Rik Mayall - Bigger than Hitler – Better than Christ

Now, it’s worth knowing, viewer, that the old education system was governed by an exam called the Eleven Plus. This was an exam which separated the creepy frightened kids that behaved themselves at school and managed to learn something from the stupid kids who didn’t give a shit and were happy. You took it when you were eleven and, rich or poor, you were divided into two groups and “educated” in one of two separate schools depending on your ability. But the rich who were in control of the state at the time decided that they were going to destroy this system and replace it with two different kinds of schools—good well-equipped schools for the children of the wealthy, and sad empty blank voids for the children of the poor. So, I was in the shit. Big time. Lots and lots of shit. You had to be eleven to take the Eleven Plus, you see. It was the last year they were doing it before they scrapped it forever and I was only nine! Plus my mum and dad weren’t rich so I had no chance of an education. Fucky-fuck-fuck, shitty pants and deary me, I’m bollocksed, I thought. EXCEPT, my mum and dad just happened to be teachers *, so they prepped me up for the Eleven Plus exam and I got into an expensive school full of posh kids called the King’s School Worcester—when I was nine! How’s about that for cool? And that’s where I taught people how to drink and lose their virginity and be happy because I was a nice bloke and they were all wankers. I’ve always been like that, I’ve always offered a helping hand to others on life’s, you know, whatever. I was the youngest in the school but almost straight away I fell in with the hard guys like Simon Rex and that other one with the ginger hair, you know, that psycho who liked to do that thing with cats and a screwdriver. He’s dead now, thank fuck.

So nobody knew anything about anything. No one found the bodies. There were no traces and I passed the Eleven Plus! I did it. All on my own. Yes I did. Prove it if you can then. Get this, I was the youngest kid in England to ever pass the Eleven Plus. And I still am. Didn’t put that in the credits for Filthy, Rich and Catflap did they? BBC fuckholes. I’d got into a big posh school. But it was the very last year they were allowing kids like me to sit the Eleven Plus. After this, ordinary kids weren’t allowed to have well-equipped schools and teachers that could teach. But then. Now wait for this. You’ll like this, this is nasty. Just when everything was great, suddenly there’s this other kid at King’s called Gretisson who grassed (this is cool prison slang for told on) on me to Mr Cunley. The little shit (ugly too. And probably still is. I hope so.) gave him a list of all the boys who he thought were smoking and Cunley went through our desks at lunchtime and found our cigarettes. It was either six of the best or a one pound fine.

“How about this?” I said to him, “what about a ten shilling fine and three of the best? Do you play that kind of game?”

“Hold on a minute, Mayall. Did you say what I thought you just said?”

“Believe it if you need to, Mr Teacher Man,” I intoned moodily. Or was it huskily? It was a long time ago. I can’t remember *. “How do you want this baby to come down?”

His face fell. He held both of his hands up defensively, backing away. “Whoah…Hold on there Mayall,” he croaked (no he didn’t really, he died a long time later. I had nothing to do with that either.) “Listen, I’m way out of my league here or whatever it is that they say in films. I’m not used to dealing with guys like you. I’m scared, man.”

I leant forward, took my ten Number Six back out of his top pocket along with the five pounds that he had fined the other guys in my posse.

“Shall we just say this never happened?”

“Thanks.”

“Not a problem, friend,” I said and patted him encouragingly on his shoulder. Then I turned on my heel.

“Ow fuck,” I said, “why do I keep doing that to my heel?” And I breezed, well, hobbled, looking cool, out of the room. Closing the door. After I’d left, obviously. Never works the other way round. I’ve been in that situation before. Told you it was nasty.

I swore a lifelong debt of hatred to Gretisson for that. And as for Cunley, I still have sharp stabbing memories of him when I run up the stairs quickly. Enough said.

I fucked up my “O” Levels not because I was stupid and naughty but because I was a wide-eyed anarchist at the gates of dawn even then and the world was against me, especially the teachers and the examination board because they had heard of me and they were jealous. I was like the Outsider and I don’t mean like the one in that shit book by Albert what’s-his-face. The only “O” Level that I did get was in English—it was a breakthruogh cutting edge grade six. And that was a pass, not like they say. That’s right, a pass. And that’s a fact, viewer. Rik Mayall got an “O” Level. In English. Go back and read that last sentence again—and read it out loud. Go on. Although what you do is your own business. That’s the thing about life. People. They’re all over the place. It’s exciting—and dull. And you don’t even have to do what I say if you don’t want to because I’m Rik Mayall, so don’t worry about it or even think about it. It’s as though you haven’t read the last paragraph which if you haven’t, well then, that’s fine. See if I care. Which I do and I don’t. See? That’s the beauty of my enigmas.

Headmaster’s Wife

Headmaster’s Office

King’s School

Worcester

April 14 1972

Dear Headmaster’s Wife,

I think I might be in love with you. I have seen you looking at me and I think you would probably like to do some fucking with me. Please do not tell your husband because he is a real old bloody bastard and I bet he cannot get erections like I can. I bet he needs that stallion cream like they sell in nude magazines. We could make love to each other on his bed. I want to do this to you because I am Gretisson, the nasty one with the curly hair. Please do not tell your husband because I will be expelled. My parents vote Labour as well. Please come round to my study and masturbate me whilst I read my magazines with naked women in them. You can even see my balls if you like and smoke some of my drugs which will make you high like a hippy at Woodstock and you can take all your clothes off and wear flared trousers and show off your midriff and not wear a bra. And you can call me Man and we can masturbate together to the Beatles (but not their disappointing phase) and wear those ridiculous blue glasses like John Lenin wears and sit around and talk about the sky and the trees. We could go and watch Bob Dillon singing out of tune and complain about the Vietman war together and read Oz Magazine and fight the power. I am Gretisson and I want to do it with you all night long.

Best wishes,

Gretisson.

Mr Priddy

Masters’ Common Room

King’s School

Worcester

April 15th 1972

Dear Mr Priddy,

You are a complete spasmo. That’s what I think. And if you give me yet another straight “A” in class for one of my appalling essays which I crib anyway, I will creep into your bedroom in the middle of the night with a knife between my teeth like in that film that was on the TV a couple of weeks ago and I will kill you in your sleep. Yes I will. This is not a joke. This is for real. I know where you live. Just off the parade—the one with the shit orange curtains. So just watch out. Please don’t tell the headmaster that I have sent you this death threat because I will be expelled.

Best wishes,

Spencer (the one with the speech impediment and the girl’s haircut who’s always blaming Mayall when he gets pushed down the stairs).

January 14th 1970