Bigger than Hitler - Better than Christ

by Rik Mayall

  At the end of the last tour, Adrian and I exchanged gifts, I gave him a silver plaque with “Bottom: Weapons Grade Y-fronts Tour 2003 – with love and best wishes, Rik” engraved on it and he had, “Rik Mayall is not funny” carved on my wife’s face.

  It was a very good carving too. I smile every time I go near her and look at the deep livid scars. But even though the last tour finished months and months ago, the practical jokes and the pranks continue to this day. Only recently, Adrian had my house fire-bombed and paid all my neighbours to stone the fire engine and to slash the hosepipes and turn off the water at the mains. He even sent some really hard Al Qaida death-squad type people to see me to tell me that if I tried to contact him again they would crash an airliner into my house. Ade, respec, baby.

  A-RAQ

  There are certain secrets that will never be told. Light entertainment and military espionage make strange bed fellows but I’m in bed with both of them. I mean, they don’t have to be fellows. They could be top birds as well. Anyway, I’m in bed with them either way although if they are fellows, it would be lights out straight away and no touching.

  Let’s just put it this way – or I could put it that way, I’m an either way kind of guy – there are certain secrets that I could do on you that would make you think “hmmm,” – maybe a slight turn to the light and then the eye brow – “That’s fascinating information there Rik Mayall – love your work enormously of course – I never new that.” So here’s one for you. During the Falklands War, Heimi found me some work in the alternative comedy cabaret lounge on board the General Belgrano. That’s right. And it’s nothing more than a vicious rumour that the Argentineans sank the boat themselves rather than allow me to do an encore*. Anyway, that’s not important now. What is important is that when Tony B decided we should go to war against the Middle-Easters in A-raq in 2003, I thought to myself, Rik, you’re thirty next year, and what have you given your country apart from a bloody good time? Before your days are over, you need to dig that little bit extra down deep into your heart. All that it takes for evil to triumph is for good men to do nothing, or average men or even shitheads. Someone big famous said that. It might have been me. Just there.

  A film that has always been a sauce of great inspiration to me is Who Dares Wins starring Lewis Collins (if you’re reading this Lewis, love your work, if you’re not then pull your fucking finger out an buy a copy) and that was all about the SAS so I thought, that’ll do for me, I’ll go and audition for a part with them.

  Being a top acter, I always think that it is extremely important when going for auditions to look the part so I decided to go and see a mutual friend of Russell Grant’s and mine called Simon who runs Pinks, a highly confidential theatrical costumier in Walsall.

  “Hello Simon,” I said, convincing dialog just pouring out of me.

  “Hello Rik May all, big fan, love your work etc.”

  “Thanks Simon, love yours too.”

  “What can I do for you?”

  “I’m looking for a military outfit, something really butch and hard.”

  And with a click of Simon’s fingers, there was a kilt right there in front of me. So I tried it on.

  “Mmmmm, it’s not quite doing it for me,” said Simon, “tell you what, why don’t we take it up a few inches. You’ve got such lovely thighs.”

  “Thanks Simon, great mate (and not pillow chewing sex partner).”

  “Don’t mention it. Look, I’ve shortened it already.” And he had.

  “Right, pants off now, Rik Mayall, those peuce Y-fronts are clashing with the tartan and besides, jocks and top SAS soldiers don’t wear them under kilts, not when the shit’s going down*.”

  I took off my Y-fronts.

  “Now that’s what I call a soldier,” said Simon admiringly.

  “Out of my way motherfucker, I’m going in.”

  “Ooh Rik, you and your filthy mouth.”

  “Sorry Simon, I mean, God bless, see you soon, take care.” And with that I was off in my six inch mini-kilt.

  You know where the SAS is? Well that’s where I went. WHAMMO! And I was there. Unluckily, as I strod up to the SAS gates, a passing Jack Russell terrier caught sight of my peek-a-boo testicles hanging out of my kilt and ran forward, jumped up and sank its teeth into them and dangled there growling. But winced I not. Because I’m hard like that. A builder who was working on some nearby scaffolding shouted down, “Hey Rik Mayall! You leading international entertainer, that’s the dog’s bollocks!”

  “Great joke builder mate, but actually they’re mine so get out of my anecdote.” And he did. Just like that.

