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?
DIARY EXERT
March 7th 1966
A prare to God.
Dear R. Father, what are in heaven, hello be they name. How are you today? My name is Richard Mayall. And that’s not a lie. Firstly, many thanks for choosing me above all other people. I want to make sure that thine choice is the right one oh Lord. And it is so thou knowest that already. I want thou to know that I have never doubted you, ever ever. I wanted to ask you a question which I thought I would write in my diary so thou could read it as well. We could read it together—thou and me—as I write it. I am going to start a new paragraph now Lord because I want this question to be important.
There. You see, Lord, what it is is that often in the middle of the night I find myself thinking about the angels and the heavenly host—and hostess—and I was wondering, Lord, if thou could clear something up for I. You know how like in the pictures of angels that you see in books, all the lady angels always wear sort of short white shirt kind of things, well if I were to be surrounded by angels, both man and lady angels, and they are all flying around above me up in the air over my head, and if I looked up in the air and saw these angels flying above me and thought to myself “Oh look, there are some selestial bodies. I’m so glad that God has chosen me to be his special one.” Well, what would happen if at that very moment I looked up and there was a lady angel just above me and I accidentally saw her girl’s pants? Would I go to hell? And if I did, would I have to fall all the way down from the sky to the middle of the earth and hurt myself? And will there be hospitals in hell for me? I’ve been worrying about this a lot, dear Thou. If you could clear this up for me as soon as possible, I would be eternally greatful.
I hope thou ist keeping well.
Best wishes,
Richard Mayall.
Mr Clutterbuck Masters Common Room King’s School Worcester
August 20 1969
Dear Sir,
I know you said I should not write to you again because you might have to tell the Headmaster but I felt I should tell you that I now know who let off the fire alarm during break last Thursday. It was not me, it was Lancaster, which proves that he is not handicapped because he would have had to stand up out of his wheelchair to do it. I also saw him doing the hundred yards sprinting practice last week as well so he is a bloody liar. Sorry to swear Sir, but it makes me so cross when other pupils break school rules. If you like, I can help you lift him out of his wheelchair so that you can beat him. One day he will thank us all for this.
You are very good at beating, Mr Clutterbuck. You have a very good slipper action and it certainly hurts a lot. You are much better than Mr Cunley, who said he was going to beat me the week before last for cribbing and then he put his hand down the back of my trousers. I am sure this is against the law but I do not like to tell tails. He smells of LSD and he doesn’t cut his hair very much so I think he must be a hippy. I will say no more.
I hope you have a very nice holiday in Benidorm with Mrs Clutterbuck.
Best wishes,
Richard Mayall.
“Fucking hell, look at the size of his cock!” said the mid-wife who delivered me. “It looks like he’s got three legs. Perhaps he should be called The Tripod.” This is true. She really said this. But I was called Richard instead and the rest is history.
I went to school at the local primary school, right? That’s where I went to school. I didn’t have to pay anyone, I just got in. No questions, no bodies. I was in. The infants. I don’t want to talk too much about it because it was like sucking shit through a shoot. But I tell you what. And I’ll tell it you now. It was a Tuesday night, 17th December 1968. Choir concert. Got that? Me too. All the infants were there. All the parents were there. This is true, this. My fucking class teacher, Mrs “please kick me in the face violently” Andrews lined up all the tables against the wall and told