Bigger than Hitler – Better than Christ. Rik Mayall

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СКАЧАТЬ piece of action was added in a covert and highly suspicious manor. There I was acting out the scene as written – or scripted as we say in the acting world – when suddenly, Alexei smashed me in the face as hard as he could, knocking me completely unconscious. It was all made to look as though it was in the script and I had just mistimed it (and the actual shot of my character Rick coming round and recovering in the episode is me coming round and recovering genuinely. This, viewer, is a fact and would make an amusing little anecdote in its own right were it not for the fact that all was not what it seemed.)

      To this day, I am convinced that insidious elements had infiltrated us and brainwashed Alexei Sayle and the others. Earlier on that day I had just happened to see my great friend and fellow Sex Pistol of comedy, Adrian Edmondson, giving fifty quid to Alexei with the words, “as hard as you can right in the face,” but this was a false trail, a smokescreen, conjured up by the shadowy forces who wanted me to think that my fellow anarchists and crazy good time compadrays had decided to have me whacked. It was an elaborate sting and from then on, I knew that I had to be careful.

      Later, I decided to ask a few questions, see if I could russell a few feathers. First off, I spoke to friend and fellow cast member, Nigel Planer, about what happened when I was unconscious.

      “Oh, were you unconscious?” he said.

      “This afternoon, I was lying on the floor next to you.”

      “When was that?”

      “When we were filming.”

      “Filming?”

      “Making the television programme.”

      “When was I watching television?”

      “You weren’t watching it, you were on it.”

      “Did I climb on it when I was drunk?”

      “No, Nige, you’re an acter.”

      “What?”

      “Nigel!”

      “Who’s that?”

      “It’s you.”

      “Who?”

      “You.”

      “Who’s you?”

      “Your name is Nigel Planer.”

      “I thought I was Anne Acter.”

      “Yes you are.”

      “So what’s my character called?”

      “No, just concentrate, I’m talking to you.”

      “So I don’t have a character?”

      “No.”

      “Don’t I have a job?”

      “Yes, you’re an…Oh God, never mind.”

      “So I’m not getting paid. That’s a bummer. I’m going to call my agent. Oh, wait a minute.”

      “What?”

      “What should I call him?”

      “It’s a woman.”

      “I’ll call him a woman, that’s a good idea.”

      So it wasn’t Nigel who had been brainwashed, he was behaving normally. Although it was always difficult to tell with Nige.

      I never did find out who was behind the attempt on my life, but what was clear was that I had to watch my back (which means be very cautious) as my work was entering a dangerous phase. I had created a legend with The Young Ones. Let’s face it, you’ve probably got married to it. You’ve probably conceived to it. It has probably revolutionised your entire concept of society. You are probably wearing different clothes because of me. I, Richard Mayall, had televised the revolution. I was in danger, but I had arrived.

      Bob Geldof

      Basement Flat

      126b Kilburn High Road

      London NW8

      26th November 1984

      Dear Bob,

      Love you work – or I did until I turned up yesterday at Air Studios to do my bit for Band Aid. What in the name of sweet Fanny fucking Nightingale is going on? All I wanted to do was join my pier group of international stars from the world of pop and rock and record a simple tune which might bring much needed food and provisions to the starving in Africa. But oh no. No, no, no, no, no. Absolutely ruddy bloomin’ well not.

      

      Picture the scene. That’s the one. There I am walking towards Air Studios just as that Phil Collins is going in. I called to him but he pretended not to hear me. Between you and me Bob, I’ve never liked him. There’s something a bit seedy about him. Something not quite right. And those bloody awful records. Anyway, I was on my way in after him when this enormous bloke in a bomber jacket blocked my passage. Ooer I thought but figured this was probably just some sort of joke dreamt up by one of my great popstar mates like Francis Rossi or Kool from Kool and the Gang. The bloke said, “We don’t want your sort around here.” I laughed knowingly but he was deadly serious. I told him to go and tell you that I had arrived and that I had come to do my bit. When he came back a few minutes later, he lied and said that he had spoken to you and you had told him to tell me to fuck off.

      

      It was then that Simon Le Bon arrived with his all-girl backing band. I called across to him and told him there had been a horrible mix up but he pretended he didn’t recognise me. What is wrong with these people? So then I spoke to the big bloke in the bomber jacket again and it was then that he beat me up. Yes Bob, perhaps you should read that sentence again. That’s right, I was beaten up at a charity recording. Your charity recording. How’s that make you feel?

      

      So there I was lying on the pavement when a limo pulls up next to me and out climbs Boy George with George Michael and Bananarama and they all definitely recognised me as they stepped over me and went inside, even though they pretended that they didn’t. You can just tell.

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