Harold Pinter* is all right with me. If you’re reading this Simon your Lordship – big love and respect. My fellow cast members were all great and I was very happy. Johnny Sessions was in it (who I have not had sex with), John “Hello I’m John Gordon Sinclair” Gordon Sinclair (no), Paul Mooney (no), Sarah Berger (yes) and my old friend Stephen Fry (see following page – just read the bit in between first). Another great thing about the play was that I got to smoke. I’ve always enjoyed smoking on stage, that’s why I’ve never done much Shakespeare.

  The Common Pursuit is all about some Cambridge intellectual types who write a student magazine called The Common Pursuit. The rest of the cast was good but I ripped the face off the place – probably because I was more intelligent than the others. And it was because I was such a sensitive and brilliant acter that Lord Simon wanted me for another of his great plays.

  Fast forward to 1995 and there I am at the Albery Theatre in Cell Mates with Stephen Fry. Unfortunately, when the play opened (which means when we had practised it a bit and then the critics (who I love) were invited to come and drink some free booze and write things about us) Stephen got some bad reviews. Now, I want to say here and now in my book that it’s not Stephen’s fault that he’s not as good at acting as I am and I would never want to rape over old ground but here are some of those reviews: “Stephen Fry is shit; Rik Mayall is a much better acter than him.” Daily Telegraph. “Fucking hell, I wish both parts were played by Rik Mayall because he’s much better than Stephen Fry.” The Times. “I’ve never seen such a shit performance as Stephen Fry’s in all my life. But Rik Mayall is great.” The Spectator.

  I couldn’t understand what was wrong. Maybe it was because Stephen wasn’t with his usual comedy partner, Huge Lorry, or maybe it was because he felt intimidated by my great performance but, whatever it was, Stephen was upset and unhappy. So, I went to comfort him and that’s when a thing happened. But unfortunately, I’m not allowed to speak about it. And after it had happened, Stephen told me that he was pregnant and would have to leave immediately and I wasn’t to tell a soul for at least ten years and preferably, not ever.

  Now, you know me, viewer, I am always very considerate of my fellow celebrities’ private lives and I’m not saying that Stephen ran away to Belgium because he was pregnant with our love child. There, you heard me not saying it just there. And if you didn’t quite catch me not saying it, then go back and read it again and remember that I’m not saying it. Anyway, he did fuck off to Belgium and Lord Simon was so upset he fucked off to the Caribbean leaving me all on my own in the heart of London’s West End – alone in the trench with the great Simon Ward (no) who took over from Stephen Fry. It was a tough gig* especially because I knew that the show was not shit. Every night when I was on stage doing one of my great Irish monologues in my terrific Irish brogues that I’m so good at I kept thinking to myself “this is not shit” in those very words but it still closed and absolutely no one got paid. Not even my agent, Heimi, and that’s unheard of.

  And it’s just a coincidence that I saw a bank and happened to have a gun in my hand that day in Covent Garden. It was all a terrible misunderstanding and I’m going to take this opportunity to set the record straight. You see, the thing is, I could see a load of armed robbers heading towards the bank I was standing next to. So I ran inside the bank and said, “Stick your hands up and put all the money in here,” because I happened to have a large canvas sack with me and I wanted to keep all the money safe so that the armed robbers couldn’t steal it and I could give it all back to the bank. I told everyone to get on the ground and those that couldn’t get down quickly enough, I shot so that they wouldn’t be shot by the armed robbers who were fast approaching the bank now. It was philanthropy [check everything]. Once I’d got all the money, I thought it best to put it in my sack and run away screaming, “Nobody moves motherfuckers!” and that’s when I accidentally kicked the bank manager in the face a couple of times and stamped on his head until he was unconscious. And when I got outside the bank, they were only warning shots that I fired at the police to let them know that the real bank robbers were getting away and I was going to chase after them. So the point is that when I got mistakenly arrested at gunpoint and was rammed face down in the gutter with policemen spitting at me and putting those nasty plasticy handcuff things on me, I selflessly gave my name to th
em, well, shouted it, as Stephen Fry, because it’s nice to give your showbusiness chums a mention when you get the chance. But it got me such a serious three hour kicking that I won’t be giving his name again. Although he might have enjoyed the enthusiastic round-the-back truncheon business.

  So you see, the whole thing is a terrific misunderstanding which is so rare for the Metropolitan Police who I think are great. Especially as it wasn’t me. In fact, I wasn’t there. Ever. I’ve never been to Covent Garden in my life. And fuck off if you don’t believe me. Oh I’ve had enough of this.

  Harvey Winestain

  Mirrormax Films

  5th Avenue

  New York

  New York

  U.S.A.

  January 2nd 1995

  Dear Harv,

  I don’t fuck about – you know that. I’ll come straight to the point. We’re both men of the world. We’re big men, both culturally and in your case, for real (no offence you fat cunt – we’re the kind of guys who like to rip the shit out of each other aren’t we?). So we don’t need to pussy feet around here – let’s just talk plainly and frankly like two big epoch-sculpturing overlords of the global entertainment industry which is what we are. I know we’ve both been admiring each other’s work for some time now but I thought I’d take the bull by the horn and make the big gesture here to break the ice. What I want you to know Harv is that there is room in the film-moviemaking industry for both of us. I want you to think of this letter as the well-washed hand of friendship. There is no point the two of us being giants in our respective areas of genius when we could join forces and advance man’s artistic endeavours in one vast triple-jump-like leap forward. I think both of us know that together, we are capable of reaching a new milestone in the history of human endeavour. So that’s what I think we should do. Right now.