A Liar's Autobiography: The Untrue Story of Monty Python's Graham Chapman (2012) Movie Script
Is this fucking thing on? Oh.
Ladies and gentlemen.
He's wacky, he's zany,
he's one entire sixth of the greatest
comedy team the world has ever seen.
Here to reveal all, please welcome
Monty Python's Graham Chapman!
Er, before I begin,
there is a favour I would like to ask
of all of you, please.
And I do mean every single person
in the room.
No opting out. I'd like everyone
to join in with this, please.
I would like to ask you all
for 30 seconds...
...of abuse.
Thank you so much.
Go home! Get off!
Thank you.
Thank you so much.
Thank you.
Thank you so much. Thank you.
15 seconds to go!
Thank you. Thank you so much.
I want my fucking money back!
Oh, thank you.
Thank you.
Get off that stage!
You suck!
You're a shit!
You-you-you-you...
You miscreant!
I like you!
Thank you very much
indeed. That was excellent abuse.
And it will certainly save
a lot of time later on.
New York, 1976.
The City Center theatre.
Monty Python's Flying Circus
is appearing. We are in mid-sketch.
I am playing Oscar Wilde.
My congratulations, Wilde.
Your play is a great success.
The whole of London
is talking about you.
There is only one thing in the world
worse than being talked about
and that is NOT being talked about.
Very witty, Wilde. Very witty.
There is only one thing worse
in the world than being witty
and that is not being witty.
I wish I had said that.
You will, Oscar. You will.
Your Highness, do you know
James McNeill Whistler?
Yes. We play squash together.
There is only one thing worse
than playing squash together
and that is playing it by yourself.
He waits expectantly
for the roars of laughter
and the shrieks of glee.
They do not come.
The silence grows longer.
I wish I hadn't said that.
You did, Oscar. You did.
Forgive me, Wilde,
but I must get back up the palace.
Wilde is desperate.
The Prince of Wales is leaving
with a smile on his face
that had not been put there
by Oscar Wilde. He blurtsz
Your Majesty, you are like a big jam
doughnut with cream on top.
I beg your pardon?
Er...er...
Erm, it was one of Whistler's.
- I didn't say that.
- You did, James. You did.
I...I meant that, er,
like a doughnut, your arrival,
your Majesty, gives us pleasure,
and your departure
only makes us hungry for more.
Your Majesty is like
a stream of bat's piss.
- I beg your pardon?
- It was one of Wilde's.
Uh...uh...uh...
I have just dried.
I cannot remember the next line.
I'm waiting, Wilde. I'm waiting.
The entire theatre waits
and as they wait, so do I
for that damned line to enter my head.
It refuses to come.
Oh, get on with it.
Get on with it.
Dr Chapman?
We'll be landing in Los Angeles shortly.
Hello? Dr Chapman?
Are you all right, Dr Chapman?
Keep your seat belts fastened
and luggage stowed safely.
Turn off your head sets
and electrical equipment
until you see the seat belt sign
turned off.
It's at moments like this
when one thinks,
"Oh, fuck it. Does it really maer?
What are we all here for?
"Are we predestined
to take the paths we follow?"
I was born in Leamington, now officially
known as Royal Leamington Spa,
moderately famous for the manufacture
of gas cookers.
The year was 1942
and the period of gestation
ended on February 7th,
during an air raid in which the Germans
thought they were hitting Coventry.
My parents, Tim and Beryl
- sorry, Tim and Betty -
were outraged when I arrived
because they'd been expecting
a heterosexual black Jew
with several amusing birth deformities
as they needed the problems.
They lived in an enormous Gothic castle
in the south of France
called "Done Drinking Gin And Slimline
Tonic With Ice But No Lemon ln",
which was originally built by Marco Polo
for himself and a few friends
he wanted to invite round
to his place after the pub closed.
I must admit so far
that this has not had much more
than a grain of truth in it,
but it is more interesting
than all the usual humdrum wetting
of nappies and, later, pants,
not being allowed to sit next to the
Czech girl because I once shat myself,
seeing bits of people
hanging from trees... Oh!
That does sound interesting.
Perhaps I should put that down.
I was three at the time
and my mother wanted to take me
along to see my father.
- Walter.
- Sony, dear. I'm busy.
Hey, you. That's sack's
already got two legs in it.
Walter, dear,
we were just out shopping
and I thought that Graham might like...
Can't you come back later, dear?
Has anyone found that head yet?
Has anyone in this street found a head?
Oh, come on. Someone must have it.
I know this street.
You'd steal anything.
I mean, what the bloody hell
are you gonna do with a head?
Oh, dear.
Perhaps we'll go and get your tea.
What? Oh, yes.
Egg on toast, please.
Left arm here.
Anyone missing a left arm?
We haven't got any eggs.
There is a war on.
Ask Harold. Something's bound
to have fallen off the back of a lorry.
All right, dear.
Come on, Graham.
Stop staring at all that blood.
It won't do you any good.
Oh, come on, mum. This must be one
of my major formative experiences.
Eton.
Summer term,
or "wops" as we called it,
seemed to have dragged on endlessly.
The smell of freshly mown grass wafted
over from far-off Hayes meadow,
the village clock chimed in the distance
and somewhere,
miles above our petty earth,
a wisp of cloud took flame from
the dying embers of the setting sun.
They combined to produce
an atmosphere
so redolent of this type of writing.
"Iam victoria tam facilis
scrotum non valet".
We always beat Harrow anyway.
Why bother?
Oh, Chapman, sir, may I clean
your teeth tonight? Oh, please?
Why don't you bugger off, Shagspot?
Oh! Thank you, sir.
Plucky little squit, that young McMillan.
Should go far.
In a few days, I would be in Nice,
soaking up the sun
at the side of my father's pool,
while Jenkins hovered by
with a tray of vodkatinis.
Would you like another sandwich,
dear?
What?
They're your favourite,
sandwich spread.
So this is Nice?
What do you mean, Nice?
This is Scarborough.
You do too much reading.
It'll do you more good
if you eat your tea.
Quite right. You can't get through to him
when he's got a book in his hand.
- What is it, anyway?
- "Claudius the God" by Robert Graves.
A fine historical reconstruction of the life
of Claudius, the Roman emperor,
thought of in his time as a pitiful fool,
though the reign Mr Graves describes
is far from folly.
Is it?
Anyway, finish your tea. We ought
to get a haddock for Mrs Richers.
There's plenty time for that later.
Thraxted's doesn't close till five.
- They'll be out of haddock by then.
- We'll get halibut.
Mrs Richers especially asked
for the haddock.
Oh, haddock, halibut, cod.
There's no difference. It's all fish.
Let's just sit here for a bit
and enjoy the view.
- It's raining.
- It's bracing.
You should have your window open, lad.
Get a bit of ozone in your lungs.
Ozone is oxygen in a condensed state,
having three atoms to the molecule.
- What you can smell is rotting seaweed.
- Well, it's good for you.
- No, it isn't.
- Don't argue with your father.
It's those fancy books. You can't learn
everything out of books, my lad.
There's no argument. It's a fact.
Stop it, Graham. Now, come on.
We'll go and get the fish.
- No, we'll stay here.
- I think we should get the fish.
That ship over there
ls bringing wood from Nonuay,
coniferous wood used
in the paper manufacturing industry
since the late 15th century.
But the first paper mill in England
was owned by John Tate in Herlford,
a manufacturer of continuous...
