by Rik Mayall
What I’m thinking here (and what I’ve been brain-tornadoing for weeks now) is a film that will totally blow the critics away but also give the punters the raging horn too. Pulp Fiction was good, I’ll give you that. In fact, you might want to get Quentin on the phone and read this bit of the letter to him out loud because it concerns him too. You see, the thing is Harv, I’ve got this film idea and it’s hot. In fact the word hot doesn’t do it justice. It’s totally on fire like a fireball careering towards earth like a meteorite – in fact it’s a mother of a meteorite, Harv, and it’s heading straight at you so you’d better duck or this baby’ll smash you right in the face big time.
Hi Quentin if you’re there, love your work (you have called him haven’t you, Harv?). Now what was good in Pulp Fiction was how like you took an old gangster movie kind of film and messed about with it and made it really happening and edge cutting with cool talking about cheeseburgers and foot massages. So what I propose with my blockbuster-in-the-making is that we take another old type of film like maybe a disaster film and play around with that too. It’s got green light written all over it already has it not. Obviously it hasn’t literally but don’t worry Harv, you’re in safe hands here.
Now you and me both know that it’s only the real men that survive in the blood-spattered abattoir that is modern-day film-moviemaking these days and interlectual fraud can be a big crime problem. So, in case someone has opened this letter before it’s got to you Harv, I just want to say to them that they shouldn’t even think about trying to steal my film idea because I’m going to the Photo-Me booth outside Ladbroke Grove Tube station right now to have a photograph taken of me holding up this letter in one hand with a copy of today’s newspaper in the other to prove that it’s mine. Got that? Job done. You really don’t want to fuck with me because I’m pretty hard and Harvey Winestain who this letter is addressed to is a bit gangster-like himself and would probably have you dumped in the river in a pair of concrete wellies if you fucked him. That’s gangster terminology and not what you think it is although I’ve got nothing against gay movies although they haven’t got any birds in them and they’re all shit. Not that I’ve seen any. Walk away. Like a hard guy. Which I am. Not that I’ve got a stiffy or anything because I’ve just said gay because I haven’t. Although I could have if I wanted. I can get a stiffy whenever I want. Ask anyone. Except Beatrice Campbell. She’s dead now. Not that I had anything to do with it. Anyway, it’s a metaphor. So nothing actually happened. Oh bollocks to all this anyway. How did this happen? Oh fuck everything. Give me a new paragraph.
Okay Harv, so now we’ve got the threats to potential ideas thieves out of the way, let’s press on. We’ve got a lot of ground to cover and you look like you tire easily, fat boy. No you don’t. Fuck! I’m typing too fast. Don’t read that last bit Harv. I dig you and you’re thin. All right Quentin? Fine. No – cool, or some word like that. Shoulders back, we’re going in…
TITLE: NAME OF RIK MAYALL’S GREAT NEW FILM
(This has got to be good, Harv – V. imp)
By The Rik Mayall
(getting wet yet?)
IMAGINE THE SCENE…
A Cinema. Audience. Popcorn. Everyone looking at curtains (ooer obviously). Check no one is looking. Open flies. Get nob out. Stick it through hole in bottom of medium-sized packet of popcorn. Nudge bird (not mate. And especially not mate’s bird), breath to bird, “Would you like to have a piece of my popcorn, bird/love (optional)?” Bird takes firm grip. Bird thinks it’s large piece of popcorn, starts pulling on it. Result. Nice work Thomas Edison. Then curtains open (ooer obviously again).
Film starts. Audience of ordinaries sit silently agape, transformed into mindless receivers of meaningless information in exchange for their cash. The sting is done. We’re on.
It’s a big sexy fuck off American airport. Cool, happening and wow! Fuck me blind, here comes a tall good looking stranger (27) striding through the duty free with a strong hairline and all his own teeth. It’s THE RIK MAYALL!
Bird’s grip on todger suddenly relaxes and she completely loses interest. But no problem, would actually rather watch this great film than get wristed off by bird.
