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  Best wishes,

  Gretisson.

  Mr Priddy

  Masters’ Common Room

  King’s School

  Worcester

  April 15th 1972

  Dear Mr Priddy,

  You are a complete spasmo. That’s what I think. And if you give me yet another straight “A” in class for one of my appalling essays which I crib anyway, I will creep into your bedroom in the middle of the night with a knife between my teeth like in that film that was on the TV a couple of weeks ago and I will kill you in your sleep. Yes I will. This is not a joke. This is for real. I know where you live. Just off the parade—the one with the shit orange curtains. So just watch out. Please don’t tell the headmaster that I have sent you this death threat because I will be expelled.

  Best wishes,

  Spencer (the one with the speech impediment and the girl’s haircut who’s always blaming Mayall when he gets pushed down the stairs).

  DAIRY EXERPT

  January 14th 1970

  I think I did a bit of a fib today Lord because I felt obliged to tell Mr Townsend that Gretisson had some what are called “gentleman’s publications” if I can use such disgusting words in front of you dear Lord. Sure enough, when Mr Townsend went to Gretisson’s locker he found some. And thankfully, Gretisson has been suspended for this outrage. Of course this action means that I will now have a much better chance of getting the part of Othello in the school play. So if I might ask for forgiveness from you dear Lord for any advantage I may have got by telling Mr Townsend this but, in its own way, it was a selfless act Lord meaning that the part of Othello will be performed so much better by me and bring more joy to the audience which is my motorvation. All I care for is my fellow humans on yours and my planet. That is why I stitched Gretisson up and used my superior intelligence to take care of matters. He will thank me in later life. Thou and I both know that oh Lord. It is good that I know how equal everybody is aren’t I. If only the people in the government were not more like me. I have got nothing against Harold Wilson, I mean I know he doesn’t comb his hair very well and his pipe smoking is a bit common but he does his best. Maybe one day I could be Prime Minister. It is up to you dear Lord.

  Thank you for making me milk monitor this term. As you probably already know, this is a very important position which I am going to take very seriously and I told everyone in the class that we should not drink all the milk and save it up and send it to the people who are starving in poor countries. But Redfern got some other boys together and they punched and kicked me after double maths. I knew that this was a test oh Lord and I took the test and I didn’t cry and I remembered all of their names when I reported them to the Headmaster. I had almost all of them beaten and three of them were put in detention. A job well done. I have got three boys expelled and two boys, including Gretisson, suspended since the start of term. I trust I am doing what is required of I.

  I hope you are keeping well.

  Fondest wishes,

  Richard Mayall.

  SHOWBUSINESS GOLD*

  Literally anything can happen twenty four hours a day in showbusiness. That’s just what it’s like. There are secrets to be told and lives can be ruined. It’s all true, every syllable of it. But what I do NOT do is drop litter on the showbusiness super-highway. I’m a careful driver I am and I always use litter bins although they can be difficult to find when you’re doing 127mph in the outside lane. But if you’re really cool, you should always drive with the lights off at night—that way, you’re just part of the darkness. There are autograph hunters everywhere. I’m often thinking to myself, is that a road pile up ahead? Or is it another autograph roadblock? Not that I’ve got anything against autographs. I live for them. Fans are always hurling themselves into the road—metaphorically speaking obviously—to stop me driving past without giving them an autograph.

  Anyway, what was I talking about? That’s it—acting. Rules for good edge cutting acting: first off, try not to allow any other acters on stage when you are on it. They will deflect attention away from you. If they do manage to get on, make sure that you stand in front of them. But before any of that, before you even get on stage or even turn up for rehearsals, make sure you’ve got the biggest part (see fourth sentence of last paragraph). Sometimes it’s worth taking money to the auditions. And if you are a love interest in the play then make sure that you beef up your love equipment. Two tennis balls is good but three tennis balls and a cucumber should really hit the nail on the head. But worth remembering that you should try to make sure that your part does not involve running around because the tennis balls will fall out. If you think this might happen then make sure that you superglue them to your genitals. It might hurt a bit, but it’s worth it, you really don’t want tennis balls falling out of your Elizabethan trousers during a Hamlet monolog. It will take away the audience’s focus (that’s a theatrical expression for people in the audience saying, “Oh for fuck’s sake, this is shit!” too loudly) from your face.

  So, you’re on stage now with the biggest part and lots of tackle enhancers (that’s another theatrical expression) down your pants. Now is your time and it’s vital to remember that when you are acting you must shout and point at yourself and stand at the front of the stage. Shouting at the audience is called projecting, like they do in cinemas. This is what they teach you at acting school although I didn’t go to acting school myself. I don’t believe in acting schools. Acting schools are shit. You’ve either got it in your blood or you haven’t. You can always tell someone who’s been to acting school because they can’t act. And they’re on the television all the time and get all the parts in all those shit television dramas like that police thing with all those balding overweight arseheads. Bob or somebody.

  It is very important that you make sure to learn all the words in the right order before you shout them at the audience. It often helps to have a young woman to help you with your words. This is known in the industry as your word bird. Now, you know that hole at the front of the stage in between the stage and the audience That is what is known as the orchestra pit and that’s where you will need to put your word bird who can tell you what the words are if you forget them. She must be able to read as well and speak and she must have the book or the script (which is a technical term) with all the words written in it. And for God’s sake don’t have any mouth action with your word bird before you go on stage because if all her teeth are stuck together it’s a “no no” for tricky speeches (which means no good).