  “Halt, identity!” said the man at the SAS gates. But then the builder came back suddenly and said, “Sorry, Rik, that was my one shot at fame and I fucked up. I was supposed to say, “Hey, look everyone, it’s Rik Mayall, the international entertainer. He’s the dog’s bollocks.” And then you were supposed to say, “No I’m not, I’m the bloke with the dog hanging off his bollocks.””

  “Oh for heaven’s sake, shut up you twat,” I said, “I’m the master of comedy. You’re supposed to see me and say, “Hey look great working class mates, it’s the dog’s bollocks,” and I’m supposed to say, “No they’re not, they’re my bollocks.” That’s why I went to all that bother to get the mini-kilt and now you’ve gone and blown the gag. Twice. That’s it, extra, tough luck, it’s back to oblivion for all eternity.” And he was gone. Pray God.

  “Halt, identity!” said the man at the SAS gates once again.

  “My face is my identity,” I told him. “Now, get me the top brass.”

  “You’ve got a dog hanging off your bollocks.”

  I slammed my bollocks in the gate and the Jack Russell ran off yelping, but thankful for the work.

  “Not anymore I haven’t,” I shrugged butchly not giving the slightest hint that my testicles were Mach 3 hurty. “Now take me to the men at the top because I’m here for my SAS audition.”

  THWAP! And there I was in a room with the generals strategising and pushing flags across maps and sweating and saying things like, “I don’t like it, it’s too quiet,” and, “Johnny Foreigner’s up to something, let’s give him a good thrashing.”

  “Hello, good morning, I’m Rik Mayall of course, and I’m here to audition for the SAS.”

  “Audition? What the hell are you wearing?” one of them asked.

  “It’s my battle kilt,” said I.

  “Get that man to a doctor immediately,” said another one. Great, I thought to myself, all I need to do is pass the medical and I’m in.

  THWACK! I was at the doctor’s.

  “Hello Doctor, love your work, I’ve come for my medical. Do you want me to put my bollocks in your hand and cough now? That’s not a gay thing. Relax.”

  “Name?” he enquired.

  “My face is my name. Have I said that already?”

  All of a sudden, he shouted “Action!” and WHAP! a screen dropped down from the ceiling and there on it were twenty A-raqi insurgents running at me and screaming.

  “What do you think about that?” he said.

  “The shit’s going down,” I said.

  “Damn right,” he said.

  “My legs,” I said.

  “Eurgh,” he said and whispered to his assistant, “this man has a mental problem.”

  “I get it,” I thought, “they want me for military intelligence.”

  “What are you doing here?” he asked me.

  “I’m here for my audition,” I told him. “I’ve got two prepared monologues and a song called Oliver’s Army by Elvis Costello which I’d like the pianist to do in the key of C.”

  “Someone get this insane transvestite has-been out of here. And give him a good kicking as well.”

  “Good joke, great military friends, is that code for “Get him on the next plane to Bag Dad?””

  KABOOM! That’s when it all went black. And then I woke up again, face down in the Thames with the sheet music from my audition st
uffed up my arse (thankfully it had formed a sort of cork arrangement and prevented me from contracting a nasty bottom infection). How could this be? I had failed an audition for the first time in my life. The cruel sting of rejection and rolled up sheet music is smarting to this day. Maybe it was my costume? Maybe it was my face? Maybe it was my lighting? Yeah, it’s always the lighting.

  “Hey Rik,” I spat (I had a mouthful of Thames), “I’m outta here.” I doggy paddled to the bank and decided there and then that they weren’t going to beat me. I don’t need the British army to do my bit, I thought to myself. I can do it myself. And that’s when I formed the British Organisation of Freedom Fighters or B.O.F.F. for short. And instead of “who dares wins”, our motto was “watch out motherfuckers, Rik Mayall’s coming,” which is much better, let’s face it.