Oh, the Tates. Wasn't their youngest
walking about with that Valerie Maskell?
No.
This process was developed by the
stationers Messrs H and S Fourdrinier.
It was her.
She was the one that got all the spots
at secretarial college.
Quiet, Edith.
The Fourdriniers were assisted by Mr
Bryan Donkin, an inventor and engineer.
Wasn't his step-uncle, Stephanie,
a wholesale poultry in Peatling Parva?
- No!
- Yes, he was.
It was their youngest
that moved downstairs
next door to the chemist in Wimbledon,
nearly opposite the Gantleys.
Shut up.
Do you realise that if you look out there
on a very clear day,
you can't quite see Denmark?
I think we should get the haddock.
Will you shut up
about the bloody haddock?
- Why is it that every bloody year...
- Language.
Every year our summer holiday
consists of two weeks
in Scarborough, Filey or Bridlington,
sitting in a car in the rain, bickering.
- Why don't we go to bloody Denmark?
- Language!
- We did promise haddock.
- Oh, all right!
We'll go and get your bloody, flaming,
bloody haddock!
Trouble with you two is you don't
appreciate the beauties of nature.
What's that you've got back there?
It's a book.
"I, Biggles", by Captain W E Graves.
Captain, eh?
Mm. That sounds better.
Everything OK, skipper?
Tell you what, old man.
Having a bit of trouble with this.
Could you just pop your hand down
my Mae West, old tapir?
Well, if that's an order, old guillemot.
- It is.
- Righty-O.
Here it comes, old bison.
- Don't stop now! I'm nearly there.
- So am I!
- What about me?
- Oh, fuck off, Ginger.
To heck with the lot of them.
I'll just jolly well sit down here
and improve the bally old mind a little,
don't you know.
"The Complete Works
of Captain W E Johns".
"How to speak English
in other languages".
"The Interpretation of Dreams",
by Sigmund Freud.
In the following lecture,
I, Sigmund Freud,
shall prove the entire psychology
of man can only be understood
with a reference
to the science of navigation.
Spot on.
In relation to this,
I remember a young adolescent
who was having reoccurring dreams
about flying.
A fictional aviator called Bigglesworth
and his companions
are attempting to escape
from a Focke-Wulf
which is pursuing them
and shooting at them.
A typical dream recall of a particularly
exciting episode
of an adventure story for boys.
Or so it would seem.
Let's look at the dream more closely.
The first thing we notice
is that throughout the scene
we see navigational elements
hidden not so far below the surface.
A compass, indicating
the plane's direction of travel.
A map behind the aviators
telling them where they are going.
All unmistakable symptoms
of a navigational obsession.
Note also the use
of zoological terminology
in their navigational exchange
with one another.
"Old bison," "old tapir"
and even "old guillemot"
clearly indicates a yearning for a
pre-rational animal state of existence
in which navigation
is not yet distinguishable
from simply running around.
The boy patient clearly identifies himself
with the minor character, Ginger,
who is excluded from the adventure
because he is navigationally inadequate.
Ginger? That's me.
Inadequate? What a bally awful tone,
don't you know, what ho, old chap.
- You've been bloody reading again.
- I haven't.
Well, what's this in my hand?
"The Interpretation of Dreams",
by Sigmund Freud,
probably his most original work,
in which he explored the unconscious
and found that neurotic symptoms
are like dreams,
a product of conflict and compromise
between the conscious
and unconscious states...
Is it? What's this?
"Sucking at the mother's breast
"is the starting point
for the whole sexual life,
"the unmatched prototype
of every latent sexual satisfaction"?
I've got the haddock.
Now, what were you saying?
Oh, another book, dear?
What is it this time?
Nothing. Just a road map.
Who's "Frood," then?
He's an expert on...navigation.
Very interesting.
His theories on navigation, you see.
Longitude and latitude.
- That sort of thing.
- Ah, well. That's enough of that.
Let's get back to Mrs Richers
with this haddock.
Right.
Quite a lot happened
over the next few years.
A disastrous sexual experiment
with Rita Blake,
my first love affair with another boy.
Ooh!
Stuffing snails into a gatepost,
the hen-stealing nuns,
Pig-Shit Freeman,
Miss Chamberlain's three consecutive
head girls pregnant,
my questions about ejaculation
to the biology master,
Albert the groundsman, holding hands
with Mark Collins in a maths class,
painting John Wilder black,
Prunose Eskimo Nell,
Monsieur Le Beau Vatten,
and elderly spinsters'
wanking-off birthday cakes.
But such trivia needs no elaboration.
One childhood is much like another.
Amateur psychologists who think it clever
to explain the character of the later man
for a jumble of largely
fictitious memories
can ferret for their filth
in other people's autobiographies.
In the spring
of nineteen sixty-splunge,
John Cleese and Graham Chapman
thought they might like to do
another television program.
In another part of London, Michael Palin,
Terry Jones and Eric Idle,
and an American draft dodger -
and who can blame him? -
called Terry Vance Gilliam
thought they would too.
Me? Hmm-mm.
I still like "owl stretching time".
Of course, it was my idea.
Terry Jones.
And lots of noises
only the Welsh can make.
I still like "a horse, a bucket
and a spoon".
His suggestion.
J Cleese.
Look, you Welsh git. We discarded
that about two hours ago.
Oh, fucking hell!
I remember not being particularly
interested in the debate about titles.
Had I given up medicine
for trivia such as this?
- Aren't we able to talk about things?
- Yes.
But do we have to go on about it
in such a high-pitched voice?
John Cleese guffaws like a ban-ister
having made his point.
This winds Terry Jones up
to near violence.
Of course I go on about it.
It's fucking important.
Terry, would you or would you not say
that the rest of us have already
agreed that we don't like it?
Characteristic of his temperament,
T Jones calms down instantly,
having vented his spleen
on inanimate objects.
I still like "owl stretching time."
M Palin.
No, I've gone off that a bit.
I prefer "sex and violence",
But I think Terry's got a point about
"a horse, a bucket and a spoon."
Oh, sorry, Graham. You're doing
all the voices in this bit, aren't you?
I'll shut up.
M Palin.
No, I've gone off that a bit.
I prefer "sex and violence",
but Terry's got a point about
"a horse, a bucket and a spoon".
Oh, come off it.
And so it was decided to call it
Monty Python's Flying Circus.
Cambridge, a university town built
in a featureless, flat landscape.
So featureless, in fact,
you wonder why anyone chose it
as a location for anything.
The magnificence of St John's,
the noteworthy splendour of Trinity,
the sheer portliness of the banks
and some very high walls,
behind which a semi-aristocratic elite
could hide from the outside world
and go to each other's rooms for sherry.
And gazing at the magnificent,
noteworthy, sheer splendour
of the portly King's College chapel,
it would be a world-weary traveller
indeed who did not pause to think,
"Why the fuck didn't they build
the whole town two inches to the right?"
Sorry!
Hmm.
Tsk. Hmm.
Hmm.
Stop! Everybody stop! Right.
If I find any more of you bloody idiots
heating up ether over an open flame,
I'll...I'll kill you!
I haven't been a munitions expert
in two world wars
to get slaughtered
by a load of ignorant tits!
If you don't know what you're doing,
get out!
So, Chapman, let's see.
Oh, now, do you play FUQBY?
I play for Melton Mowbray, first team.
- What position do you play?
- Second row.
