by Rik Mayall
Hitler had very one-dimensional facial hair. I have explored a vast repertoire of facial hair “combos”. My homage to The Lemmy in A Fistful of Travellers Cheques is considered a classic and is still spoken of with a hushed oar in make-up departments throughout the world.
They didn’t like Hitler in Russia. But I am huge. I didn’t see Hitler at the 1997 Moscow Film Festival nominated for Best Acter alongside Bobby D. Niro. And he didn’t vomit into his lap either.
I have had far more birds than Hitler.
And lager.
And other stuff.
That’s true that is.
Once again, I could go for another reason that I’m bigger than Hitler and that is that all my videos are in colour and nearly all of his are in black and white. But I won’t. I don’t want to rub his nose in it. He got what was coming to him.
Now, I’m going to leave it there. This is not – I repeat not – because I have forgotten what the point is that I’m trying to make. This is my point – the fact that I am bigger than Hitler and better than Christ. I am, it’s just a fact. I’ve just proved it. Back there. Read it again if you don’t believe me. I’m an honest guy. I don’t write stuff just to big up my own ego. I don’t need to. Facts are facts. And I’ve just given you some. For free. Job done. Walk away. Goodbye.
Oh, actually, scrub all that, I’ll tell you another one. Hitler never fell offstage at the St David’s Hall in Cardiff in 2003. Or looked up Bridget Fonda’s skirt like I did in Drop Dead Fred. If you’re reading this Bridget, EXTREMELY hello there.
And also my sensational heart-stopping performance as Hitler in the anti-Euro video stopped Hitler’s original plan to unite Europe. My European dream has been realised, his hasn’t. Twice. So I’m bigger than him. And he hasn’t been to Bromsgrove. He bombed in Newcastle – I never bombed in Newcastle and I’ve played the City Hall about seventeen times. So fucking there, Adolf. I have never bombed in any city anywhere. Although I did forget my words in Edinburgh at the Playhouse once. But I don’t talk about that. Or the fact that the Time Out comedy critic was beaten up by security on the way in. Bet Hitler never organised for the beating up of a Time Out critic. Although neither did 1.1 think we’ll just leave it there.
WHAT DOES A MAN WITH A TWO FOOT
COCK HAVE FOR BREAKFAST? WELL, THIS
MORNING I HAD A BOILED EGG
La comedie? Cest moi. I didn’t get where I am today without jokes like this in my joke sachet. As Johnny Gielgud said to me all those years ago, “Please don’t tell anyone about this Rik, dear boy. It’s best for both of us that way.”
Now the publisher, Colin Harpers, has asked me to make sure that I include plenty of joyous, wicked, gossipy anecdotes from my life in the entertainment industry. So I’m going to tell you about one of the funniest things that ever happened to me which was when I was at the best party of my life with hordes of my great showbusiness friends [fill in names of people here] and [insert something very funny here]. And just as I was leaving, I turned to my great friend, Ken Horn, and said, “Hi Ken, love your wok.” He nearly died.*
RIK’S HOT BROTH
I know literally thousands of showbusiness secrets, viewer. I know stuff about stuff that would make your hairs curdle, quite literally. As I sit here, with my smoking finger ablaze across my typewriter keys, the secrets battle to be free, and occasionally my defences weaken and one escapes, like the time my Best Man found me supergluing a life-size portrait of Siân Lloyd to the shaved hind quarters of the neighbour’s Alsatian and writing “give it to me, big boy” on its back, in a Welsh accent obviously. Or – here comes another one – that it’s only called Red Nose day because everyone involved with it has such dreadful cocaine problems (that’s where most of the money goes). They might as well call it Non-existent Septum Day. At this very moment, there are celebrities across the globe quaking in their pants at the thought that I might divulge some of my hidden golden truths and lift the lid on the many debauched drug orgies that I have definitely never been to during my drink and drug hell – that I never had.
