Rik Mayall - Bigger than Hitler – Better than Christ

What I’m really definitely trying to say here and now is that I AM THE RIK MAYALL. Good. That’s sorted. Moving on. We’re really getting somewhere now.

Picture the scene. Maybe it’s a Tuesday afternoon—fuck it, it is—this is my book. This happened, right. It’s last Tuesday. I’m in a crowded pub, having the third of three halves—I’m quite a big drinker †—when bang! It hit me straight between the eyes! I say it, it was more of a he—a big hard bloke with tattoos—you know the type. What had happened was that I had accidentally stumbled penis first against the arse cheeks of his girlfriend as I hurried to the Gents toilets to not take drugs. At first, I thought it might be one of those sudden unscheduled violence workshops that my great showbusiness mates ‡often spring on me which look to all the world like they’re beating the shit out of me but which are, in fact, all part of the acters’ craft. Anyway, it wasn’t. So forget about that. So, back to last Tuesday, and the next thing I know is I’m carrying out an emergency landing on the pavement outside the pub which is when a small pale man in a red overcoat came up to me.

“You’re Rik Mayall, aren’t you?” he said to me.

“I am he,” said I *.

“Rik Mayall! No, no, I can’t believe it! You are The Rik Mayall! You must be some kind of God, The Rik! The son of God or something! You have changed my life! When I saw first saw you in “Boom! Boom! Out Go The Lights” on the television in the early eighties, I laughed so much I coughed up half a lung and had to be taken to hospital. And after I watched you on Top of Pops with Cliff Richard, I was pissing blood for a week. To this day, my girlfriend and I like to tape the Andrex commercials and do sex to the sound of your voice as you bring the Andrex puppy to life with your challenging portrayal. It’s the only thing that’s kept our relationship together. Are you a God, Rik Mayall? You must be. You are like a shining beacon in the darkness of British light entertainment. And now I see you as just a mass of blood and teeth. You must be having another one of your many Rik Mayall show-business accidents.”

That. Was the moment. Suddenly there was a thundercrack. I looked up and the clouds parted. I found myself in a blinding shaft of golden light. I’m not joking. This happened. There I was standing in the lesser known alleyways of London’s Soho as if chosen, locked in a vast sunbeam of divine glory. It suddenly became clear to me. I was in the middle of having an epiphany. It was a sign from above. It was my divine destiny calling to me. It was everyone’s divine destiny. For I realised that what the people of this great land needed—this good ship Albion as I like to call it (although it’s not strictly a ship, it’s more of an island really) was a book. By me. It would provide a sauce of happiness and solace to my ordinaries (who I love) as they have to face up to living with all the shit they put on the television nowadays. (Have you seen it? It’s complete bollocks isn’t it. *) It would be like a gift to all my fans. Well not strictly a gift as they’d have to pay for it but you get the general idea. What’s a few quid when there’s people starving in the world? You haven’t got an answer for that, have you?

“I’m going to write a book,” I said out loud.

“Wha-wha-wha-wha-what?” (He was stammering, that’s not a typo. It’s actually rather good writing. I don’t know why he was stammering. Perhaps he was masturbating while looking at me. It happens.) Wha-wha-wha-wha-what?” He repeated. “The Good Book?”

“No, The Great Book.”

On hearing my plan, the man in the red overcoat—you know, the one I was talking to a minute ago outside the pub—his bowels spontaneously evacuated and he dropped to his knees, trembling.

“Oh God in heaven help me,” he intoned [or something that means speak only kind of grander].

“Yes, you heard right Roger [check name]. Pretty soon there are going to be only two types of people in this world: those who have read my book and those who haven’t. The line is drawn in the sand and you’ve got to decide which side you’re on.”

“Crikey Rik Mayall, you’re so right there like you always are and I respect you for it.”

“I know, thanks.”

So, as you stand there with this book in your hands (maybe you’re at home in your “front room” or whatever ordinary people call their living areas—or maybe you’re in that Godawful shit hole for the friendless, with the coffee and the easy chairs—what’s it called? – Waterstones, that’s it) you can think to yourself that you are part of this call to destiny and you can see that this is a whole new front that I’ve opened up here on my war on showbusiness. And I bet you anything you like that this will be every bit as successful as all the other great stuff that I’ve done over the years. And if you don’t believe me then I’ve got just one word to say to you: fuck off. (I did it again then, did you get that? What you’ve got to realise here is that you’re stuck slap bang in the middle of a firestorm of red hot literary cluster missiles of explosive word play and punctuation.

Hold on…) There you go.

As my old Gran used to say—actually I don’t want to get into that now, it’s too sordid. Just forget it.

Anyway, what I want you to know is that whatever else happens in the next few hours or days or weeks or however long it’s going to take you to read this book, I’m going to be honest and true to you my viewers. Notice I said viewers there and not viewer because I know what’s going to happen. This is going to be massive. We’re talking daytime television here. I’m going to rip apart the very fabric of popular culture and put it back together again in my own image. This is a whole new world order and this one is screaming in your face to get your kit off, and go for it. I worship at the church of excess (and I don’t mean like those Australians, In Excess – I don’t remember them biting the head off a whippet). So you’d better watch it. I’m a swear-word-using hell-raising bare-bottomed anarchist at the gates of dawn and I can say what the fucking hell I like and if you want some failed celebrity’s wank book, you can stick it up your arse *because this eagle has landed. When I come for you, you’d better be ready, you’d better grab hold of something, put your head between your knees and jam a cork up your arse because when you read what I’ve got to say, you’re going to shit your kidneys. And if you don’t like it then get out of the way. This is the new bible, motherfucker *, and it’s me at the controls and I’m coming straight at you—in your face, down your throat and out your trousers. I live on the edge. I’m out there in Edge City—right on the very edge of Edge City, teetering over a byss.

Now this baby’s written, just remember that it’s always out there. Everything is always out there. You must never forget that. Everything is out there doing everything to everyone. Sometimes for everyone, sometimes not. Who’s to know? I’m not everyone. Nor everything. No thing is everything and no one is everyone. But I’m more than most. A lot more than most. No, a lot more than everybody. I have a theory. But that’s a secret. Oh sod this, it’s late now I’m going to bed.

Harper Collins, Esq.

77-85 Fulham Palace Road

London W6

August 5, 2004

Dear Harper (if I may call you Harper—I mean apart from last night I’ve never met you before but I think we have a deeper understanding now—and if I can’t call you Harper then you’d better stop reading now because believe me, I’m going to call you Harper for the rest of the letter and if each time you look at Harper and see that I haven’t put Mr Collins and then get offended, well you’re just going to have to pack it in Harper and stop being so pathetic).