Bigger than Hitler - Better than Christ

by Rik Mayall

  As you know, I’ve got a lot of experience of politicians and history. You might have seen me playing Flashheart in Blackadder. Of course you have, you’ve got your finger on the nation’s pulse. And there was that great play that I did – I can never remember it’s name – well that had something about politics in it as well. And that other one with that bloke from Oxford in it. That bloke who’s never out of the toilet with his dresser. So I know what I’m talking about when it comes to politics. I’m armed to the teeth with political attitude. And. And it’s a big And, this one. I got a recent compliment from my dentist that I’m so big on smiling, so I’m prepped up and big for smiling on the poster. And let’s not forget TV advertising. You’re looking at Mr. Nintendo here Tone. You were still at Oxford then so you must have seen those commercials. By the way I saw your fantastic telly ad with Gordon – it so said, “vote for me” (you’ve got to be aware of my youth speak remember Tony, because your public school kids won’t be talking hardcore fashionable like this when Daddy eavesdrops in on their conversations. So you’d better remember to run with me on all hip things Tone because I am the guy who screams “down with the kids” big time everywhere). Anthony Milligan does not make crap ads. There you go, Tone, curse lifted. It’s an amazing coincidence, actually, that I should be writing to you now because I’ve also got a great idea for another television commercial or party political broadcast or whatever they’re called. Because it’s worth bearing in mind that when the British do television, they do good television, but only when Rik Mayall’s involved. It’s just one of those things.

  Picture the scene: number 10 (your place) late at night. There’s you, sitting at your desk looking tortured. Unhappy. Deeply unpopular. Despised and hated by the entire population of the country. I mean everyone – they loathe you. Abhor you in every sense. And you’ve got no one to turn to. All your Oxbridge “friends” have deserted you because they hate you as well. Poor Tony. What can he do? There’s a knock at the door. You look up, wipe away the tear from the corner of your eye and say, “enter”. It’s Gordon Brown and he’s all excited and he hurries in and says, “Tony, Tony, it’s Rik Mayall here to see you,” (in Scottish obviously). And suddenly, from nowhere, there I am in the doorway. There is a brief moment of brotherly recognition between you and me. Then Gordon starts fussing about saying to me stuff like, “Hey Rik, love all your telly shows and films, can I have your autograph?” And you and I can look at each other and smile knowingly, and you can say, “I’ve already got his autograph, Gordy, you’re such a spastic,” and you and I can laugh together at him. Then I can say to him, “Course you can have it Gordy.” And I can sit down as the light changes and sign his autograph book and say, “Here you go, it’s all yours, because New Labour cares for everyone. Even Scottish people. Like you.” Gordon smiles in his mongoloid way and we all shake hands. And I turn to the camera and in a zoom crash close up say, “These New Labour guys sure get my vote,” doing my eyebrow thing which always works.

  Ooh Tony, I’ll tell you what, while we’re on the subject of television, you should make sure that when you do one of your crap interviews in the election campaign, you don’t have that Dimbleby bloke. He’s always trying to pick on you. I could do a much better job of interviewing you. I know loads of great questions which I could tell you about beforehand. All of which leads me onto that fat slug Joan Prescott who said that thing about me on BBC Question Time a couple of years ago after I had done my challenging portrayal of Adolf Hitler in the anti-Euro cinema commercial. What the fuck was she thinking of? She lost you between fifteen and sixteen million votes that night when she said, “Well I didn’t think it was very funny.” Rik Mayall fans don’t like people talking like that about The Master especially when The Rik was defending his nation against the Nazis like so many of Rik’s and the nation’s relatives were doing when they died in far more dangerous circumstances than I was in spending two hours being filmed taking the piss out of Hitler sixty years after his death. If Joan Prescott wants to hand over the nation to the Nazis then I think it’s about time we ask ourselves which side she thinks she’s on. Maybe she would like to hand the nation over to Mr Chirac instead? Or whichever nation takes the traitoress’s fancy. I think they call it treason. Isn’t that a capital offence? No, it’s a national offence, that’s what it is. Sure, I wasn’t in the trenches, sure I wasn’t on Omaha Beach, sure I wasn’t being burned to death in Coventry or fighting fires in the East End. No. I was in front of the camera and it might not be as dangerous but this is a matter of honour. When good men hear the call, they come to the defence of their country. That’s all I was doing in my selfless cinema ad. Was I paid? The answer’s no. Did I give my services free of charge? You betchya sweet bippy Tony-boy. And I want you to know that I’m out here in Telly Land polishing my bayonet in readiness for traitors like Mrs Prescott. I don’t think she should be allowed to say that I’m not funny. It’s a disgrace. You’re always going on about how religious and racial hatred should be stamped out everywhere, well this is a clear case of incitement to light entertainment hatred. I never said anything to her at the time but you can tell her from me that if she wants to commit political suicide, there are easier ways than some half-arsed attempt to make out that I’m not funny. She could have got herself nobbed by a trannie for starters. If I was you Tone, I’d get yourself into the twenty-first century and get yourself a top chick as an assistant instead of a fat northern bird like Prescott. It gives out the wrong message to the electorate. And you wouldn’t want to wake up next to that in the morning would you? You’re the P.M. for Cod’s sake. You can have any bird you want. I mean, God knows, I’m an all-inclusive permissive kind of guy but to get involved with that revolting slag heap, you’ve got to be a real sicko perv, haven’t you?

