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In the beginning was the word, and the word was Rik Mayall. Do you see what I did there? That’s the kind of guy I am. Unconventionable. And don’t say that I’m not because I am. And my career as a showbusiness legend spans decades and all of them (the decades that is) are choc full of successful movies, theatre events in the West End (and other places), cutting edge comedy television formats, number one hit records, funny and challenging chat show nonappearances and, most importantly, a string of highly inventive and genre-bursting (make that exploding and with some serious megatonnage as well) commercial television and radio product endorsements. People do not, and I repeat not, shout “fat unfunny has-been” at me in the streets. That has never happened—read my lips—ever. A lot.

Now, you know me, I’m a nice guy. You can ask anyone. So that’s proof. Anyway, I want to tell you what happened to me the other day. Things happen to me all the time. That’s what it’s like if you’re big famous. And I’ve always been down with my ordinaries^*. Did you see that footnote? I wrote that. Anyway, when I say “down” with my ordinaries, I’m not saying, down with them as in “down with Thatcher”^*, I mean down as in that expression “down with the kids” meaning happening and cool and groovy not, you know, like, you know, anything else. So, I like to think that I’m down with the kids [maybe change this]. What I’m trying to say is that I like children. Oh fuck, look just erase all this, forget about it. What I’m really trying to say is that I like you a lot and I’m down with you—actually, I need to stop saying “down with”. I’m “in with” you—oh God that sounds as though I want to get your stuff all over my fingers. Look, just go to the next paragraph. I didn’t mean it and it’s all shit.

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).

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?