So I have been practising my accent. I spent some time in Newport Street Bus Station in Worcester as research for the part. Luckily I am a day boy and not a border and because of that, I encounter the working classes and the immigrants much more. So what I am saying is that I am ready now to play Othello. I am sure your mistake was only made out of kindness for Dewsbury. Which is why I feel it is only fair to tell you that it was Dewsbury who actually thought up the name Fatty Wallace for you and he flicks ink on your bald head when you turn around to write on the black board.
I also wanted to tell you that you spent the whole of the double lesson last Thursday with a sign on your back with “homo” written on it. Gretisson put it there—he forged my handwriting.
I hope you do not mind me saying this but last week I saw you in the Common Room and none of the other Masters were talking to you. It must be hard being so unpopular but I want you to know that you can count on me as a friend. And what is more, I can be your eyes and ears in the school and tell you when I hear boys and other Masters saying nasty things about you. Any time you feel lonely or any time you want a shoulder to cry on then please feel that you can talk to me because I am a Christian, unlike the other boys.
Something that you might like to know is that I think Mr Tooley is an alcoholic. I have seen him drinking whisky in his car. He keeps the bottle under the seat. If you were to mention this to the Headmaster or maybe if he were to “accidentally” find out then it might improve your chances of becoming Head of the English Department. It is worth thinking about. There is nothing wrong with ambition.
With best wishes,
Your secret friend, Richard Mayall.
P.S. I think Harold Pinter is a really great playwriter too.
Mr. Powell
Headmaster
Headmaster’s Office
King’s School
Worcester
April 30 1972
Dear Mr Powell,
Hello. You might have already turned over the page to see who has written this letter but if you have not done so then I will save you the bother because this letter is anonimous. So, I can say what the fuck I like and swear and call you a wank bag if I want to and you cannot do anything about it. And if you try and pull one of those “everyone will have detention until the culprit owns up” stunts, I want you to know that I will not crack. I am quite hard and will survive much longer than some like Renshaw and Burwood who will blub at the first sign of pain and admit to writing this letter even if they did not. So have a think about that.
Now, down to bizness. Mr Wallace has miscast the entire school play. The man is an imbaseal. I presume you are responsible for recruitment of staff and I want you to know that the day that you employed this man was a dark day for King’s School. He has cast Dewsbury as Othello and any fool can see that Dewsbury cannot act.
Also, I saw Fatty (that is what everyone calls Mr Wallace—I invented it) helping Dewsbury on with his costume in a dress rehearsal and Fatty was doing it a bit strangely if you ask me and Dewsbury looked like he was enjoying it. I thought you ought to know. I think they might be doing some having it off. I should imagine that a sacking and an expulsion are what is needed right now and the part of Othello should be given to a much more talented boy. I shall say no more. There are moles everywhere. Moles is prisoner of war slang for people who dig lots of tunnels and it also means people who tell on other people.
Best wishes,
Anon (that means anonimous).
P.S. I saw your wife smiling at Mr Greenfield last week. I think they might be doing some having it off as well.
Julie Newport
Alice Ottway School
Upper Tything
Worcester
November 30th 1973
Dear Julie Newport,
I know who you are and I know you know who I am. That’s right, I am the one with the sideboards who looks a bit like Jason King. Do you like sports cars? I know girls do. I am going to get a super-charged Ford Capri RS3100 with run faster stripes when I pass my test. I also smoke cigarettes. A lot. And I have a French cigarette lighter. And it works. My favourite fags (which is what I call cigarettes) are Sobrani Black Russians. I’ve got five different LPs at home. I think you are a really smashing portion of skirt crumpet. Maybe catch up with you some time. That is American street slang for meet you in a coffee shop one afternoon after school.
So long (that means best wishes),
Richard Mayall.
This is a charming story. You’ll love this viewer, I was recording something or other in Manchester (a place somewhere in the north of England—quite unpleasant) with some great showbusiness friends of mine whose names momentarily escape me. I knew I was working that particular day because I woke up with the make up girl. I knew she was the make up girl because she had my wake up call (this is what acters use to wake up in the morning) written in biro* on her back. And here’s a word of advice for you if you’re going to write your wake up call on the make up girl’s back, always make sure you put her name there as well so as to avoid confusion, impoliteness and fights. And put Wendy I love you or Christine or whatever her name is so that when she sees it and reads it backwards in the mirror in the bathroom later she’ll feint with affection so you can always tap up her up for a loan or lay her aside for a shag later. The only bitch is when you bump into her in the street a few months afterwards and you don’t know who the fucking hell she is. Or worse, she might be carrying your child. Fans are bad enough when they are carrying your children. The very great Bobby Ball himself once gave me this: “Rik, never ever ever fuck the fans.” So all I ever say to fans in bed is, “remember, this never happened, bird. I’ve got relatives in the police.” He’s a great man, Bobby Ball, and always will be. And Tommy of course. I have never had sex with either of them.
So, anyway, when a pregnant make up lady confronts me in the street, my heart turns black and my wallet does a triple back somersault. Before this wretched fame thing took over I could always protect myself with a different name. I was Kevin Carruso for six years. The child support agency is after him big style. It’s important if you want to be a top international acter that you learn the ropes.
Anyway, back to the make up girl in the hotel room in Manchester. (And yes in case you’re wondering, repeatedly and rather well and about half a pint but don’t tell Miriam for fuck’s sake.) I was chatting warmly and entertainingly to her about how I had gone to university in Manchester and she was thrilled to bits-tiny but nicely formed bits with breasts—and said what a fun guy I was and how nice I was and good in bed/big cock etc.
“But you look so much better in the flesh than you do on the telly,” she said to me.
“It’s just a make up thing,” I breathed. “I studied in Manchester. I got a double first in Philosophy and Ancient Chinese Literature and the house that I lived in here, in this very town, was the inspiration for the house in The Young Ones.”
“The