  So maybe you should draw a line in the sand on this one (although I have never taken drugs myself and particularly not on the beach because it’s just stupid. You get all that sand and crap up your nose. And the fucking headaches you’d get! What do you think I am, stupid? That’s more than a two Anadin number in anyone’s book (but not in mine because I never take any drugs at all.))

  And listen Tony, the BBC didn’t come out of the whole thing smelling too rosy either. Isn’t it time that their government subsidies were trimmed back a bit? I don’t think they should allow some dodgy balding lard-mountain of a woman to come on one of their supposedly impartial political programmes and criticise me, your big fan, thereby putting you in an awkward situation. Perhaps some of those top BBC executives shouldn’t have jobs anymore. And as for that enormous building in Shepherds Bush, I think it would be much more worthwhile if it was turned into some modern housing for people who really need it. Right Tony? And I want to tell you something else as well about the British entertainment industry and that is that there are loads of people involved in it who are shit. I don’t just mean that they’re shit at entertaining (which they are) big time but they’re shit at directing and all those other things, like writing and make up (most of those birds who do make up don’t go these days so I wouldn’t bother if I was you) (I know you don’t wear make up so don’t worry about it). As for the acters and so-called comedians who are currently paid huge amounts to make people laugh on television, well, most of them hate you. I find it exhausting to pretend that I agree with them which I hate doing all the time. I was wondering if there’s some sort of law you might be able to pass to make them illegal or mainly to make it so that they can’t work. Obviously don’t tell anyone that I’ve told you this but most of them are drug addicts and a lot of them are paedophiles as well. Nearly all of them avoid paying any tax. Maybe I could provide you with the names and addresses of the worst offenders. I could be your eyes and ears within the entertainment community. I would love to do this for you although it would be a lot of work and I wouldn’t be able to go out and do other jobs so, it’s a bit awkward really, but if you could pay me for my time then it’d be great and we could get on with the job of cleansing the enter
tainment industry of bad elements. Whenever I hear people saying nasty things about you, I can call you up on your mobile. You don’t have to answer if you’re in the House of Commons giving a speech but if you let it go to voice mail, I can give you their names and addresses then. I could even text you if you like because I’m very down with texting – it’s gr8 IMO. That’s texting language for “it’s great in my opinion.” CUL8R. That’s another one. That means bye bye, take care. As you can see, even though all the other comedians in the country have lost touch with the kids, I never have. They’re our future, aren’t they T? But more importantly, when I hear comedians saying nasty things about you (especially that vile wretch who does that programme whose name I won’t even mention) I can let you know. I have no dark secrets myself. I’m just “clean” like you. So let’s work together. You’re a good bloke, Tony. There aren’t many of us left. Us new people. Perhaps we should make a list of all the new people there are out there. Like you and me, and Jonathan Ross. You know, special people.

  Let’s face it, you have put the U.K. back on the map and rescued our standing in the world. You have led us out of the dark ages of socialism and created a whole new meritocracy. People are wrong when they say that you have formed a nanny state. It’s not a nanny stage, it’s a daddy state. You are looking after your people like they are your children. And just as Jesus didn’t care that people didn’t like him, so you don’t care that people don’t like you. Although, I have to say, that was a bit of a balls up about the Weapons of Mass Destruction in A-raq. You should have come to me for a better excuse. I am Mr Drama after all. There’s no drama in saying you’re there to get some rockets and stuff. You should have lied and said you were after the oil. That’s a much better excuse.

  But now it’s time to turn the tide and show your people that they must follow you through the hate and the misery and the poverty and the crumbling schools and hospitals and the overcrowding and follow you to the sunny uplands of your golden truth. Let’s say a big “no” to the spongers and the immigrants, the lazy, the weak and the poor. Especially the poor. What are they for anyway? They just spend all their time trying to clamber over everyone else to try and get a decent school for their children and find a hospital where they can be seen. It’s unnecessary and it’s bad. This country only really needs a handful of good schools and hospitals for the people that actually deserve them. Your election slogan should be: “Britain for the people who deserve it,” or better still, “People who behave properly will have nicer houses than those who don’t.” There you go, you can have those for free. I won’t even mention it to my agent.

  Anyway, you know me, you know how popular I am. All you need to do is get me on board for lots of posters and telly stuff and everyone’ll vote for you.

  Nice writing to you Tony.

  Lots of love,

  Rik.