  When you are at the zenith of your career like I have been for the last thirty years (even though I am only thirty-seven*) you, erm, something or other. Got it? New paragraph.

  Hey, we’re moving on this one. We’re moving down the page. Hang on a minute.

  That’s better. I needed that.

  Right, here we go, you know this bit anyway but I’m going to have to put it in here all the same because you never know what kind of stupid twat is reading your book, do you? Right, so the audience are the people who sit in the theatre. But they don’t sit on the stage. That’s where the acters stand, or sit and that’s where they stand or sit† and shout at the audience. The audience are in the dark with their sweets, rustling things and coughing occasionally. They’re arseholes, don’t forget, but they’re also your friends. You love them. Sometimes you can tell them the number of your room at the Travelodge (always get a double smoker‡) and they can visit you later. It also helps if you tell the audience that you are having trouble with your marriage and you might be available for some tragic lonely adultery but without anybody finding out, of course.

  Waiting for Godot is a play by that great playrighter Samuel Beckett. We did it at school (and I did it a few years later in the West End with Adrian Edmondson who was much better than me in it and is much more talented than me in everything he ever does). There is a lot of waiting around in it and I found out that if I sat at the front of the stage, the audience would look at me rather than Pozzo (he’s a bloke
in the play). I found out that if I coughed a lot during his speech, I could deflect attention away from him onto me. I even put some grease on the stage one night and he slipped on it. Unfortunately, he didn’t hurt himself badly and it didn’t work out very well at all really because everyone in the audience looked at Pozzo falling off the stage and not at me. But I was learning my trade.

  I was like a kind of impresario at school. I managed to get loads of games of sports cancelled in the new school gym so that I could stage decent rehearsals (rehearsals are what you do when you are rehearsing for a play) (rehearsing means practising). I managed to bribe other boys to bully smaller children whose parents had not bought tickets to my productions. When we did Rosencrantz and Gildernstern Are Dead (top play), three of them were thrown in the River Seven along with their geography projects, for example. And it worked, we had packed houses for a week and some wonderful reviews in the school magazine. Fair enough, I was the theatre critic on the school magazine at the time and wrote the review myself. But when I wrote how great I was, I was only being honest. Because I was great. If I’d written anything else, I would have been lying. And I don’t lie. If you were to cut me in half, I would have “truth” written right through me just like those sticks of rock they sell at the seaside that have the name of the seaside town written in them all the way through them like Blackpool or Brighton or Skegness or whichever town you happen to be in at the time. See how much stuff I know? You didn’t waste your money on this book did you, Shylock?

  So, after the raging success of Rozencrantz and Gildernstern Are Dead with my packed houses and fabulous reviews, I knew where my future lay. I could see all those future edge cutting performances stretching away in front of me, performances that would be so much better than everyone else’s. I won’t mention them now because I don’t want to demean the work of other fellow professionals. It’s not that I can’t remember who these people are and it’s even more not because I think they’re a bunch of tossers. I don’t say things like that. I’ll just let you make your own mind up. It’s a free country. It’s just that some people are bad people and I’m striking a blow for you my viewer and friend. You are freedom and freedom is my missile. We are rolling around together in the freedom bed, deep in the bunker of war. There are bullets, there is blood, there are chicks and there is fame. Feature films as well. Major worldwide tours and groundbreaking radio voice overs obviously. Some are for grocery products and some not. I know about marketing and the global media worl. I know that media is the plural of medium, a medium being something like BBC1 or ITV or the Sunday Times—and Readers Wives obviously. And Doris Stokes. That’s not a joke. Although it could be if you wanted it to be. I can do anything. You must never forget that you are riding on board an out of control pantechnican roaring down a steep hill with the brake cables cut and a pelican crossing of school children and a lollipop woman up ahead. But fear not, viewer, for I am at the wheel and I can tame this mother.

  Mr Wallace

  Masters Common Room

  King’s School

  Worcester

  April 28 1972

  Dear Mr. Wallace,

  As you can see, I did not call you Fatty Wallace—I strongly disapprove of the hundreds of boys who call you that. I have told them too, although they do not pay any attention to me. I do not think you look fat, I just think you are well built. In fact, I think you look really handsome today sir. I like that jacket and your tie really suits you. Also, I was waiting to be beaten last week outside the Masters Common Room and I could not help but notice how much more stylish your cubby hole is than the other Masters. I have left a Penguin biscuit in it for you today, sir. I know how you prefer Club—I have seen you eating them at breaktime—but they sold out of them at the tuck shop I am afraid.

  I also think your flared trousers are very with it and the height of fashion and I do not find it funny when your shirt becomes undone when you bend down and we can all see the top of your buttocks. I have never tried to flick pieces of paper into your crack—sorry, cavity—and deplore those boys that do. I hope I have hair on the top of my bottom soon too.

  I want you to know that I am really enjoying the Othello rehearsals. I have been watching you in rehearsal and remarking to myself how remarkable your directing is, although dare I say it, you have made one fundamental mistake in your theatrical stratergy. Dewsbury is mis-cast. Othello requires an acter with intelligence, with looks and sympathy and what is more, he cannot even do the right axent. He sounds as though he comes from southern England. He has obviously never even seen the Black and White Minstrels. I, on the other hand, am from the West Midlands and the place is teeming with darkies. 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.