That's good.
We need a second row.
Absolutely.
We'll see you in September.
There is just one small matter,
of course. Just a formality.
Your A-level results here.
You're taking three A-levels?
- Oh, yes, yes.
- Will you pass physics?
No.
Why not?
Uh...well, I'm not sure.
Not sure, eh?
That means you're in doubt?
- Well, no...
- Do you mean yes?
Uh... Yes.
So a pass may be possible, eh?
Uh, yes. Possible.
- Probable, even?
- Well, I, uh...
Let me put it another way.
Are you going to fail?
No.
No?
- How did it go?
- Oh, fine.
Mind you, I've got to pass physics.
Well, you'll do that, won't you?
I think at about this juncture,
it would be wise to point out to those
of you who haven't noticed,
and it's apparent enough,
Jonathan Miller and myself
come from good families
and have had the benefits
of a public school education.
Whereas the other two members
of the cast
have worked their way up
from working-class origins.
And yet Jonathan and I are working
together with them in the cast...
...and treating them as equals.
And I'd like to say it's proving
to be a most enjoyable,
worthwhile and stimulating experience
for both of us.
- Wouldn't you agree, Jonathan?
- Certainly is. I'm most impressed.
It's...it's your results.
Ah.
What... What does it...
What does it say?
It says... It says...
Three passes!
That means you're in, doesn't it?
Well done, Graham.
I have been accepted
by Emmanuel College.
I've bought a gown,
several club ties,
walked around in a tweed suit
with a pipe and tried to look clever.
The pipe was very useful. If anyone
said anything I didn't understand,
I could puff on it
and seem deep in thought.
The tweed suit didn't fool anybody,
but the pipe worked a treat.
In tutorials,
I was asked fewer questions.
It also helped clobber the stench
of formalin in the dissecting rooms.
Describe the vagina.
- Kevin.
- Um, right.
- Well, it's a sensitive organ.
- What do you mean?
Well, it's about four and a half
inches long
and it's, uh, very sensitive.
Balls! The only thing sensitive about
the vagina is in the front of it, lad.
Apart from a certain sensation
because something has passed through
the perineal musculature,
the vagina itself is virtually numb!
You answer shows not only a lack
of anatomical knowledge,
but a complete social ignorance.
You've obviously never slept
with a woman!
No! Aah!
Not that bit!
Awfully sorry, old chap,
but sex is a rather difficult subject
and I don't know what came over me.
Oh, well. Better go and have lunch,
I suppose.
Anyone coming to the bun shop?
Oh, thank God.
That was a short tutorial.
In my first year at Cambridge,
I tried to join the Footlights Club,
realising that the only reason
I'd gone there in the first place
was that I'd seen a television version
of a Footlights annual revue.
I impersonated a carrot
and a man with iron fingertips being
pulled offstage by an enormous magnet.
Really super.
In the same set of auditions,
John Cleese did a routine
of trampling on hamsters
and can still do
a good pain-ridden squeak.
How about that?
We were both selected and very soon
were able to wear black sashes
with "Ars Est Celare Artem" on them.
"The art was to conceal the art."
March 1964. The new biochemistry
and physiology block
was being opened by
Her Majesty the Queen Mother.
Being secretary
of the Students' Union,
I was invited to join Her Majesty for tea
with other members of the student body
after her tour of the new premises.
I was pleased to find out that she had
asked to come to tea with the students
and not with a lot of old gits
in red gowns and stupid floppy hats.
- Ah, yes.
- How do you take yours?
Gin and Slimline tonic with ice
but no lemon in, Your Majesty.
Cheers.
I explained to Her Majesty that I had
the offer of going to New Zealand
as a member of Cambridge Circus,
a revue,
but that this would mean taking
six months off medicine
and my parents had yelped
strongly against this.
You really must
see New Zealand.
It's a very beautiful place.
My sexual life consisted of going to bed
with women
while dreaming about men.
The first one was the student's
traditional friend, a nurse.
She was rather podgy
and extremely repellent,
but I just wanted to get my end away.
She was a real "lie down and think
of hockey and England" type,
and after a brief grope
that was not enthusiastically received,
I looked her hard in the breasts
and thought, "Yuck.
"The bar's still open.
I'll get rid of her."
There was another female student
getting a lot of attention from the lads.
Of a rather fawning, not daring
to ask nature, I sat down at her table.
Ignoring her minions, I boldly passed her
a plate of sandwich spread sandwiches
and asked her if she'd go.
She was intelligent enough to say,
"See you in my room tonight."
We had a bloody good time
for a whole year.
She was athletic and imaginative.
We went right through the card.
It wasn't just British missionary,
but doggie on the floor,
on the floor standing, on the desk,
in the shower, in the bath,
near the bath, at someone else's place
while they weren't looking,
and in a guard's van
through the whole of Birmingham.
The description of this passage
has made me feel... Excuse me.
Oh, that's better.
I liked the experience, but after nine
months or so, it began to pall
and I felt I'd rather spend more time
in the bar drinking with the lads.
This is hardly even partly true
in retrospect.
It's just that I remember once or twice
thoughts of men's bodies
creeping into my mind while in coitus.
I decided that I should do
some clinical tests on myself,
so whenever I went in a taxicab,
tube, train or bus,
I looked at each passer-by
and tried to tell myself honestly
which ones I would like
to go to bed with.
And the ratio of boys to girls
was something like seven to three,
which puts me clearly
on the homosexual side of the scale,
as suggested in the Kinsey Report.
Look. He says he's on tour
with something called
Cambridge Circus, a revue.
The Queen Mother told him,
you know,
and as Her Majesty was telling Graham,
New Zealand is such a beautiful place.
She said he really had to go and see it.
It's by royal command, really.
A trip to New Zealand
and America
made me more broad-minded
about myself.
Immediately after qualifying, I gave up
medicine and became a raging poof.
But no mincing.
A butch one with a pipe.
Graham, taxi's here for the BBC!
Thank you very much indeed.
Tonight: class.
Some people say it's disappearing,
but if modern advertising...
Come in.
Come in, Thompson. Nice to see you.
It's time we had a little chat.
- Thank you, sir.
- Good.
Don't sit on the floor, Thompson.
Sit on the chair.
How are you, Thompson?
- Fine, sir.
- Good. Splendid. You look well.
I was talking this morning to Miss Evans
about your Latin verse.
The prose is all right, but verse is weak.
You've got to do something about it.
- Yes, sir.
- Hmm.
Thompson, have you been shot?
Yes, sir. Just a bit.
Well, who shot you?
A master or a boy?
- A boy, sir.
- Oh, good.
Hi, guys. Hello.
Super show tonight. Super.
Look, I can't stop.
Got a flight to catch.
I was thinking you boys ought
to write a film script.
It'd be super, absolutely super.
I'm sending you off to Spain to write
the script. It'll be great fun.
Anyway, I've got to go.
They're calling my flight. Bye.
Super.
Well, now we're here, the first thing
we should do is examine all the beaches
to find out which will be the best place
to write a film set in London.
Well, it usually takes me two weeks
to get acclimatised
and I still haven't thrown off
this throat.
It is rather hot, isn't it?
I'm feeling a bit groggy myself.
Perhaps a couple of weeks' rest
might be a good idea.
But do you think we should?
I mean, David frost and all that.
- He has paid us, Graham.
- Yes, I suppose you're right.
Yes, well,
I'll probably be all right tomorrow.