  NO SLEEP TILL LLANDUDNO*:

  THE MAGNIFICENT TEN-YEAR RAIN

  OF THE GENGHIS KHANS OF LIVE

  ENTERTAINMENT†

  One of the many great things that I’m going to talk about now is how I, with my comedy partner Adrian Edmondson, did our huge live touring extravaganzas. The Live Bottom experience was very much a separate art form to the TV Bottom experience. It was much more theatrical for a start. And that’s not just because it took place in a theatre. [Although it might do – check this.] The Live Bottom was all about fighting and fucking‡ basically and it beat the shit out of Shakespeare – well it would have done if he was on stage with us. And as for Bacon? I can’t even spell the man’s name I hold him in such low esteem. In fact, there are loads of playwrights who I’ve never heard of and who I can write better than anyway. I’d challenge them to a playwriting race any day. Get me and Shaky Bill Shakespeare on opposite sides of a table with a biro each and I’d have him. As for Pinter, I could write faster than him any day because he’s always pausing. Beckett would be a piece of piss too – all he did between his pauses was write the same words over and over again.

  So, anyway, there we were, me and Adrian Edmondson (who is a great bloke and my best friend and hasn’t meant to hospitalise me fifteen times and sometimes visits me as well and doesn’t mean to re-inflict the same wounds) like the two Goliaths of British light entertainment like what we are, armed to the teeth in our tour Humvee*, taking it to the max. It was our second live touring extravaganza of the new millennium. This was called Weapons Grade Y-fronts Tour 2003 and like all the other tours we did, it was big. Over sixty dates, all of them completely sold out and all of them at least 3000 seaters. That’s at least, er, well, that’s a lot of people. And add to that all the thousands I’d played to in my great Noel Coward† play, Present Laughter, earlier in the year (see some other chapter) and that’s well over a quarter of million Rik Mayall live fans in one year alone. Beat that. Someone. Who can’t.

  “Hey Adrian, great mate, isn’t this great?” I said to him as we made our way down the motorway like rolling thunder.

  “Fuck off,” he said from behind his Financial Times.

  “Good one, Ade.”

  “Stop talking to me you sad fat meaningless has-been.”

  “Ha ha ha haaaa!” I enthused and that’s when I blacked out. Thankfully I wasn’t unconscious for long because it was our day off and I didn’t want to miss a minute of crazy good times with my old comedy sparring partner.

  “Hey Adrian, great mate,” I tried again, “why don’t we go and watch some football playing at a big working class football court? That’s what mates do, isn’t it? We can sit and listen to the “fans” shaking their rattles and shouting in their amusing regional dialects and maybe we can have a glass of beer and get into a fight with some immigrants at a fish and chip shop afterwards. And knowing us, we’ll be late down for breakfast in the morning again as well won’t we like the crazy good-rockin’ berserkers that we definitely are?”

  “See this?” said Ade.

  “What?” said I. And that’s when I blacked out again.

  It was just twenty four hour madness seven days of the week as Ade and I played good-natured pranks on each other. Like the time he threw me out of the window on the fast lane of the M4 and when I had to go to hospital with multiple fractures, he told the doctors that I was a Jehovah’s Witness and if I could speak for myself would refuse all medical intervention. It was three days before they actually found out that I wasn’t a Jehovah’s Witness and sewed up my chest cavity and extracted a motorcycle crash helmet from my arse. We missed a show because of this so Adrian playfully arranged that I should reimburse all the fans with my own money.

  Then there was that other time when he made all the roadies pretend that they hated me and made me carry all their equipment wherever we went and made me make their beds for them and do their laundry. Adrian even managed to involve our promoter Phil “shut up and sign the cheque” McIntyre in the joke, and he made me leaflet the local shopping centre if there were still a few tickets to sell for that night’s show. And if that failed I would have to go and buy all the remaining tickets off a tout and man the merchandise stall and sign all Adrian’s autographs for him. And to top it all, Adrian even made me cycle behind the tour bus. Honestly, viewer, we had such a good time. Everyone was laughing at our happy antics. At least I think they were laughing, I couldn’t tell for sure because every time I managed to catch up with the bus they threw bottles of piss at me out of the back window. But I definitely heard them laughing when I fell off the bike. Those were the days, going out on stage to the roar of the crowd and then just a blackness before I came round in my dressing room hours later with blood in my eyes and a ringing in my ears.

  There has always been a deep level of affection between Ade and I throughout our professional career. You may not know this, viewer, but acters always have a good luck ritual before they go on stage. Mine and Ade’s is always the same. I shake him warmly by the hand and give him a bunch of flowers and he jabs me sharply in both eyes with his fingers. It’s an affectionate gesture, strai
ght fingers into the eye sockets and as I double up, he puts the boot into my knackers. Then he says, “get a single laugh and you’re fucking dead,” before he treads on my hand and walks off. That’s our good luck moment that we always do. Makes you smile, doesn’t it?

  Adrian not talking to me for days on end is another hilarious ritual that we have when we are on tour together. But sometimes I manage to catch him out by knocking on his hotel door and when I tell him it’s me, he shouts, “fuck off!” And I shout back, “Ah ha! I caught you out!” And then he goes for another six days or so of not talking to me and I knock on his hotel door to catch him out again and then he glasses me. He’s so clever, he can always top a good gag can Ade. And over the years, it has cost me an absolute fortune in medical bills for all those practical joke “accidents” that have befallen me! All those faulty trap doors on stage and lights that the roadies have “dropped” on me. It’s true rock ‘n’ roll comedy, viewer. Anything can happen at any time. We are the original good time buddies.