Benedict Cumberbatch reads Rik Mayall's letter of complaint about Band Aid

Bob Geldof, basement flat, 126B Kilburn High Road, London. Sorry, Rick. 26th of November 1984. Dear Bob, love your 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, funny, ******* nightingale is going on? All I wanted to do was join my peer 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 no, no, no, no, no, no, no. Absolutely, I'd be blooming well not. Picture the scene. That's the one. The one where I am walking towards Air Studios just as that Phil Collins is going and I call to him but he pretended not to hear me. Between you and me, Bob, I've never really liked him. There's something a bit seedy about him. Those bloody awful records. Something not quite right. Anyway, I was on my way in after him when this enormous bloke in a bomber jacket blocked my passage. I thought, but figured this was probably just some sort of joke dreamt up by one of my great pop star mates like Francis Rossi or Kool from Kool and the Gang. The bloke said, we don't want your salt round 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 **** off. It was then that Simon Le Bon arrived with his all-girl backing band. I called across to him and told him there has been a horrible mix-up, but he pretended not to 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 event. Your ******* charity event. How does 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, George Michael, all the other Georges and Bananarama. And they definitely all recognised me. They did. They stepped over me and went inside even though they pretended that they didn't. You could just tell. Undeterred, no offence, I went round to the back of the building where I managed to find a window that was ajar. I climbed through it and imagine my horror when I fell headfirst into a toilet bowl. Now, you know me, Bob. I'm not well known for swallowing, but on this occasion I have been taken by surprise and I managed to swallow about half a gallon of toilet water and something that I can only describe as solid. This made me feel sick, but I decided I would press on and I managed to make my way through to the studio. I'll say this for you, Bob. You've got some big stars in there. Bonio, Paul Weller, Chris Cross. Yeah, it's a generation joke. It was wall to ceiling talent and just as I was taking in the sheer enormity of it all and chatting star to star with various of my top rock legends like Paul Young, I overheard you telling the security guard to get that twat with the shite in his hair out of here. All I can presume is that that was a joke on your part that backfired because the security guard in question did actually throw me out. Obviously, if this is all some all great mates together music biz joke that you're all playing on me, then I want you to know that I'm completely comfortable with that and love everyone as though they were my brother or sister. But if it isn't, then you're all a bunch of jealous, talentless fuckholes. And another thing, you should seriously consider rerouting some of the funds for Ethiopia in order to get yourself some proper ******* professional celebrity endorsement from light entertainment giants like me. You make much more money in the long run, but then you probably too mean and spiteful to realize it. Anyway, Bob, get back to me soon. Say hi to Midge Rick.