Yes, right. That's fine. We'll start
tomonow, first thing in the morning.
Right. Yes, yes, yes.
Fine, then.
I'll sit in the shade with the typewriter
and you can sit out on the balcony
sunning yourself
and shout a few lines in, right?
Fine. Great.
Oh, bugger.
Graham, do you mind if we don't start
till the evening, actually?
I promised to take Connie out tomorrow.
She's only got a few more days here.
Bit awkward to get out of it now,
you know? Damn!
Fine by me.
We have done a synopsis of the film.
I wouldn't mind taking a bit of time off.
- We'll start on Friday, yes?
- Yes. Right.
Um... Be a bit noisy,
but we can shut ourselves away.
- Noisy?
- Well, there's the fiesta this weekend.
Lots of dancing, fireworks, wine
and that sort of thing.
Oh. I've never been to Spain before.
Haven't you?
Oh, well. You must, then.
You must go to the fiesta.
So let's have a drink.
That brings us to Monday.
We'll start on Monday.
No, Monday and Tuesday
are Connie's last two days
and I'd like to see her off on Wednesday,
so let's start Thursday.
Look, why don't we make it
two weeks?
Done.
I say...
Just look at that.
I spent the next two weeks
searching for something
that I knew was probably very sexy.
Super, boys, super.
Really super.
I look forward to reading
more than ten pages.
Ooh, got to fly- Bye!
Hello?
Who was that?
One of the painters.
It sounded like one of the painters
I've spoken to before.
Well, yes, it probably did a bit.
It's a bit late for painting, isn't it?
No, no. You just don't understand
London, mother.
This is not like Leicester.
For a whole year, I've lived in terror,
an almost Thorpean tenor,
of being found out for what I was.
A poof.
"Fuck it," I thought.
"Why go through all this agony?"
I decided that I would invite my closest
friends to a party to meet David
and explain to them all
that I was a bit bent.
This was a coming-out party.
No, Graham, you don't understand.
I'm just very surprised.
Ever since I've known you,
you've played rugby, drank a lot of beer,
you smoked a pipe,
you wore a tweed suit and brogues
and this is not a standard gay profile.
Yes.
Ooh!
The other extraordinary reaction
was from Keith Moon,
who was quite stunned.
Obviously, he was quite young then,
but I had to explain to him
what it all meant,
that I actually did go to bed
with people of the same sex,
that it was quite fun and that we
actually loved each other.
It wasn't at all naughty.
Come in.
- Trouble at mill.
- Oh, no. What sort of trouble?
One of crossbeams
gone out of skew on treadle.
Pardon?
One of crossbeams
gone out of skew on treadle.
I don't understand.
One of the crossbeams
has gone out of skew on the treadle.
- But what on earth does that mean?
- I don't know.
Mr Wentworth just told me to come in
and say there was trouble at the mill.
I didn't expect a kind of
Spanish inquisition.
Suddenly I feel like digressing
for another moment about morality.
I intend to publish here for the first time
what I believe to be a missing portion
of the New Testament.
The papyrus manuscript,
translated here from the original Greek,
was discovered in 1979 by the author
at Auckland airport.
It was there, in transit to Sydney,
Australia, whiling away a few moments,
when the manuscript was given to him
by a Maori chieftain toilet attendant.
The first epistle of Paul the Apostle
to the New Zealanders, AD 59.
Chapter 1,
in which Paul castigated the
Antipodeans' empty showing of holiness,
of fornicators and abusers
of mankind,
of poverty and tolerance,
exorteth them
to beware of false prophets.
"Dear New Zealanders,
what is all this nonsense
"about certain of your number
kneeling down in front of crosses?
"That is naughty in the extreme.
"You've changed the glory
of an inconuptible god into an image.
"I understand that the very same people
collect together in churches
for the purpose of worship.
Who needs it?
"God doesn't. I've asked him. He's fed up
with it, especially the psalms.
"They give him a headache
and cause his teeth to strike together.
"Don't they realise their praise
is meaningless?
"Why can't they concentrate on being
better behaved towards one another
"and forget about this empty show
of holiness?
"He says, though don't quote me on this,
'They can stuff it up their arses.'
"He said that, not I.
"I, a mere mortal,
would not have put it quite like that.
"I'm afraid I think too much
about my earthly reputation,
"but I cannot help agreeing with him
about fornicators, adulterers,
"effeminates and abusers of mankind.
"I'm constantly being misquoted
on this point.
"I would like to state quite clearly
that sex is nothing more
"than the way in which
two or more people
"can have lots of harmless, cheap fun,
"provided that they are clean
and that the aim is not reproduction.
"The betterment of the lot of mankind
is impossible
"without strict limits on reproduction,
so don't make the mistake
"the rest of the world has made
and overpopulate yourselves.
"Not everyone has to have children,
for Christ's sake.
"He didn't have any
and I should know.
"If you really feel you have to have
children, then make sure
"that, as parents, you have no more
than you can properly look after.
"I exhort you to be empathetic,
"be splendid,
be aware of your own ignorance,
"and, as always, beware of those
who claim to lead you
"to better self-knowledge
by taking your money.
"Must finish now
as I have to catch the post.
"Lots of love, P.
Kiss, kiss, kiss."
# Socrates himself
ls particularly missed
Mr Chapman.
Two minutes till act two, Mr Chapman.
Full of gin and the feeling
of superiority over mortals
which commonly afflicts the adulated,
I'd reached my zenith in a naughty
and to this day illegal act
upon the floor
of an empty dressing room.
# Sit on my face
And tell me that you love me
# I'll sit on your face
And tell you I love you
# I love to hear you oralise
# When I'm between your thighs
You blow me away
# Sit on my face
And let my lips embrace you
# I'll sit on your face
And then I'll love you truly
# Life can be fine
If we both 69
# If we sit on our faces
In all sorts of places
# And play till we're blown away
What kind of a fellow
is Monty Python, by the way?
He's black.
Black and he's homosexual.
That's all you can say about him, really.
He's a pretty easy person to sum up.
Good grief.
There's no one to go to bed with.
Where are all the young men around
here? This is absolutely dreadful.
Ta-da!
Oh, all right.
Sit on my face
And tell me that you love me
Could you try
and keep the noise down!
Knock it off!
Be quiet!
# Sit on my face, mama
# Sit on my face
Baby, baby
# Sit on my face
# In all sorts of places
# Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah
What's it like being a film star?
I'm not. I'm just an extra.
- You're just an extra?
- Yes.
It's the crown and this that probably...
Yeah, I was looking for Graham Fink.
Ah, yes. He's around somewhere.
Sit on my face
Come on, baby
# Let my lips embrace
# Tell me that you love me
# Sit on my face
And tell me that you love me
# I'll sit on your face
And tell you I love you too
# I love to hear you oralise
# When I'm between your thighs
You blow me away
# Sit on my face
and let my lips embrace you
# I'll sit on your face
And then I'll love you truly
# Life can be fine
If we both 69
# If we sit on our faces
In all sorts of places
# And play till we're blown away #
Good afternoon.
Beverly Hills Hotel reception.
Ugh! Los Angeles.
Up, down.
Up, down.
Up, down.
Up, down.
Up, down.
- Hi!
- Hi.
Ain't you that guy?
I'm so thrilled to meet you!
I love your Monty Python.
- Shall we go up to my room?
- Sure!
Ah. There.
You enjoying that?