The Rik is actering the edge-menacing, confident, currently available leading hard man, RIP STUFF. This is a blinder of a movie already. Look, Rip Stuff’s waiting for a ticket in the ticket queue. And there are lots of ordinary people wandering around meaninglessly buying tickets and duty-free things and being ordinary.
Rip broods his way through baggage control and waits for a while in a transit lounge. Maybe reads a book or something. (But not a complicated one, right, in case he alienates his audience. Cinema audiences are all usually iliterate don’t forget.)
This is where it starts to get good because what happens is that Rip gets onto a plane with a load of gangsters. In fact, only him and the pilot (someone not much but noticeably older than Rik and carrying a little too much weight) and the air hostess (Uma Thermon) are not gangsters.
For the next hour or so, there will be lots of snappy dialogue between all the gangsters you know, like they always do in films and you know, they do stuff and talk about loads of stuff like pop music and chicks they fancy and then harder more scary things like shooting people in the face. And then, irony of ironies in the bollocks, one of them does end up accidentally shooting the pilot in the face when he gets caught in the crossfire in a heated argument on his way to the toilet. This really hots things up Harv, I thought of this myself, because Rip Stuff has to take the controls and fly the plane. I forgot to mention earlier on that Rip has a basic knowledge of flying planes because he was in the R.A.F. Cadets at school. So I had thought of that. This is also when Uma Thermon starts getting really turned on by Rip’s brooding good looks and plane driving but he doesn’t give her one just yet because he’s got to fly the plane. Then lots of other really good stuff happens before Rip has to hand over the controls to Uma while he goes back to tell off all the gangsters who have now all really fallen out extremely big time and are standing there all of them pointing their guns at each other whilst doing really snappy dialogue. One of them might say something like, “Don’t fuck with me you fucking fuck, or I’ll stick my gun up your fucking trousers and blow your brains out of your fucking eyeballs, got it?” and things like that. And another one of them does some random unconnected swearing, and all of it is totally natural and film-like. But Rip is as cool as ice and tells them just to ruddy well shut up and stop making such a frightful racket whilst he’s trying to drive the plane. This is the most Cod-awful shitter though cos the gangsters don’t like being told off and they don’t give a toss so they throw Rip out of the plane. But get this, Rip doesn’t die! That’s right! And you can hear the audience going, “Fucking blimey mates, I was going to go home then, but now I won’t, I’m going to continue to be interested in this film now. What clever film makers, they really foxed me with that one.” That’s good film writing that is, Harv. I don’t miss a truck. You see, because, what Rip does is that he suddenly lands on a hot air balloon which just happens to be flying past (underneath obviously) and survives by using his great free-falling technique (which I’m good at). But it’s a motherfucker! (That’s Oedipal, Harv) because the hot air balloon is full of insurgents (we could make out that this is somewhere in the middle east but let’s not go there, it’s ghastly). And one of the insurgents has a rocket launcher hidden inside the balloon’s tidy box which Rip wrestles off him, spins round and fires broodily (or broodingly, or maybe broodishly – oh fuck this, check that, oh you can’t, this is a letter, OH CUNTS!, (ignore that bit Harv)) at the aeroplane but making sure just to nick the wing rather than blowing it up completely because we’ve still got Uma Thermon inside, remember, and her and Rip are still powerfully in love and still haven’t had it off yet.