  There wasn’t a moment to lose. I needed to pack. What would I need for this war gig? I made a list: Beach towel (not too bright – this is war), flip flops, sun lounger, wind break, military frisbee, goggles, helmet (ooer obviously), camouflaged bandana, imitation air rifle, First Aid kit, Band Aid video (can’t forget charity even at a time of thoughtless massacre*), Rambo poster, medals, eye liner, gold braid, epileps, blue tak for epileps (take no chances), binocliers, binocliers wipes, binocliers guarantee, binocliers instructions, caps for putting on the ends of the binocliers – both ends (ooer obviously again), Morse Code tapper, Morse Code dictionary, field radio pack with a big aerial bit that sticks out of the top, coffee mug painted to look like hand grenade, compass, sock toggles, carrier pigeon (for messages behind enemy lines), “Manchester United are shit” T-shirt, passport (current), driving licence (international), A-raq currency, travellers checks, travellers checks wallet, Imodium, athlete’s foot cream, shorts, snorkel, beach ball (khaki), volley ball net, sandals, sponge bag, toothbrush, sewing kit, A-raqi phrase book, holiday diary, puzzle book, copy of Razzle (obviously), Razzle holster (including “clean” spare copy), travel wipes, Handy Andy tissues, tin of boiled sweets, a good paperback (something from Harper Collins – the best publishers on the globe†), comb, nail clippers, that metal thing for getting that scuzz from under the corners of your toenails, and lastly and probably most impotently, a pair of sunglasses like the cool ones that bloke wore in that film where they do that thing with the tractor.

  WHAPPATHUNK! There I was in the A-raqi dessert in an extreme, slightly sweaty, close up. The heat shimmered on the horizon like that mirage effect that they have in cowboy films. But this was no cowboy film. This was the real thing. A huge yellow sun was beginning to rise. Just another day in mankind’s existence in this life that was a war in A-raq and there I was doing my bit in it and doing it in the place I’d brought my bit to to do it to it*. So, what more could be said? I’ll tell you what more could be said. This. Er, oh fuck it, go to the next paragraph.

  Nice move. A hyena howled across the flat, barren wastelands. I moved cat-like through the sand. I cocked† my imitation air rifle. I was ready. My eyes were a slit. The wind was howling. Suddenly, bullets were pinging off my helmet‡ and I threw myself down in the sand. A huge tank roared up and I held my air rifle up to the driver’s slit**. A flap opened§ and the driver stuck his head through it.

  “I can’t like fuckin’ believe it, man,” he said. “It’s The Rik Mayall right in the middle of the desert.” He got out of the tank and threw himself down in the dust and we started high-fiving, slam-dunking, and shouting, “all right!” (with emphasis on the second syllable) and “goddamn!” (same emphasis) and “she-it!” (no one’s ever known what that means but just do it nevertheless, audiences love it) and other cool American stuff.

  “We heard you were coming on Al Qaida’s radio.”

  “Big Al’s radio?”

  “Yeah, he won’t stop talking about you.”

  “I’m going to make him eat pellet – which you American guys could say if you had one of these babies.”

  “The thing is Rik Mayall, man, goddamn, motherfucker, we’re confused out here. We don’t think this war is right. We don’t know which side to be on. We don’t know whether to be insurgers or coalitionists. What do you think, Rik Mayall? You’re so goddamn hot ‘n’ fashionable. Lay the appropriate opinion on us please. Motherfucker, obviously.”

  And that’s when it hit me. This was the hardest question that I had ever been asked. He was just an ordinary guy – the sort of twat that you wouldn’t take any notice of normally, but his question hit me right between the eyes and above and below them, in fact, all around my eyes and face area generally. I did one of those not-saying-any-words-type pauses like the one that I did with Helena Bonham-Carter in our fabulous Briefest Encounter (top respect beautiful Helena – sorry about the vomit accident). Anyway, I was stumped. I didn’t know what the answer was! Yes, that’s right, you read it here first. Rik Mayall didn’t say anything for a few moments. Get that in the face and respect it. Fuck! Respec it.