Ooh, yeah. Do you feel that?
I feel that.
Just get right in there.
Bye, Graham.
Oh, and do say hello to Monty
for me.
Tell him I'm his biggest fan!
That was fun. Zoom.
Um, excuse me.
ls there a telephone around here
I can use?
Sure.
Use the one in my room.
But it's my mother
who needs to use the phone.
Well, bring her up too.
I don't mind if it's a local call.
Ooh, aah.
Do that to me. Ooh.
If it's an order, old guillemot.
Ooh, big boy. Mm.
Aah! Touch me here.
Oh, my God.
Do it to me there!
- Right-0. Here it comes.
- Ooh! Right there.
Oh, my God. Yes!
Oh, do that to me! Ooh!
Big boy! Oh, my God!
Oh, yeah.
Yes! Oh, my God!
You, in fact, were more than...
...drunk on one occasion.
You were in fact an alcoholic.
Yes, I did a lot of drinking.
- A great deal indeed, Michael.
- You were an alcoholic?
You can safely say
I did do a very great deal.
And how much at your peak,
so to speak, were you drinking?
Four pints of gin a day.
Four pints of gin a day?
I didn't know Graham was an alcoholic.
Did you?
Why was that, do you think?
I think... I don't know, really,
the answer to that.
Deep inside I think actually
that I was insecure.
I didn't really feel that I'd deserved
the success that I'd achieved.
How difficult was it?
Actually, once the decision had been
made, once I decided to stop,
it was easy, except for the three days
of unpleasantness.
Oh, get on with it.
Graham? Are you all right?
You look a bit pale.
Would you like a cup of tea
and maybe a bit of toast?
- With a nice poached egg on top?
- No. I'm... I'll...
J-just a...m-moment.
Later. I'll get up, be fine.
- Uh, Vichy water?
- N... Yes, yes.
- Da-David, the curtains.
- Sony.
Silent night
# Holy night
# All is calm
There.
# All is bright
Introducing, ladies and gentlemen,
tonight,
all the way from a mud-wrestling tour
of the OPEC countries,
in the red corner,
Colin "Bomber" Harris!
And, ladies and gentlemen, in the blue
corner, Colin "Bomber" Harris!
Well now, ladies and gentlemen,
this is the first time
that Colin "Bomber" Harris
has met himself.
A few formalities
and we'll be ready for round one.
There goes the bell.
He just made it to the rope!
Colin moves to the middle of the ring.
He's looking for an opening.
Going for the hand hold.
He's got it.
Into the head squeeze.
A favourite move of Colin's.
Fine there.
Double overhead nostril.
Should be able to twist out of this.
And he does!
A lovely move there!
Colin must be pleased with himself,
having pulled himself out of that one.
The strawberry whip!
A vanilla whip!
Chocolate whip!
There it is.
Colin's most famous whip.
And there it is.
He just got a little lucky, though.
A double Eydie Gorm.
There it is.
Colin's most famous hold!
The one-leg-over-shoulder Jerry Ford!
And he's caught himself there
and Colin's in real trouble!
And Colin did not like that
one lile bit!
Double overhead back-kick and Colin
must be pretty pleased with himself.
A lovely move there!
He's caught himself by surprise!
And into the crayfish.
No, it's a crawfish.
And Colin bit himself on purpose there
and has been given a public warning
by the referee.
Look, you stupid bastard,
you've got no arms left.
He's looking pretty ruggy.
And that is it!
Colin "Bomber" Harris
has knocked himself out
and so he is the winner
and he goes on next week
to meet himself in the final.
- Graham, you're an alcoholic.
- Uh, yes.
- Do you want not to be?
- Yes.
Right. We'll start the treatment.
Your liver function tests are appalling.
Ten times over the acceptable norm
of the gamma GTP, for instance.
But there's no sign of enlargement
and, with a bit of luck,
there's a chance you may not
have damaged your liver permanently.
We'll phase out the Heminevrin
and Valium gradually
and you can take an abstem tablet
in the morning and one in the evening,
so that if you drink any alcohol,
you'll feel as ill as you were
five days ago.
It's up to you whether you drink or not.
It's your liver.
It's your life.
Oh, dear puss, London is far behind us.
What shall we do now?
- Meow.
- What's that? Sing a song?
- Meow.
- What, now? For all the children?
- Meow.
- Shall we sing a song, children?
# Of all the organs the body contains
The liver's the one for me
# It processes food
It deals with the waste
# It's cleverer than a knee
# When it throws up its hands at alcohol
and makes you extremely ill
# It's best to take heed
You're not being a weed
# You're just being sensible
You've only got two stations.
I bought Marylebone from you
last time you landed on Graham's hotel.
- I'll give you the watenuorks.
- I don't want it.
Perhaps Graham does. Graham?
Do you want the waterworks?
- No, I'll buy the camelopard.
- What?
It's a camel that looked like a leopard.
A giraffe.
He's gone again.
Oh, Graham.
# It's Christmas in heaven
# Snow falls from the sky
Do you know, last time I was in Paris,
I really did ring John-Paul Sartre.
Sigmund de Bouvier
answered the phone
and said that he was out distributing
leaflets. Or was that a sketch?
# It's Christmas in heaven
# There's great films on TV
Do I talk here?
No, Graham.
That's the table lamp.
- The microphone's on your right.
- Right. Good.
Take 59.
You bastards!
We've been planning this for months!
Well, tough titty for you, fish-face.
The raid backfires. Brian is captured
and all the rest are killed.
Brian, beaten, bruised and bleeding,
is thrown into Pilate's
darkest stinking dungeon.
That was marvellous. Let's move on.
Oh, you lucky bastard.
Brian is on the run from the Romans
and to avoid capture
pretends to be a lobster.
Sorry, Graham.
We had a rogue lobster in there.
Oh, I'm son'y about that.
Are we ready?
Brian trailer, take 60.
Brian is on the run from the Romans
and to avoid lobster...
We seem to have a colony
of lobsters in there, Graham.
- Well, all right.
- Take 61.
Brian is on the run from the Romans
and to avoid capture pretends to lob...
Let's start it again. Sorry.
- Let's move on.
- It's certainly clean.
An unbeliever!
Kill the heretic!
Leave him alone!
Leave him alone!
Brian escapes from the crowd
and goes home with Judith.
Alone together at last,
the two rush naked at each other
and meet in a frenzy
of darting tongues...
Sorry, Graham.
That bit's been cut.
- All of it, I'm afraid.
- Even this bit here?
Yes. The boys loved the lobster idea,
so they're gonna re-shoot that bit.
Oh.
OK, next bit, Graham, please.
Take 62.
You're fucking nicked, me old beauty!
Brian is anested and taken before Pilate,
where he is sentenced to be crucified.
Could we try one a little lighter, please?
Brian is arrested
and taken before Pilate,
where he's sentenced to be...
to be crucified.
- Yes, I think that's a little too light.
- What shall I try?
We'll use the take before.
We'll be able to make all that work.
- Thanks for coming in.
- That's it, is it?
Yes, that's it. If you want to collect
your 30 pounds on the way out.
Yeah. 30 pounds.
Yes, well, uh...
I was led to believe that probably
it might be a little, um...
Yes, look. It's not a big budget movie,
you know.
We'll have a whip round
and see what loose change we've got
and we should be able to give you
another two pounds.
All right, yes.
Goodbye.