So, now it’s had its wings nicked, the plane goes neeeeeeeeeeooooooeeeiiiiiiieeeeeeeaaaaaaarrrrrrgghhfuc-kingcrash into the desert but luckily not far from where Rip is being great in the hot ai
r balloon. So quickly, Rip makes friends with the insurgents who are actually really nice guys and good at insurging and disapprove of gangsters (which is quite clever Herv because it means that all the cinemas showing our feature film won’t get car-bombed by insurgents or their relatives). So, then the gangsters all fire their guns at Rip when they see him in his balloon, and Rip and his new insurging chums land the balloon and attack the gangsters and have the greatest desert battle that’s ever been seen in the cinemas including that one with that bloke, what’s-his-name, you know, the one who used to drink too much. And the audience all go crikey at the amazingness of the film, (or maybe, motherfucking crikey depending on which country they’re in because this is an international smash hit, don’t forget). We’re talking ultra-violent, Harv. Are you still there Quent? We’re talking bullets flying everywhere and blood and bits of flesh and bones all over the place and swearing and Uma Thermon in just her pants because her clothes were all ripped off when the plane crashed. There will be loads of slow motion shots of bullets actually going straight through the gangsters’ heads with their teeth and eyeballs exploding out of them in all directions. It will be a whole new bench marker in violent stuff generally and at the end, though wounded and dripping blood, Rip will beat the gangsters and end up doing some top drawer having it off with Uma. THE END. So that’s it audience – get your coats, wipe the popcorn and love juice off your cardigans and fuck off out of the cinema happily making room for a whole other load of completely innocent audience people who won’t know what the fuck is going to happen to them. Actually that’s a good point, maybe there should be a big sign at the end of the film saying, “Don’t you fucking dare tell anyone what you have just seen because it’ll give the plot away and fuck everything up. So just don’t, okay? We know where you live and stuff like that so just fucking don’t. We’re serieos people.”
So Harv and Quent – what do you reckon? Personally, I think it’s got the lot: sex, violence, snappy dialogue, lots of swearing and I haven’t even mentioned the soundtrack. You know I don’t need to do that because, as you know, I’m so in with THE MAN. That’s right, THE MAN. I don’t even need to tell you that I, Rik Mayall, am very very very tight with Cliff and that’s not a reference to holes. That’s the sort of thing that happening dudes say about being friends with somebody – you do know what I’m talking about don’t you Quent? Good. THE MAN has spoken. About THE other MAN. Or maybe the other way round – or not, or whatever, I don’t care, I’m a high planes drifter who lives on the hedge.
So, you get us the money Harv, and Quent, why don’t you look into casting? (But keep it cool though Quent. Hey, I don’t need to tell you what. You’re THE MAN. Oh no you’re not, that’s someone else. Well, maybe you’re ANOTHER MAN. I don’t know. Maybe you’re SOMEBODY ELSE. There’s a lot of men around in capital letters, aren’t there? It doesn’t matter GUYS, we know who everybody is because we’re cool. No, WE’RE cool. Shit! No, we’RE cool. Fuck! No, no, no! WE’re cool. That’s the one. Next paragraph.)
I’ll drop Uma a line separately just to break the ice. Do you know if she’s seeing anyone at the moment? Actually, it doesn’t matter really because my on-set chemistry can tame a vicious furious hurtling lesbian rhino, especially under the hot lights. So I think Uma’s and my rapport is as good as nailed to the floor with “fuck me” written on it in peuce spray paint.
Anyroadup, see you soon. I hope you are well.
Here’s to the Palm Door,
Rik.
MAVIS WENT TO MOSCOW
Iron curtains, ladies’ curtains, you name them, I’ve got behind them and parted them. Rik “he’s quite good at parting curtains” Mayall as I am often referred to by birds. I have tentacles everywhere. My cock looks like an octopus. No, get rid of that. It doesn’t work*. Anyway, what I wanted to tell you about, viewer, was the axis-tilting landmark moment in international cinema, Bring Me the Head of Mavis Davis, in which I starred as Marty Starr alongside Jane Horrocks (fabulous actress, yes) who played Mavis. Two important things that you need to know about this film Mavis Davis, viewer, is that firstly, I looked a lot like Bruce Willis in it. People were often stopping me in the street and saying, “Hey Bruce Willis, love your work, did you know that you look a lot like Rik Mayall?” And the second important thing is that it defined the direction of British pop music for the next decade. It was more than just a film. It was a cultural revolution in its own right. I have never met anyone who hasn’t seen Mavis Davis. The world is divided into two camps, those who have seen Mavis Davis and those who haven’t.
I was so good at acting my part of Marty Starr in the film that I was nominated for Best Acter at the San Remo film festival and won! Yes, that’s right, I fucking won. And then I was nominated for Best Acter at the Moscow Film Festival. Yes! I fucking was. Really. Me! Nominated for Best Acter at the Moscow Film Festival. Maybe this was some sort of destiny? Maybe Drop Dead Fred had conquered the west and now Mavis Davis would conquer the east. Perhaps it was my calling to help the communists. Morally, spiritually, emotionally, and above all, showbusily. Now was the time. The Eastern Block needed an icon. And that’s true. You know me, I don’t fuck about when I write books. As I jetted off to Russia, I felt very Bob Geldof-like, only with better hair and singing voice (and I’m better friends with Tony B than he is).