  Okay, so here’s the next bit of the story which is a motherfucker of a next bit so get ready. Sit down, tighten your trousers, unless you’re on the toilet in which case, untighten your trousers and take them down. Oh, you already will have, won’t you? Forget that. And don’t tighten your trousers if they’re already around your ankles because then you might fall over. Nasty. And remember to only use one side of the toilet paper. And never bite your fingernails when you’re swiping. You heard it here first. Health and safety. That’s my middle name. No, I mean, they are my middle names. Well, some of them. I’ve got a lot of middle names. I’m a middle name kind of guy. They call me Rik “Middle Name” Mayall (fill in middle name here – I can’t remember it. It could be Michael. Ask Harper Collins, they know loads of words. Well they fucking ought to, they’re publishers for fuck’s sake.) So, here it comes. Flipping ruddy crikey. That’s right. Those were the two words that came to me in the desert. Because I was stumped and flabbered and also because I’m so down with swearing. Well, not with swearing, I mean, I’m down with the people who do swearing because I don’t care because I’m an anarchist and I don’t care whether I live or die. That’s right, I live on the edges of the Gateshead of Dawn. But that doesn’t mean that I go to bed late, okay? Anyway, what I’m trying to say is – actually I’m saying it quite successfully thank you very much – is that I did one of my great pauses, turned to him and said, “bloke?”

  “Yeah, Rik Mayall, hot damn.”

  And then it came to me, so I said it – just came straight out with it: “Peace.”

  “Like wow man.”

  “Fuck off, Neil, you’re not in this.”

  “Oh okay, I’m like, er, not here.” And he wasn’t. Just like that.

  “Peace and war,” I said to the American G.I. who was the proper character in this scene. “I’m down with both sides because I’m down with all humanity all over the world. Wherever there’s trouble in the world or even where there isn’t trouble, I’m there. I’m down with it all. And just in case you’re confused about what “down” means, great American friend, it doesn’t mean I’m depressed or anything like that, it means, “Hello mate, do you want to come down the pub and have half a pint of beer.””

  You can imagine the shock on the American’s face.

  “You’ve just said it Rik Mayall,” he said. “I’m just going to leave my tank here and walk off into the desert like in one of those films.” And he held his hand up like that and I held mine up like that so that we both did that thing – you know, like when you do, look, that – you know the one I mean. Look, whatever we did, it doesn’t really matter, it was just cool, all right? Think of something that you think is cool and that’s what it was. It’s okay if you’re a bit of a twerpy sort of bloke and you can’t think about cool things like people like me can. It’s all the same. So relax. Be cool (not that you can – oh bollocks, this is getting too complicated). Look, the point is, the American bloke fucked off across the desert. Nicely. So then I got in the tank and thought, this is war. I’m going to Bag Dad.

  “
Let’s go! Let’s move out! Round ‘em up! Wagons roll! Hot damn! I’m going in! I’ll give it my best shot!” I yelled. “Stand aside!” So I did (which was wrong so I stepped inside again) and then my foot slammed the pedal to the metal, burning rubber, spitting gravel and eating shit. It was horrible. So I decided to drive the tank properly. Like a screaming warrior of death vengeance, obviously.

  The thing is, viewer, there is a line in the sand and you’ve got to decide which side of it you’re standing on. Me? I’m standing astride the line. That’s right, you heard it here first. Well, read it here. Unless someone’s reading it to you. Either way, you know that sand stuff, well I was straddling it like a mother. It’s just another feather in my showbusiness portfolio. They call me the Richard Nixon of light entertainment. And it’s a bulging one I can tell you. My portfolio. I might even have to get another one and be a double portfolio kind of guy. Anyway, that’s enough now, I’m on the telly in a minute and I’ve got to get the tissues.

  EVERYTHING GOOD COMES IN THREES

  “Sweet marauding Jesus!” I said to myself, “it’s Andy Harries the head of ITV right there in front of me.” And it was.

  “Hello Andy Harries,” I said out loud this time and Andy Harries said, “Hello Rik Mayall, big fan, love your work, respect you enormously, especially for all those fabulous shows you’ve made for ITV over the years such as Rik Mayall Presents and The New Statesman which must surely represent the very zenith of British light entertainment broadcasting certainly in my lifetime although they didn’t really have television before I was born so that’s pretty much the very zenith of British light entertainment broadcasting – read my lips – ever.”

  “Thank you very much Andy Harries, great guy who’s very nearly the top bloke at ITV who I respect and dig much more than the BBC – and I mean that, I don’t tell lies. Love your trousers,” I shared.

  And that’s when Andy Harries suddenly collapsed and broke down in tears.

  “The thing is Rik Mayall,” he sobbed, “I’m in trouble and I need a favour.”