Will you please welcome hard-working
mother of one, Graham Chapman.
Who's mummy's little baby?
- How beautifully you are clad.
- And so are you.
- You're still butch, aren't you?
- Oh, yeah.
Even though you go about telling people
who haven't asked that you're gay.
Yes.
No! Oh, no!
Graham, please don't tell your father.
It'll kill him.
- Of course it won't kill him.
- It will! It'll kill him!
Of course it won't. Shut up.
Never mind.
Let's go on to your manifesto.
You said that you would like to state
quite clearly
that sex is nothing more than a way
in which two or more people
can have lots of harmless, cheap fun,
provided that they are clean
and that the aim is not reproduction.
Yes.
Look, Graham, your mother's told me
why she's upset.
Don't worry about it.
If you want to go around talking
about this stuff, it's fine.
She just doesn't understand
these things.
Ladies and gentlemen,
it is now two years later,
and we'll be shortly arriving
at Los Angeles airport.
Would you please extinguish all
cigarettes and fasten your safety belts.
Hmm.
This is the place.
Come on. Open the door.
Hello. Starlight emergency
24-hour luxury door-opening service.
Opening doors to the stars.
Yes. We need someone here
straightaway to open our door.
It's account number 2248.
Hi!
Thank you, thank you.
Now, grip the teat
and whet the micro-tome.
If tea party there be,
let cucumber be slivered
to the thinnest with precision
and pressed twixt finest slices
of good bread.
Bravo! Bravo!
Graham, isn't that George Lazenby
over there,
seen enjoying a can of specially
imported Foster's lager?
What, you mean behind Christopher
lsherwood and Georgia Brown,
seen there enjoying a joke
with Ian La Frenais?
Yes, between Peter Cook, Dudley
Moore, Bo Diddley and the piano,
all seen enjoying a brief rest
in a tight schedule.
And who's that with the Hollywood
psychiatrist, Dr Stuart Lerner?
It could be either Jane Seymour,
Jenny Agutter,
Susan George, Shelly Duvall
or Victor Borge.
- Victor Borge?
- Sorry. Did I say Victor Borge?
Only, I also thought I caught sight
of Victor Borge
enjoying a quiet word
with Charlton "Chuck" Heston
and screenwriter companion Alan Katz.
Yes, but who's the girl
with Stuart Lerner?
Hmm. Ah!
That's Sylvia Kristel.
Good God!
Graham, do you realise
that in the last few minutes alone,
you've dropped no less than 17
famous names?
Have I? I didn't intend to.
I just happen to know these people.
They're friends of mine.
Uh, they live here.
I want you to repeat
what you've just said to yourself
and think about it as a medical man.
- You mean I've got...
- Yes.
Niven-ism. It's a common enough
complication of angelitis.
It's an endemic autobiographical
complaint
whereby people live vicariously
through the fame of other people.
Ahh.
It was, coincidentally,
David Frost's 40th birthday party,
his third that afternoon,
and I'd promised to try and look in
for a moment or two.
Super!
Super, super.
Super!
Really super.
# Happy birthday
# Dear...David Frost!
Super!
# We think you're swell
# You've achieved so much
# And done so well
# That everybody here agrees
You deserve more OBEs
# And that was the message
That was
Super, super, super. Super.
Super.
On the way out,
I consoled an agitated Rod Stewart,
who unfortunately had had to come
to the party in person.
He'd got married that morning
and the blow-ups of the happy couple
could not be processed in time.
- Hello, Keith.
- Hello, Graham. What do you want?
Would you like to come to a party
at my place later?
- I think I'm already at one.
- George said he'd drop by.
- And Harry and Richard will be there.
- Can I bring Mick and Ronnie?
- All right. See you later.
- And Pete and Ringo?
Sure. See you later. I'm just gonna
nip off down through Boys Town.
- I want to pick up some zoom.
- I'll bet that's not all.
Graham, you must face up
to this name-dropping problem.
- What should I do? Move to Finland?
- You'll just have to sweat it out.
Isn't there anything I can do
to speed up my recovery?
There is, but it isn't going to be pleasant,
I'm afraid.
Revulsion therapy.
I'm going to prescribe an intensive
course of Hollywood parties for you.
It's your only hope.
Hello, Graham.
Is that young lady all right over there?
It's working, Graham.
Stick with it.
Good evening, Mr Chapman.
I am Jose.
I'll be your star to bed tucker-inner
to the stars this evening.
Jolly good.
I had slipped
into a state of inertia.
All further activities seemed pointless.
I decided to have a farewell party.
David made the cucumber sandwiches
and I slipped out in my beige spacesuit
to see if the others
would be prepared to pop along.
I stepped up nimbly through the air lock
and deftly percolated past Elton John's
piano-shaped moon buggy.
He was obviously entertaining
David Bowie and Ken Liberace,
so I passed on.
I knew the next space vehicle
was occupied for an at-home evening
by David Hockney and Alan Bennett,
comparing the size of their accents.
Custard cream, David?
Just a weak Darjeeling, please, Alan.
So I didn't bother with them.
- Can you come to our party?
- No!
And I have got to do
the hoovering!
- Can you come to our party?
- Sorry, Gray.
Diary's absolutely chock-a-block.
"Here lies Oscar Fingal
O'Flahertie Wilde.
"Gone out for good."
Can you come to our party?
There is a time
in the affairs of greed,
which, taken at the kludge,
leads on to brutalness.
A man is not a wasp,
nor Dfisseldorf built in a day.
Damon Runyan had a bunion.
For all, they say, hey I.
What's that supposed to mean?
My heart bakes.
A drowsy numbness fills my...
Let it be. Let it be.
Oh, come on, Wilde.
What does that mean?
It means, your Majesty, it means...
Learn your lines.
You had us waiting for hours.
I didn't think anyone noticed.
No, I suppose they didn't.
The end.
Graham Chapman,
co-author of the pan-ot sketch,
is no more.
He has ceased to be.
Bereft of life, he rests in peace.
He's kicked the bucket,
hopped the twig,
bit the dust, snuffed it,
wheezed his last
and gone to meet the great
Head of Light Entertainment in the sky.
And I guess that we're all thinking
how sad it is
that a man of such talent,
of such capability for kindness,
of such unusual intelligence,
should now so suddenly be spirited
away at the age of only 48
before he'd achieved many of the things
of which he was capable
and before he'd had enough fun.
Well, I feel that I should say,
"Nonsense.
"Good riddance to him, the freeloading
bastard. I hope he fries."
And the reason I feel I should say this...
...is he would never forgive me
if I didn't,
if I threw away this glorious opportunity
to shock you all on his behalf.
Anything for him
but mindless good taste.
