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