.

now.) His name was – yes, that’s right – Kevin Turvey and he became an overnight sensation. I was born. I took my name off the show’s credits as well which was a stroke of genius because everyone thought that Kevin actually existed. I’m so addicted to modesty it’s a curse sometimes. And that’s where I saw this stonking make-up bird called Barbara – fuck me what a lay – the best in Europe without a doubt. Anyway, don’t tell the wife.

      So you see my dear viewer, what me and my magnificent cohorts were doing was taking the comedy rulebook and tearing it up into little pieces, eating it, letting it pass through our bodies, picking it out of our brown stuff and burning it and dancing naked on the ashes. Smell the legend viewer, smell the legend. Sorry about that. You only get one life to wank yourself off in an autobiography.

      Suddenly, we were wanted on the telly and not just the telly, no, the big screen^* was beckoning. I offered Donald Sutherland a sandwich in Eye of the Needle, played draughts with Brian Glover^† in American Werewolf in London and performed in the breakthuogh Rocky Horror Picture Show sequel Shock Treatment with my great mate Barry Humphries and his great big swinging comedy equipment. [Fill in anecdote here and make it a good one because he knows where I live.]

      Julien Temple made a movie about us all which was called The Comic Strip and Julien Temple is cool. If you haven’t heard of him, you’re not cool. Not only am I cool but I took him some tea once. We did tea together. And it was in Soho. Life was changing, things were happening. I was making tea and movies and great cutting edge television like Boom Boom Out Go the Lights and Whoops Apocalypse. But something even bigger was stirring in my trousers. Something that would take the burning meteorite of comedy and acting talent which is what I was and am and shall be throughout all time and space and make it go supanova (which means that the meteorite would go even faster and further and brighter across the sky – at night preferably because you can see things like that better when it’s dark. Not too dark obviously because you won’t be able to see anything. Anyway, wrap up warm.)

      Er, that’s the end of this chapter. So fuck off. These words need to sleep.

       WHY I WAS NEVER IMPRISONED FOR BEATING ESTHER RANTZEN TO DEATH

      My first question to any producer who wants me in his play is, “Does the character smoke?” This is important because I do very powerful acting-smoking. Motivation and character arks (these are technical playrighting terms which mean stuff about the character who is the person that you are pretending to be) are important to me but more important is that I have a packet of fags and that my character has a good bird (NB^*: no clap or syph – and she must bring her own condoms. I can’t be seen wandering around buying condoms. I’m Rik Mayall. It’s also quite handy to find out where she keeps her purse.) I know you think I’m taking the piss but I am the piss and I’ve not been taken anywhere. I go where I want. I am the freedom piss in the toilet of oblivion flushing myself away into the sewer pipe of broken dreams. That’s not bad actually – seems a shame to just read it once. Go on, I’ll wait for you here. Done it? Good. Anyway, what I’m saying is, you tell me one play that I’ve been in when I haven’t smoked and I won’t listen. Probably because I won’t be in the same room as you.

      Being in a play is great for having it off in the afternoons so it pays to have a bed in the dressing room. But don’t install any webcams. Look at what happened to Dirty Dan.

      It’s also very important when you are starting out as a leading acter and comedy giant to get yourself a business partner. This is what is called an agent. This is not a secret agent (although they can be secretive) and they don’t as a rule have guns in their pockets. Although mine does. An agent is a person who finds work for you and makes sure that you’re happy with all the arrangements for things and sometimes even gets you money for what you are doing. They take the lion’s share obviously, which is only fair after all the life-threatening negotiations they have to do.

      I remember it so well, it’s like it was yesterday. I was at a Celebrity Squares aftershow party. All the greats were there: Crowther, Biggins, Cheggers, Hull, De Courcey, Rogers, Lynch, Russell Grant (obviously) and there we were all howling and gibbering and convulsing and spasming and evacuating our bowels with hilarity as Lynchy and I did some of our verbal swordsmanship when Roger Moore took me to one side and said, “Hi Rik, love your work, I hear you’re looking for an agent. I know a guy called Heimi Fingelstein.” The dye was cast (which means that something big was going to happen). My personal favourite 007 gave me the address of a post office box which I wrote to. The following spring I had a phone call from Heimi’s assistant, Big Joan, who arranged for me to come in for a meeting.

      Roger told me something amazing that he had learnt in the secret service but it’s confidential and I can’t tell you what it is. What he did tell me that I can tell you about is that for important meetings it’s always good to wear a wire which means you can record your conversation on a tape recorder which is sellotaped to your chest. Unfortunately, this being the late seventies, the tape machine was quite large and cumbersome and took a lot of sellotape to hold it in place and a lot of baggy jumpers to conceal it satisfactorily. What follows is a transcript of my first meeting with my agent, Heimi Mad Dog Fingelstein^*.

       Tape starts. Sounds of rustling sticky tape and various doors opening. Footsteps on stairs. Sounds of lots of sewing machines in the background and the occasional female scream.

RIK:	Hello, I am The Rik Mayall: acter, comedian, wit, satirist –
BIG JOAN:	I don’t need to know any of that, mate. I just answer the phone and take messages. What you do is your own business. Now, just go through into his office and once you’re in there, look straight ahead and don’t turn your back on him.
RIK:	Thank you.
BIG JOAN:	Don’t thank me, in fact, don’t look at my face. Oh and just one last thing, what blood group are you?
RIK:	Rhesus Negative.
BIG JOAN:	Oh well, never mind. In you go. Sound of door opening
RIK:	Hello. You must be Heimi.
HEIMI:	No, he passed away tragically. I was there. Who are you?
RIK:	I’m The Rik Mayall: acter, comedian, wit, satirist –
HEIMI:	Into intercom Joan, send in Neville with the acid bath, it’s another one of those Panorama reporters. You’re sure? Oh him, right. Rhesus negative? Maybe the organs then? All right, well, if you could pick up my dry cleaning and while you’re out, I’ll have a sandwich. Extra mustard, that’s right. Switches off intercom Rik, my boy! I’ve always loved you, how are you my darling?
RIK:	Heimi?
HEIMI:	Possibly. Now, sit down and let’s talk fame and cash. Intercom buzzes Excuse me. Into intercom Who is it? Okay, I’ll take it. Picks up phone Ah, Chief Inspector! Very well, very well. How is Svetlana settling in? Sauce? Oh sores, well that’s because of the lorry journey – it’s a long way from Hungary and they are packed in tight. They’ll heal up soon I’m sure. Besides, if you’re not one hundred per cent happy, I’ll send you another one, although I’ll have Svetlana back if that’s okay as she’s a rare blood group and still has a kidney left. Your wife? Oh yes, I remember. That house she’s set her heart on and