# Inflammation of the foreskin
# Reminds me of your smile
# I've had ballanital chancroids
# For quite a little while
# I gave my heart to NSU
# That lovely night in June
# I ache for you, my darling
# And I hope you'll get well soon
# My penile warts
# Your herpes
My syphilitic sores
# Your monilial infection
# How I miss you more and more
# Your Dhobi's itch
My scrumpox
# Our lovely gononhoea
# And at least we both were lying
# When we said that we were clear
# Our syphilitic kisses
# Sealed the secret of our tryst
# You gave me scrotal pustules
# With a quick flick of your wrist
# Your tricho-vaginitis
# Sent shivers down my spine
# I got snail tracks in my anus
# When your spirochetes met mine
# Gonococcal urethritis
# Streptococcal balanitis
# Meningomyelitis
# Diplococcal cephalitis
# Epididymitis
# Interstitial keratitis
# Syphilitic choroiditis
# And anterior uveitis
# Gonococcal urethritis
# Streptococcal balanitis
# Meningomyelitis
# Diplococcal cephalitis
# Epididymitis
# Interstitial keratitis
# Syphilitic choroiditis
# And anterior uveitis
# Sit on my face
And tell me that you love me
# I'll sit on your face
And tell you I love you too
# I love to hear you oralise
# When I'm between your thighs
You blow me away
# Sit on my face
And let my lips embrace you
# I'll sit on your face
And then I'll love you truly
# Life can be fine
If we all 69
# If we sit on our faces
In all sorts of places
# And play till we're blown away
Ooh. Terribly sorry.
Ladies and gentlemen.
He's wacky, he's zany,
he's one entire sixth of the greatest
comedy team the world has ever seen.
Here to reveal all, please welcome
Monty Python's Graham Chapman!
Er, before I begin,
there is a favour I would like to ask
of all of you, please.
And I do mean every single person
in the room.
No opting out. I'd like everyone
to join in with this, please.
I would like to ask you all
for 30 seconds...
...of abuse.
Thank you so much.
Go home! Get off!
Thank you.
Thank you so much.
Thank you.
Thank you so much. Thank you.
15 seconds to go!
Thank you. Thank you so much.
I want my fucking money back!
Oh, thank you.
Thank you.
Get off that stage!
You suck!
You're a shit!
You-you-you-you...
You miscreant!
I like you!
Thank you very much
indeed. That was excellent abuse.
And it will certainly save
a lot of time later on.
New York, 1976.
The City Center theatre.
Monty Python's Flying Circus
is appearing. We are in mid-sketch.
I am playing Oscar Wilde.
My congratulations, Wilde.
Your play is a great success.
The whole of London
is talking about you.
There is only one thing in the world
worse than being talked about
and that is NOT being talked about.
Very witty, Wilde. Very witty.
There is only one thing worse
in the world than being witty
and that is not being witty.
I wish I had said that.
You will, Oscar. You will.
Your Highness, do you know
James McNeill Whistler?
Yes. We play squash together.
There is only one thing worse
than playing squash together
and that is playing it by yourself.
He waits expectantly
for the roars of laughter
and the shrieks of glee.
They do not come.
The silence grows longer.
I wish I hadn't said that.
You did, Oscar. You did.
Forgive me, Wilde,
but I must get back up the palace.
Wilde is desperate.
The Prince of Wales is leaving
with a smile on his face
that had not been put there
by Oscar Wilde. He blurtsz
Your Majesty, you are like a big jam
doughnut with cream on top.
I beg your pardon?
Er...er...
Erm, it was one of Whistler's.
- I didn't say that.
- You did, James. You did.
I...I meant that, er,
like a doughnut, your arrival,
your Majesty, gives us pleasure,
and your departure
only makes us hungry for more.
Your Majesty is like
a stream of bat's piss.
- I beg your pardon?
- It was one of Wilde's.
Uh...uh...uh...
I have just dried.
I cannot remember the next line.
I'm waiting, Wilde. I'm waiting.
The entire theatre waits
and as they wait, so do I
for that damned line to enter my head.
It refuses to come.
Oh, get on with it.
Get on with it.
Dr Chapman?
We'll be landing in Los Angeles shortly.
Hello? Dr Chapman?
Are you all right, Dr Chapman?
Keep your seat belts fastened
and luggage stowed safely.
Turn off your head sets
and electrical equipment
until you see the seat belt sign
turned off.
It's at moments like this
when one thinks,
"Oh, fuck it. Does it really maer?
What are we all here for?
"Are we predestined
to take the paths we follow?"
I was born in Leamington, now officially
known as Royal Leamington Spa,
moderately famous for the manufacture
of gas cookers.
The year was 1942
and the period of gestation
ended on February 7th,
during an air raid in which the Germans
thought they were hitting Coventry.
My parents, Tim and Beryl
- sorry, Tim and Betty -
were outraged when I arrived
because they'd been expecting
a heterosexual black Jew
with several amusing birth deformities
as they needed the problems.
They lived in an enormous Gothic castle
in the south of France
called "Done Drinking Gin And Slimline
Tonic With Ice But No Lemon ln",
which was originally built by Marco Polo
for himself and a few friends
he wanted to invite round
to his place after the pub closed.
I must admit so far
that this has not had much more
than a grain of truth in it,
but it is more interesting
than all the usual humdrum wetting
of nappies and, later, pants,
not being allowed to sit next to the
Czech girl because I once shat myself,
seeing bits of people
hanging from trees... Oh!
That does sound interesting.
Perhaps I should put that down.
I was three at the time
and my mother wanted to take me
along to see my father.
- Walter.
- Sony, dear. I'm busy.
Hey, you. That's sack's
already got two legs in it.
Walter, dear,
we were just out shopping
and I thought that Graham might like...
Can't you come back later, dear?
Has anyone found that head yet?
Has anyone in this street found a head?
Oh, come on. Someone must have it.
I know this street.
You'd steal anything.
I mean, what the bloody hell
are you gonna do with a head?
Oh, dear.
Perhaps we'll go and get your tea.
What? Oh, yes.
Egg on toast, please.
Left arm here.
Anyone missing a left arm?
We haven't got any eggs.
There is a war on.
Ask Harold. Something's bound
to have fallen off the back of a lorry.
All right, dear.
Come on, Graham.
Stop staring at all that blood.
It won't do you any good.
Oh, come on, mum. This must be one
of my major formative experiences.
Eton.
Summer term,
or "wops" as we called it,
seemed to have dragged on endlessly.
The smell of freshly mown grass wafted
over from far-off Hayes meadow,
the village clock chimed in the distance
and somewhere,
miles above our petty earth,
a wisp of cloud took flame from
the dying embers of the setting sun.
They combined to produce
an atmosphere
so redolent of this type of writing.
"Iam victoria tam facilis
scrotum non valet".
We always beat Harrow anyway.
Why bother?
Oh, Chapman, sir, may I clean
your teeth tonight? Oh, please?
Why don't you bugger off, Shagspot?
Oh! Thank you, sir.
Plucky little squit, that young McMillan.
Should go far.
In a few days, I would be in Nice,
soaking up the sun
at the side of my father's pool,
while Jenkins hovered by
with a tray of vodkatinis.
Would you like another sandwich,
dear?
What?
They're your favourite,
sandwich spread.
So this is Nice?
What do you mean, Nice?
This is Scarborough.
You do too much reading.
It'll do you more good
if you eat your tea.
Quite right. You can't get through to him
when he's got a book in his hand.
- What is it, anyway?
- "Claudius the God" by Robert Graves.
A fine historical reconstruction of the life
of Claudius, the Roman emperor,
thought of in his time as a pitiful fool,
though the reign Mr Graves describes
is far from folly.
Is it?
Anyway, finish your tea. We ought
to get a haddock for Mrs Richers.
There's plenty time for that later.
Thraxted's doesn't close till five.
- They'll be out of haddock by then.
- We'll get halibut.
Mrs Richers especially asked
for the haddock.
Oh, haddock, halibut, cod.
There's no difference. It's all fish.
Let's just sit here for a bit
and enjoy the view.
- It's raining.
- It's bracing.
You should have your window open, lad.
