Rik Mayall: Ten Years Gone, Still Louder Than Everyone

Ten years ago today, we lost Rik Mayall. Not just a comedian, oh no. That would be like calling a nuclear bomb “a bit noisy.” Rik wasn’t in comedy, he was comedy. A chaotic, unwashed, howling symphony of fart jokes, political rage, and facial expressions that could melt granite. He didn’t perform like the others. While comedians were busy being clever with wordplay and sipping skinny lattes, Rik was on stage juggling chainsaws, humping the furniture, and dropkicking society in the balls. 

Take The Young Ones. Now that wasn’t a sitcom. It was a feral, foaming, student-powered riot. And right at the centre of it was Rick – with a K – a self-proclaimed anarchist and poet who made Karl Marx look like a mild-mannered geography teacher. This was a show where the housemates fought, died, exploded, came back to life, and argued about lentils all in one episode. Subtle? No. Funny? Dear God, yes. 

Then, Blackadder. You remember Lord Flashheart? Of course you do. Because he kicked the door down, snogged the Queen, punched a bishop, and shouted “WOOF!” so loud it echoed in your kidneys. You didn’t watch Flashheart, you survived him. And Bottom. Now we’re talking proper television. Two sad, violent, desperate men – Richie and Eddie – trapped in a grotty flat, beating each other with frying pans and sexually harassing the postman. Shakespeare would’ve approved. Or wept. Or both. It was crude. It was violent. It was perfect. 

And then came The New Statesman, with Alan B’Stard a Tory MP so repugnant, so dripping in sleaze, that he made actual politicians seem like scout leaders. Rik turned corruption into comedy gold, proving that satire didn’t need to be polite. It needed to be accurate... and armed. Rik Mayall didn’t just push boundaries. He ran them over in a flaming hearse, reversed back over them, then mooned out the window. He was raw, unpredictable, and utterly brilliant. A one-man revolution in tight trousers and with hair that looked like it had been styled by electrocution. And now he’s gone. Ten years. A whole decade without that mad, manic grin. Without someone shouting “WOOF!” in a way that made your nan blush and your dad giggle. 

But here’s the thing… He’s not really gone. Because every time someone farts during Shakespeare, every time someone quotes a poem while hurling a toaster, every time a politician gets caught in a sex scandal and we think, “Alan B’Stard would be proud” that’s Rik. Still here. Still laughing. So Rik wherever you are thank you. You magnificent, glorious, shouty but lovable lunatic.