do, Adrian Edmondson,” I said.
“Get me a drink, this is thirsty work,” he said. So I did, even though it was only nine o’clock in the morning and he had already had four pints (but he has never had a drink problem*).
“Here you are, great mate Adrian,” I said giving him his beer.
“Fuck off,” he said amusingly.
“What are you doing?”
The violence stopped and the quivering little mass whimpered and recoiled and tried to make itself even smaller in the corner of the corridor. Adrian swung around and locked me in an El Alamein of a glance.
“Look,” he slathered, “the new first years have arrived and look at this one. It’s a fuck pig.”
“Ha ha ha, great joke, Adrian Edmondson,” I said, “let me help you to stamp on him.”
But at that moment the little mite looked up at me and said, “Help me, good looking third year, I’m Little Ben-Elton. I just want to study drama for three years and behave decently and become one of Britain’s foremost dramatists. I’ve got an enormous output of avant guard work which means that I like to write a lot.”
“Hey, Adrian Edmondson,” I said with compassion for the little tot, “why don’t you eat my thesis and take my wallet and cigarette lighter so you can go to the pub and do some more of your drinking which you do so well although you’re definitely not an alcoholic.”
“All rightey dokey,” quipped Ade and it was as though a whole new seam of comedy had been mined in a flash. I’m looking at Eddie Hitler I thought. And with one more good-natured snap of Ben’s thigh, Ade (although even then I felt like calling him Eddie which was a tremendous creation as was all of Bottom which he wrote all the best parts of) made his way to the pub.
And that was how I befriended Little Ben-Elton. We swapped comedy ideas while I was taking him to Casualty past a burning pub—The George and Whippet which burnt (look it up in any local newspaper of the time) down on December 3rd 1977 and Adrian had nothing to do with it.
I actually went back to Manchester a few years later and performed in a play called Man Equals Man by Berthold Brecht who is probably the worst playwriter who has ever been allowed near a type-righter. No one even knew he was a German until I “let it out of the bag”, and the play has never been performed since. I managed to expose how bad his play was. I realised it for the audience. It was a definitive performance. Up until then, everyone had enjoyed his plays, but during that run, I managed to alienate the audience so much that by the end of some of the performances there was no one left in the theatre. Even some of the cast had left by the time I had delivered all of my five lines. Beat that Paul Bradley.
The Man Booker Foundation
Equity House
Irthlingborough Road
Wellingborough NN8 1LT
February 15th 2005
Dear The Man,
Re (means regarding) your Booker Prize thing
The Rik Mayall here—yes that’s right—Rik Fucking Mayall in your letter, in your hands. Read it and weep. Well, not weep really, more like, rush around the office with tears of joy streaming down your face shouting about me. All right, that’s enough, let’s be sensible.
Now the thing is, I’m writing a book. Yes, go back and read that line again. You don’t need to bother with the “now the thing is,” bit. That’s not important. Just the bit about writing the book. That’s the meat of it. Which means that that is the important bit. The bit about writing the book. Anyway, just concentrate and we’ll move on.
I am writing a book. I’m just taking a brake from it to write you a letter to tell you about it because it’s kind of important that people like you are aware of what is going on in the white hot raging furnace of bang-up-to-date Eng Lit. Now some bloke that I met the other day at the market on the end of our road told me that your prize is the really top prize to win if you’ve written a book. So, already you’re probably beginning to get a sense of what kind of shit I’m going to throw down for you. This is media speak for what ideas I’m going to tell you about. It has nothing to do with fouling the carpet.
I’d only gone down for a few vegetables. I could have said I’d gone for a leak but that’s just a really unfunny play on words that one of those oldtime comedians might have come out with in a northern working class working men’s club in the mid-seventies and been thanked for it. (Although I’m down with the working classes—which means I like them and empathighs with them—I’ve always been a socialist.) Besides, they might not have had any. Anyway, this guy came up to me and we got to talking, you know, like “Hello, are you Rik Mayall?” “Yes.” “Oh Crikey, I’m a really big fan, I think you’re probably the best acter working in Britain or indeed any English speaking country etc.” And I told him about my edge cutting new book. And that’s when he said that I should try and win your prize because it helps to sell lots more copies.
So, here I am. And let me tell you that the book I’m writing is shaping up to be a total cock-ripper (which means it will be very amusing and interesting in every respec). So what I want to suggest is that if we agree that I can have the prize here and now then I’ll split the prize money with you. I know it’s only fifty grand and I get that for taking a piss in a commercial voice-over studio toilets as a rule but it’s the kudos that I’m looking for as much as anything else. And it will be a win win situation for you because once you’ve decided to give the prize to me, you won’t have to read all the other pretentious nob-dribble that gets sent to you. Everyone’s happy—we’re all floating around on big inflatable lilo things in sun-drenched swimming pools with fabulous topless birds fighting over which one of them is going to blow us off first. I’m speaking hypo-allegorically of course.
So, please let me know when the ceremony is and I’ll make sure that my agent, Heimi Fingelstein (you never read that), can get it in my diary and I can think about my acceptance speech. Let me know if you would like a mench (this is showbusiness for mention) and if I should give a mench (see last set of brackets) to any other products you might want me to plug. I can also do this on any daytime chat show you like—or onstage at the Olivier. I see that your company is something to do with food so perhaps I could let people know if you’ve got any special offers on at the moment—frozen peas half price—that sort of thing.
So there we go. Letter written. Job done. Please get back to me soon.
Regards,
Rik. The.
I woke up this morning and I thought “New Chapter” so I wrote it but I’m not going to put it in the book for personal reasons. I’ll keep it here though, so if you want to see it please forward some cash and I’ll send it to you although it’ll only be a copy because I’m keeping these “lost” chapters for a book of outtakes from this book. It’ll be like a book version of one of those Denis Norden bloopers shows, only thrusting and vital and like viral media anthrax, of course. Interested publishers, please get in touch. I feel another fat advance coming on and I’m not talking about an overweight predatory homersexual. Which reminds me of a story.
It was the 11th of October 1992 and the first Tuesday in the month. And as I always do on the first Tuesday of every month, I decided to do something special. So I thought I’d telephone Christopher Biggins and invite him around for elevenses. Now, the telephone