There are some secrets, however, that will harm no one, like the fact that Charlie Crichton, the director of Carry On Columbus, took me to one side and said “You’re much better than everyone else who has ever appeared in any of the Carry On films and I’m talking about Sid James and I’m talking about Kenneth Williams, Charles Haughtry, Hattie Jacques and even better than Jim Dale and that bloke who used to clean windows, Robin Askwith.” (No one can prove that he didn’t say this.) There are other secrets on the other hand – or this hand, I don’t give a shit really – that are potentially highly damaging. Like the time I was up late a few weeks back trying to watch some of my late repeats and I couldn’t get the telly to work properly and then suddenly I ended up on the Salford OAPs Amateur Dial-a-wank Watersports Channel. And I’m not talking skis. I just couldn’t get off. I don’t mean with any of the OAPs, I mean I couldn’t change channel. Thankfully the press didn’t find out.
Anyway, you know me, I don’t give away secrets. I’m a man of honour. No I’m not. I’m The man of honour and what I’m trying to say about secrets is that, well, here’s another one. Like so many things in my great life, it all started with a phone call from Heimi. Picture the scene. A phone rings. That’s it, you’ve got it. The Rik Mayall slinks like a big cat across the carpet and snatches up the receiver like Richard Widmark in that one with the squid.
“Hello.” Brooding, magnificent, a half turn to the light. The eyebrow thing. And relax.
“Is that my favourite client in all the world, kissy kissy, love your work?”
“Heimi!”
“No, he died, it was terrible, I was just passing and saw it all happen.”
“Have you got some work for me?”
“Possibly.”
“Paid?”
“Again, possibly.”
Heimi had opened up a whole new front for me on my war against showbusiness complacency. It was a celebrity endorsement for a brothel in Gateshead. I knew immediately that this was going to be another great K2, or Kl or K9? – or whichever one it is that people have real trouble climbing (whichever is harder than Everest, that’s the point) – in my great career. And it would also involve birds. Another plus. Because I was going through a phase of hardcore hands-on feminism at the time. I wanted to be like that other top quality feminist, Hugh Hefner. I quite fancied myself with a pipe, a silk dressing gown, lots of Viagra and a council house in Gateshead. I’m made, I thought. Well, I didn’t actually. I’ve made that bit up along with some of the dialog back there but it’s all just part of the rich tapestry that is being a top righter deep in the cut and thrust of righting his great book.
What also made Heimi’s idea such a face-ripping masterstroke was that not only would it extend my career portfolio* but also increase my charity profile† because one of the women that Heimi had acquired for the brothel was a landmine victim. This was Peggie “peg-leg-peg” Something-or-other, the legendary unknown Croatian prostitute who had formerly worked as an assassin for one of Heimi’s eastern European contacts, Uri “Piss” Urine. The other birds were Hua Ming Ing (Chinese‡) and Svetlana (headless Slovakian). Heimi said I should take delivery of the birds. He said they would be tired and hungry after eight days on the road in the back of the lorry and would do virtually anything for food. It seemed like a good idea.
“Blind Pete will be driving the lorry,” Heimi told me, “and big Colostomy Bob will be with him. It’s very important with Bob that you don’t answer him back or stand within three feet of him. If he says anything remotely amusing – laugh. But don’t get this wrong and laugh when he hasn’t said anything amusing. Make sure you’ve got your trousers on when you answer the door. He’s only got two fingers on his right hand so don’t think he’s being rude. If his breath smells of flesh, don’t mention it. If there are any half-eaten human carcasses in the back of the lorry with the merchandise, don’t say anything. Don’t shake hands and never turn your back on h
im until he’s out of sight. Bury all your valuables in the garden. Cover the hole with turf so that it doesn’t look like a grave because that’s dinner to Bob. Hose yourself down when he leaves. Tip big but when you tip him, make sure you give him a stray dog as well if you’ve got one. He likes them. But watch it, they make him very horny.”