Now, you know me, viewer, I’ve never had a drink problem. That’s never, okay? I’m Rik Mayall. Now, you need to understand that vodka is a complicated drink because it looks a lot like water and you can drink a whole pint of it without realising. Plus it does take five minutes or so to set in and I had had about five pints that breakfast because I was so thirsty and in a hurry to get to an important social function. That’s why I was pissed for the entire day. Anyway, I turned up at this enormous 15,000 seater cinema in Moscow for the film festival and I had to make a speech in front of hordes and hordes of people. I don’t know why. I can’t actually remember what the speech was meant to be about. I can’t remember very much at all about that period but I can remember that it didn’t go very well. I’d written down what I was going to say on a piece of paper and when I got on stage, I couldn’t find the piece of paper. I think I might have eaten it or something. So, I just did some talking, like you do. Well, I do, or did that day in Moscow on stage. And when I was finished I encouraged the audience to clap. 15,000 of them. But they didn’t. Not one of them. 15,000 people not clapping at the end of a ten minute “amusing and entertaining” speech which they hadn’t laughed at once is a bit of a bummer for a wild cat of comedy. And then, when I tried to leave the stage I went the wrong way and fell off it. Then some bird came up to me and escorted me to my seat which I mistook for a hotel room and tried to get it on with her which she encouraged me not to do because there were 15,000 people there and they were all watching us on cameras. I can’t remember her name. It might have been Ivan but basically she was a bird. Very nice too. Whatever her name was. I remember her black dress which was very difficult to get off and when I kept trying to get it off, she kept hitting me. And she was extremely good at hitting as well. And accurate.
Anyway, I had to sit through loads of speeches and bits of films, none of which had me in them so it was all a bit pointless, and then suddenly, there was me – Rik Mayall – you know, and there I am on the enormous mile-wide Russian telly on the wall. And someone was reading out the winner of the Golden Kalashnikov or whatever it was, and I knew for a certainty that I’d won it! So I stood up and started running towards the stage, waving at everybody (because it’s a big honour, winning). And some bloke or bird – I can’t remember – said, “And the winner is…” (in Russian, obviously), “Robert D*. Niro.” But because I was quite drunk, I couldn’t stop running. And there’s Bobby D getting up to accept his prize, and there’s me heading towards the stage as well, thinking, “Shit! I’ve made a fool of myself.” But luckily, I fell over and smashed my face on the floor quite badly which drew stares from a couple of thousand of the Russians nearby who were cl
early thinking, “This man is a complete arsehole,” in Russian, obviously (again). That’s when I stood up and shouted, “I’m not Robert D. Niro, I’m Rik Mayall and I’m going to the toilet.”
Nobody seemed to get the joke.
So then I shouted, “It’s a gag! I don’t think I’ve won the prize, I’m just going for a piss!” Nobody laughed. So I continued, “What’s so not funny about an Englishman going for a piss?” Still nobody laughed. I even got my cock out but even that didn’t work! So I went back to my seat and sat down and blushed like a beetroot. Although beetroots can’t blush but I can’t think of anything better to say for the time being. Anyway, it was while I was blushing that I felt a soggy warmth down my leg and realised that I should have gone to the toilet all along and I had only gone and pissed myself. And that does not mean laughing.
So, there I was, sitting there with piss down my legs with fifteen thousand Russians and Robert D. Niro thinking that I’m a twat, and I’m thinking, well, at least things can’t get any worse than this. And then they did. Suddenly I buckled forward and vomited into my lap. I’ll ask you this one question: how many stars that you can think of have made total arses of themselves at award ceremonies and then pissed and vomited over themselves? I’ll leave it hanging there. I think I’ve made my point. Actually, it reminds me of another story – oh sorry, wrong chapter.
