"The People's Poet is dead." Rik Mayall Remembered

Rik Mayall, undisputed king of alternative comedy, has died suddenly at the age of 56

Blog by Vonny Moyes | 02 Jul 2014

“The People’s Poet is dead. But how can he be dead when we still have his poems?”

I’ll confess it was an idle flick through Twitter whilst waiting for some onions to brown, when I saw it. The offending tweet from Macrus Brigestock; nothing more than a  heartfelt acknowledgment of what happened, but with all the stomach lurching of a kick in the proverbial nuts, without a trace of slapstick savagery or much-needed irony. Rik Mayall is dead. Gone, at the age of just 56, just like that. And with that, comedy will never be the same.

To the unindoctrinated, it may sound dramatic.Cloying even. But to those who silently slipped from bed,  tiptoed  along halls, crept down creaky stairs and craned through bannister rails  for a stolen glimpse of The Young Ones; they’ll get it. When someone so umbilically tethered to your sense of humour – the weapon to arm you when life is unbearable – dies, you feel it. Shock. disbelief, and then that barb of utter sadness. How can someone so furiously alive, be gone?

As a child of the alternative comedy generation, he was comedy. Laughter meant Rik, and Rik meant laughter. Farts, burps, snot, sweat, swears. Everything a little girl should hate; which was precisely why I loved him. He was the embodiment of slugs and snails; anarchy in the shape of a man. Watching him perform was more like gleefully watching a bottle-rocket misfire in a crowded room. From Bottom, to Blackadder, to Jackanory, he was everywhere where laughter was needed. He was one of the bright young things who saved us from the suited, yawn-inducing comedy dinosaurs. He divided the generations; taught us how to laugh, while simultaneously giving the finger to the old farts he shoved out of the way. With so much left to still give to comedy, it’s heartbreaking to acknowledge he’s left the building.

Born in Essex, he went on to study drama at Manchester University where he met other half of The Dangerous Brothers, and longtime writing and performing collaborator Ade Edmondson, with whom he went on to write and star in The Young Ones and Bottom. Prior to mainstream success, he formed The Comic Strip comedy club with Edmondson, French and Saunders, Alexei Sayle, Nigel Planer and other emerging acts at the time. It was here the nebulous forms of anarchist poet Rick and delightfully crap investigative journalist Kevin Turvey took shape, which would later grace our screens. Having become a household name in the 80s he made minor yet much-loved forays into Blackadder as Baron Von Richthofen, and later as Lord Flashheart, before becoming Richie Rich in Flithy Rich & Catflap, and fitctional Tory MP Alan Beresford B’Stard in The New Statesman.

The 90s brought us the unforgettably puerile and nihilistic Bottom, with he and Ade depicting the lives of two hopeless flatmates in a dingy London flat. After this came ventures into film, starring alongside Phoebe Cates as her impish imaginary friend in Drop Dead Fred.

Sixteen years ago in a freak accident, a 600lb quad-bike almost claimed his life, crushing him – having narrowly avoided taking his daughter and friend out for a ride.  With a badly  fractured skull he spent 5 days in a  medically-induced coma. Upon his recovery, he celebrated the anniversary of his accident by exchanging gifts with his family, and later writing about it in his mock biography:

"I beat Jesus Christ. He was dead for three days at Easter. When I crashed it was the day before Good Friday, Crap Thursday, and I was technically dead until Easter Monday – that's five days … beat him 5-3."

Post accident he wrote and starred alongside Edmondson again as their Bottom alter-egos, in Guest House Paradiso. He pursued less TV work, and mostly let his distinctive voice lend itself to many games, books and adverts. Most recently he returned to our screens in October 2013 in Man Down, playing the role of Greg Davies’ father, despite being only ten years older.

Mayall’s pyretic energy has permeated almost every facet of the comedy scene, both in the UK and abroad. Having been so inextricably linked to the moulding of so many warped funny bones, as well as the catalyst for so many careers, his death has rocked the community, both fans and performers alike. Wherever you look online, it’s impossible to avoid heartfelt outpourings from all those he brought joy to.

Comic Robin Ince said  “The utter commitment, the feral energy, the wide-eyed indignation, the violence, he was a dervish on stage and totally mesmeric. All words I use fail dismally to capture the tears and spasms of laughter that he generated in me”

Alexei Sayle, who worked with Rik on The Young Ones, wrote in the Independent: "Comedy is truly great when it comes out of nothing, and the greatest of comedians, like Rik, have that rare ability to conjure laugh after laugh, not from endless words, but from a single look or one absurd gesture … It was in his bones. Sweet Rik, much loved – what a loss."

Ade Edmondson simply said "There were times when Rik and I were writing together when we almost died laughing. They were some of the most carefree, stupid days I ever had, and I feel privileged to have shared them with him. And now he's died for real. Without me. Selfish bastard.”

Tributes from other comedians and fans included Terry Saunders, who wrote, “I watched the news last night with the clips of Blackadder and The Young Ones and felt that yawning sadness that only a childhood hero dying brings. Then this morning I remembered George’s Marvellous Medicine on Jackanory and how as a child I had this sense that Rik Mayall totally got me and knew how to make me laugh.”

Comic John Robertson tweeted “Rik Mayall is dead. Instead of a minute of silence, I propose 1 min of kicking each other in the balls + gleefully shoving forks up noses” as did Hayleigh Booth, who said  “June 2006, Rik Mayall insulted my mother and politely suggested I perform a sex act on him. Best day.”

Jennifer Robertson wrote, “Fond yet slightly disturbing memories of our camera crew asign Rik Mayall to record an ident. By take number 30, he’d removed his trousers and was delightedly shouting words we could never broadcast. The ident idea was aborted.”

In the hours following the announcement, an unofficial blue English Heritage plaque appeared in Hammersmith, stating, “ Rik Mayall, 1958-2014, punched his friend in the balls on a bench near this spot.”

 Rik was the king of alternative comedy; everyone's at it now, but it started somewhere, and no one is more recognisably imbued with the spirit of the genre than he.  He will most certainly go down in history as one of the comedy greats. Flawless, foul-mouthed,  exquisitely nutty and cocky enough to say what others dared not. His loss so young is nothing short of a tragedy.

On reflection, Kevin Turvey had it right all along:

“To cut a long story short – The End.”