Being a top international celebrity and acter, I was a little worried that we might get found out by the pigs* and then sniffed out by the shit-sniffing tabloids† but it turned out that Heimi supplied the local constabulary with electric cattle prods and people to practice on. And as far as the birds for the broth were concerned, he was unofficially working on behalf of the P.R. department of the Royal Engineers and their mine clearance charity Hope Springs (patron: Tony B). The birds came as a pack of three for twenty roubles which was very good, Heimi told me, because a reconditioned Kalashnikov would cost about the same.
So like the quality professional entertainer that I am, I waited just inside my front door for two weeks. I was very excited about the brothel and thought that it would be fabulous to call it Rik’s Hot Broth, which would make it fashionable as well as sexy and sound like something that normal people would eat. What could go wrong? I’m not quite sure, but something did. That’s just the way that it is sometimes, isn’t it? Some things happen and some things don’t. Some things happen for a reason and some happen for no reason at all. This didn’t happen for a reason but I won’t tell you what it is because I want to prove my point about secrets. Some things are just mysterious. This is one of them.
Rik’s Hot Broth
Price List
Two slices of bread with snog . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . £0.35
Two slices of bread with snog and tongues . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . £0.45
Snog with tongues and a feel up (upstairs) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . £0.99
Snog with tongues and a feel up (downstairs) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . £1.25
Snog with tongues and a feel up (round the back*) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . £1.45
Half a lager and a handjob . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . £1.75
Pint of lager and a handjob . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . £1.99
Pint of lager, packet of peanuts and a handjob . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . £2.49
Slovenian (with a buttered slice) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . £3.55
Hua Min Ging (with the lights off) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . £3.70
Hua Min Ging (with the lights on) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . £3.90
Herzogovenian (with scoop of mash) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . £3.95
Herzogovenian (with two scoops of mash and free mushy peas on a Friday) . . . £4.10
Live in house maid (one leg) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . £18.50
Live in house maid (two legs) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . £20.00 (o.n.o.)
NB: Thursday afternoon – Pensioners half price
Would patrons please be advised that this is a residential area and could they please complain quietly after 11pm.
No running in the corridors.
UB40 / benefits: £l off (refundable by post)
For missing wallets – please fill in form
No ducking
No dive bombing
No wearing shoes in bed
No firearms
No pets (apart from Guide Dogs)
Rik’s Hot Broth is an equal opportunities employer
Member of the Investors in People charter
All attacks on staff will be prosecuted
No undercover journalists
Do not ask for credit as refusal often offends
Diners and Visa accepted
Fistings on application
GUEST HOUSE PARADISO
I fondly remember watching Eric and Ernie (comedians – good ones) spreading their laughter back in the seventies. Their Christmas special was watched by over half the people in Britain. That’s about 26 million people, viewer. I remember thinking fondly, “You motherfuckers, I’m going to get watched by more people than you.” The gauntlet had been throne down – in an amusing way obviously (I respected their work, nay*, loved it). And I remember thinking (even more fondly this time), “That’s a pretty hefty gauntlet to get in the bollocks.” It was 1975 – I was only ten. But I didn’t flinch. I remember my mum saying to me while we were watching television on that Christmas evening, “Hey Rik Mayall.”
“Yeah?” I breathed, turning my head to the light.
“Love your work obviously, but how come you’re not crying after receiving such a hefty gauntlet in the knackers?”
“Love your work too, mummy, I’m just not. That’s how it is in my world. But let’s not talk about it. Not on today of all days. I am English. Let’s get on with the show.” Which we did. Like a firestorm. With Turkey and the trimmings. Peace and goodwill to all.
Me revolution ising American cinema with Drop Dead Fred, 1990.
Me sharing a laugh selflessly with some extras. Kevin of the North, 2002.
Little Ben, Little Richard and Little Huge International Pan-global Showbusiness Phenomenon Rik.
Flasheart
Believe nothing …
… at all
Me and Leslie Phillips taking no shit, right.
[Romantic caption here]
Me securing my book deal with Trevor Dolby from HarperCollins.
[Find out who these people are and do a caption]
Lennox Crowley: the one that got away.
