Rob Gilroy: R.I.P Rik

"Rik Mayall was a name synonymous with comedy - a seal of quality, whatever the project."

When a comedian dies, I always feel the need to write about it. Not in a morbid fan fiction sort of way, but as a sign of respect.

It’s a difficult line to walk, more so than the one Johnny Cash had to stroll down (he’s dead also).

It can seem as though you’re just capitalising on someone’s death for the sake of it – as though everyone, dead or alive, is just column fodder.

And while I won’t lie, my well of inspiration for columns ran dry after week one, I only ever write about the people that have touched me – as you’ll find out when I publish my tell-all autobiography – School Showers and Me: My Nightmare.

That’s why I have to write about the late and truly great Rik Mayall. Not because he molested me, but because he was such a huge part of my comedy awakening.

That might sound a bit pretentious, but it’s because it is.

It’s been almost a week now and I still haven’t quite come to terms with the fact he is no longer with us.

If you would have suggested back in the 80s, that a large part of the world, would be mourning the loss of one of the Dangerous Brothers, I’m not sure many people would have believed you.

And yet, here we are. He’s dead and we’re all choked up about it.

The outpouring of affection that came in the wake of his clog popping is incredible.

And while I don’t doubt for a second that it’s genuine, it’s a shame that, for a while, we seemed to have forgotten just how brilliant he was.

They say you only miss something once it’s gone (except maybe cancer) but it is definitely true of Rik.

Growing up, Rik Mayall was a name synonymous with comedy – a seal of quality, whatever the project.

While Bring Me the Head of Mavis Davis and Guest House Paradiso weren’t his best work, I enjoyed them enough to rent them several times.

For those too young to remember – renting videos was a bit like iTunes – you got a film but weren’t allowed the case.

My first real encounter with R. Mayall Esq. was Drop Dead Fred. Seen at an age that was, no doubt, hideously inappropriate, I loved it.

It was wild, crazy and had a cracking song about dog poo which I can still remember to this day.

It seems silly but I genuinely spent the next couple of weeks trying to invent an imaginary friend as cool as him. The fact that I failed, speaks volumes about my imagination.

But again, that’s not why I’m writing a column about a dead bloke.

I was very lucky to grow up at a time when the BBC were big fans of their back catalogue – you were never far away from a classic comedy repeat.

They hit a real stride when I was about 11 or 12 and, in a moment of scheduling genius, Friday night would air repeats of Knowing Me, Knowing You with Alan Partridge, Blackadder and The Young Ones.

These days they only repeat Heir Hunters and I have all those on DVD.

The Young Ones was a complete revelation to me. I’d never seen adults acting so recklessly.

I’d seen Monty Python but The Young Ones were Python’s homicidal cousins.

The image of Vyvyan sticking his head out of a train and being decapitated remains in my Top Three TV Beheadings.

Blackadder was another shock to the senses – funny, clever, ridiculous and occasionally very dark (the death scene from series one still gives me the willy shivers).

They were so close in terms of influence on me but seemingly very different in style. That is, until Lord Flashheart burst through the scenery.

It’s the only time I’ve ever felt that one programme was hijacked by another.

I’d love to see Phil Mitchell burst through the door of the Rovers Returns, snog Bet Lynch then punch Roy before jumping out of the window.

Rik’s scenes were always short and sweet, but they packed such a punch that an already brilliant show was catapulted into the comedy stratosphere.

I’ve always loved Rik’s style of comedy.

Over the last few years I’ve returned to his work, particularly his sketches with Ade on Saturday Live, and taken a lot from them.

They’re always funny, sharp and, whether it’s incredibly violent slapstick or angry screeching, he really made me laugh.

I still remember watching The Young Ones in my bedroom, with the sound turned down so my mum couldn’t hear, and crying with laughter in to my hands.

The video at the bottom taught me a lot about comedy and every now and then I re-watch it to recapture that magic.

Rik taught me that silences can be just as funny as jokes. Only this time, the silence isn’t very funny at all.

RIP Rik Mayall.