Rik Mayall - Bigger than Hitler – Better than Christ

All I’m trying to get the chance to say is, thank you very much for last night. The food was absolutely delicious and please accept my apologies for the wallet incident. You must admit that the leather trim on yours is very similar to the one on mine even though it is a different colour. Apologies also for calling you a spod-faced fuck-hole, I think maybe one of the waiters might have spiked my drink. It happens sometimes—there are people everywhere trying to mess with my head. Anyway, it’s all in the past now and we’re both man enough I’m sure to rise above it and move on. But don’t get me wrong, I’m not coming onto you or anything Harper, I’m not that kind of guy as I’m sure you’re not—or indeed Mrs Collins for Christ’s sake. I mean look at her. I have. I mean, I would. That’s a compliment. Oh fuck, don’t read that last bit you’ve just read. Oh, you know what I mean. Christ, writing letters is a bitch isn’t it? I’m just saying that I’m not calling you a whoopsie, all right? Not that I would have a problem if you did drop from the other bomb bay, so to speak—I’m an all-inclusive kind of guy and I’m everybody’s friend. In life, I don’t really have any enemies. None at all. Well, apart from some other professional live “performers”. Well, quite a lot really. But let’s not think about them. Cunts. I just ignore them. Apart from them, I have no enemies—least of all anyone in the minorities. That’s something that I think Tony B has taught us all. Tony and I are such good friends—I don’t think I need to say anymore—walls have eyes or whatever it is they have. Wallpaper or something, I don’t know. How should I know? Ask a fucking builder.

Anyway, I digress. What I really want to say to you, Harper, is that I’m well fucking happy that you have agreed to publish my book. I knew that once you’d met my agent Heimi you would know in your soul what the best decision would be. I know he has a peculiar manner, especially when he mentions your family and the leaking gas main, but that’s just his way. And don’t worry, the “Mad Dog” in Heimi Mad Dog Fingelstein isn’t a nickname or anything. Heimi Mad Dog Fingelstein is his actual name. And having said that, it is true about his close relationship with the current Chief Inspector, so he would walk away if anything came to court. It’s all food for thought.

The thing is, things only happen when they’re happening, so let’s happen them Harpo, and seeing as things ended on a sour note last night, I thought I’d set our balls rolling (that’s a media expression) on some hot ideas for my book. First off, I’ll need a researcher. This is important. I’ve had a massive career—even though I’m only in my late thirties (and firing on all cylinders in the trouser department before you start)—and there are so many pinnacles in light entertainment that I have conquered, that when I try to remember them all, I see a vast mountain range. Like the Alps. Or maybe the Himalayers. Whichever are bigger. Something like that. You know what I mean. I am an equal opportunities employer as well, so be cool, but she will need to be quite young and fit and I will need to conduct auditions. I’m sure you must have sorted yourself a bit of top bird to work in your office—well if she’s got any mates or sisters then perhaps they could apply for the job. It’s also important that applicants don’t scare easily as I can form violent sexual friendships when I’m deep in the cut and thrust of creative thought. I must say, I’m really looking forward to blouse-storming (just another media expression Harper, drop the Valium and keep up) with my researchers so it might be a good idea to hire a hotel room for us to work in, preferably without windows or curtains that function. I will supply a rider (this is a show business term for a list of stuff like drugs and gin/sherry which stars have to have in their dressing rooms) (not that I ever take illegal drugs) with all my requirements on it like lubricants (creative ones) and juice (this means alcohol) and drugs (legality is irrelevant because I don’t ever take any, so get loads). Although actually you’d better definitely slip in some illegal ones, you never know what chicks are going to pop. Or where. Or sometimes how. The fuck. Did. She. Do. That? Eh? Sort of thing. You see, Herpe, it’s important to have everything you need when you’re bouncing ideas around (another media biggie Herpes—this letter is shaping up into being a bit of a Krakatoa of happening media and marketing buzz expressions isn’t it, me old arse-wrench?). In case you’re wondering, buzz expression is a buzz expression in its own right.

Oh yeah, listen up Herpar this is important—you know how last night you mentioned something about someone or other editing my book? Well, I want to say right now and I’m doing it right now and what I’m saying is this—no I’m not, I’m commanding it (in a close up), NO ONE FUCKS WITH MY WORDS. Read it again, you lefty twat, NO ONE FUCKS WITH MY WORDS. Because if I read through my book and find that someone’s been messing about with my oeuvre, I’ll be straight round to your little office with some of my associates to rip your head off and shit in the hole. And I won’t wipe my bottom. Is that clear? You’ve been warned. I’m pretty sure it was the great Graeme Green himself who said, “don’t fuck with my words, man,” and I’m down with that. (Down means down which means – oh just look it up). And another thing, Harps, and this is a biggie. A really important big biggie, so take all your clothes off and kneel down in front of me, sweating and paying attention. Right? I have got in my possession a fabulous mesmerising archive of correspondence that has been gathering and breeding and swarming around me like napalm throughout my raging blood-drenched Hiroshima of a professional north AND south career. See that! Did you see that? That’s creative writing that is. And that’s what I’m going to put in my book. Everything I’ve ever written and ever done in my life is creative and it’s all going in, man. Notes, poems, journals, letters, great letters too. That’s what they are. Great ones. And if you don’t think they are then you’re a cunt. Point proved. Anyway, I just want you to know that I’m very very very very committed to righting enough words. Who knows, I might even put this letter in. No one likes a little one.

As far as publicity for the book is concerned, this is really where I’ll come into my own (that’s not a media expression although I did once see someone do this in Bangkok—not that I’ve ever been there). I am very well known by all the global media networks—they follow my every move—I only have to crack one off and it’s in the papers. I’m talking metaphorically, I have never—repeat never—been caught masturbating.

So, I think that just about raps things up. I’m sure Heimi will be in touch soon to tie up all the loose ends contract-wise.

Big up Harpo, respec (that’s “street” slang),

Rik Mayall, The.

P.S. Don’t fuck any of this up Harper—you’re dealing with frightening people here.

P.P.S. Love to the wife.

P.P.P.S. Did it heal up for her?

March 7th 1966

A prare to God.

Dear R. Father, what are in heaven, hello be they name. How are you today? My name is Richard Mayall. And that’s not a lie. Firstly, many thanks for choosing me above all other people. I want to make sure that thine choice is the right one oh Lord. And it is so thou knowest that already. I want thou to know that I have never doubted you, ever ever. I wanted to ask you a question which I thought I would write in my diary so thou could read it as well. We could read it together—thou and me—as I write it. I am going to start a new paragraph now Lord because I want this question to be important.