Me talking to Adrian about the caption for this photo.
Me and Ian Richardson taking the curse off some TV drama or other. Brilliantly.
Me and Tarby hanging out with all our great showbiz mates.
The Enigma
But something had changed in me that day. My fuse had been lit. The fuse that would meander through the televisual wasteland of the 1970s until it ignited like a nuclear warhead leaving my audience with vicious weeping flash burns. My gasoline tank was strapped to my back, the flame thrower was clutched in my manly hands. But being the gentleman of comedy like what I am, or was even at the age of ten, I threw the gauntlet back to Eric and Ernie. I didn’t want to spoil the rhythm of their great show. I think that bloke was in it – you know, the one who was in that other telly show and those films. Glen Jackson – that’s his name. He’s great. He’s a breakthuough cutting edge M.P.* now.
Eric and Ernie did a few movies. There was the Magnificent Two, That Riviera Touch and The Intelligence Men. Then there was Tony Hancock (another comedian – another good one as well although not as good as me obviously). He did The Rebel and The Punch and Judy Man. Three films, not bad. And Robin Askwith, he was another one. A great British comedy titan. He made all the Confessions movies. And you know what all these movies have in common? They were all panned† by the critics‡. But that’s just the way it goes on the showbusiness merry-go-round. There are rules that must be obeyed like that one there and some others [fill in some rules here] but the most important one is that if you are a television comedy star (like what I am*), and you decide to make a movie, then the critics (respect) will give it a good kicking, spit on it, rip off its head and shit down the neck hole. That’s just the way that it is. As the great Ted Rogers used to say, “Ain’t nothing no one can do about it” [check this].
The end of the century was fast approaching. What was needed to heal the British film industry was a great hugely underrated classic that would open the doorway to further great hugely underrated classics starring me, like Merlin: The Return, Day of the Sirens, Chaos and Cadavers, Oh Marbella!, Susan’
s Last Dinner Party, The Islington Silence, Harlow’s Not For Losers and Screaming Warriors of Death Vengeance II (the money’s in sequels – that’s just where the money is nowadays). I decided I was going to take the baby by the throat (not literally of course – don’t phone that stinking Childline – I could tell you a story or two about them but I won’t, not because I’m making this up but because it didn’t happen) and make a film. I got my typewriter out, dusted off my trusty finger and started masturbating. Not really, obviously. I just threw that in there to check that you were still with me. Hello? Hello? Oh well, audiences have their quiet moments. Anyway, I dusted off my trusty finger and started writing my great movie. That done, I phoned up my great mate, and fellow comedy blitzkrieg (although he’s much better at comedy blitzkrieging than I am) and said, “Hello Adrian, great mate, love your work, cheque’s in the post etc, I’ve got a smashing film script for you to read that’s going to revolutionise the British film industry and take our already blazing white hot careers and catapult them into the stratosphere so they will careen through the night sky like supanovas.”
“Fuck off,” he said and put the phone down.
When I had completed major surgery to replace my bleeding lungs that I had been forced to rip out because I was laughing so much at my great mate’s golden bullet of a joke, I called him back. Before he told me to fuck off again (thereby compelling me to do the thing with the lungs again) he told me that he had written a film script which he was going to direct and if I paid him enough, I could be in it and even say that I wrote a couple of the jokes. It cost me two more children and a kidney to get the part and I even had to take an evening job as a peep show flap wiper to pay my final instalment to him, but it was worth it. And when the critics panned* the film, Ade and I bucked the trend† and didn’t follow the classic career ark of the great British comedian which is do some stand up, do sitcom, do movie, get hammered by the press, get depressed, become alcoholic, die. That we did not do. It just made us stronger and harder and better at everything. Especially Adrian. Who I love and respect enormously. I’m not going to tell you lots of fabulous inside stories and gossip about Guesthouse. This chapter’s just an advert for the video. So go out and buy it. Go on. NOW. Have you gone, viewer? Good. I’m going back to the pub‡.