Get a bit of ozone in your lungs.
Ozone is oxygen in a condensed state,
having three atoms to the molecule.
- What you can smell is rotting seaweed.
- Well, it's good for you.
- No, it isn't.
- Don't argue with your father.
It's those fancy books. You can't learn
everything out of books, my lad.
There's no argument. It's a fact.
Stop it, Graham. Now, come on.
We'll go and get the fish.
- No, we'll stay here.
- I think we should get the fish.
That ship over there
ls bringing wood from Nonuay,
coniferous wood used
in the paper manufacturing industry
since the late 15th century.
But the first paper mill in England
was owned by John Tate in Herlford,
a manufacturer of continuous...
Oh, the Tates. Wasn't their youngest
walking about with that Valerie Maskell?
No.
This process was developed by the
stationers Messrs H and S Fourdrinier.
It was her.
She was the one that got all the spots
at secretarial college.
Quiet, Edith.
The Fourdriniers were assisted by Mr
Bryan Donkin, an inventor and engineer.
Wasn't his step-uncle, Stephanie,
a wholesale poultry in Peatling Parva?
- No!
- Yes, he was.
It was their youngest
that moved downstairs
next door to the chemist in Wimbledon,
nearly opposite the Gantleys.
Shut up.
Do you realise that if you look out there
on a very clear day,
you can't quite see Denmark?
I think we should get the haddock.
Will you shut up
about the bloody haddock?
- Why is it that every bloody year...
- Language.
Every year our summer holiday
consists of two weeks
in Scarborough, Filey or Bridlington,
sitting in a car in the rain, bickering.
- Why don't we go to bloody Denmark?
- Language!
- We did promise haddock.
- Oh, all right!
We'll go and get your bloody, flaming,
bloody haddock!
Trouble with you two is you don't
appreciate the beauties of nature.
What's that you've got back there?
It's a book.
"I, Biggles", by Captain W E Graves.
Captain, eh?
Mm. That sounds better.
Everything OK, skipper?
Tell you what, old man.
Having a bit of trouble with this.
Could you just pop your hand down
my Mae West, old tapir?
Well, if that's an order, old guillemot.
- It is.
- Righty-O.
Here it comes, old bison.
- Don't stop now! I'm nearly there.
- So am I!
- What about me?
- Oh, fuck off, Ginger.
To heck with the lot of them.
I'll just jolly well sit down here
and improve the bally old mind a little,
don't you know.
"The Complete Works
of Captain W E Johns".
"How to speak English
in other languages".
"The Interpretation of Dreams",
by Sigmund Freud.
In the following lecture,
I, Sigmund Freud,
shall prove the entire psychology
of man can only be understood
with a reference
to the science of navigation.
Spot on.
In relation to this,
I remember a young adolescent
who was having reoccurring dreams
about flying.
A fictional aviator called Bigglesworth
and his companions
are attempting to escape
from a Focke-Wulf
which is pursuing them
and shooting at them.
A typical dream recall of a particularly
exciting episode
of an adventure story for boys.
Or so it would seem.
Let's look at the dream more closely.
The first thing we notice
is that throughout the scene
we see navigational elements
hidden not so far below the surface.
A compass, indicating
the plane's direction of travel.
A map behind the aviators
telling them where they are going.
All unmistakable symptoms
of a navigational obsession.
Note also the use
of zoological terminology
in their navigational exchange
with one another.
"Old bison," "old tapir"
and even "old guillemot"
clearly indicates a yearning for a
pre-rational animal state of existence
in which navigation
is not yet distinguishable
from simply running around.
The boy patient clearly identifies himself
with the minor character, Ginger,
who is excluded from the adventure
because he is navigationally inadequate.
Ginger? That's me.
Inadequate? What a bally awful tone,
don't you know, what ho, old chap.
- You've been bloody reading again.
- I haven't.
Well, what's this in my hand?
"The Interpretation of Dreams",
by Sigmund Freud,
probably his most original work,
in which he explored the unconscious
and found that neurotic symptoms
are like dreams,
a product of conflict and compromise
between the conscious
and unconscious states...
Is it? What's this?
"Sucking at the mother's breast
"is the starting point
for the whole sexual life,
"the unmatched prototype
of every latent sexual satisfaction"?
I've got the haddock.
Now, what were you saying?
Oh, another book, dear?
What is it this time?
Nothing. Just a road map.
Who's "Frood," then?
He's an expert on...navigation.
Very interesting.
His theories on navigation, you see.
Longitude and latitude.
- That sort of thing.
- Ah, well. That's enough of that.
Let's get back to Mrs Richers
with this haddock.
Right.
Quite a lot happened
over the next few years.
A disastrous sexual experiment
with Rita Blake,
my first love affair with another boy.
Ooh!
Stuffing snails into a gatepost,
the hen-stealing nuns,
Pig-Shit Freeman,
Miss Chamberlain's three consecutive
head girls pregnant,
my questions about ejaculation
to the biology master,
Albert the groundsman, holding hands
with Mark Collins in a maths class,
painting John Wilder black,
Prunose Eskimo Nell,
Monsieur Le Beau Vatten,
and elderly spinsters'
wanking-off birthday cakes.
But such trivia needs no elaboration.
One childhood is much like another.
Amateur psychologists who think it clever
to explain the character of the later man
for a jumble of largely
fictitious memories
can ferret for their filth
in other people's autobiographies.
In the spring
of nineteen sixty-splunge,
John Cleese and Graham Chapman
thought they might like to do
another television program.
In another part of London, Michael Palin,
Terry Jones and Eric Idle,
and an American draft dodger -
and who can blame him? -
called Terry Vance Gilliam
thought they would too.
Me? Hmm-mm.
I still like "owl stretching time".
Of course, it was my idea.
Terry Jones.
And lots of noises
only the Welsh can make.
I still like "a horse, a bucket
and a spoon".
His suggestion.
J Cleese.
Look, you Welsh git. We discarded
that about two hours ago.
Oh, fucking hell!
I remember not being particularly
interested in the debate about titles.
Had I given up medicine
for trivia such as this?
- Aren't we able to talk about things?
- Yes.
But do we have to go on about it
in such a high-pitched voice?
John Cleese guffaws like a ban-ister
having made his point.
This winds Terry Jones up
to near violence.
Of course I go on about it.
It's fucking important.
Terry, would you or would you not say
that the rest of us have already
agreed that we don't like it?
Characteristic of his temperament,
T Jones calms down instantly,
having vented his spleen
on inanimate objects.
I still like "owl stretching time."
M Palin.
No, I've gone off that a bit.
I prefer "sex and violence",
But I think Terry's got a point about
"a horse, a bucket and a spoon."
Oh, sorry, Graham. You're doing
all the voices in this bit, aren't you?
I'll shut up.
M Palin.
No, I've gone off that a bit.
I prefer "sex and violence",
but Terry's got a point about
"a horse, a bucket and a spoon".
Oh, come off it.
And so it was decided to call it
Monty Python's Flying Circus.
Cambridge, a university town built
in a featureless, flat landscape.
So featureless, in fact,
you wonder why anyone chose it
as a location for anything.
The magnificence of St John's,
the noteworthy splendour of Trinity,
the sheer portliness of the banks
and some very high walls,
behind which a semi-aristocratic elite
could hide from the outside world
and go to each other's rooms for sherry.
And gazing at the magnificent,
noteworthy, sheer splendour
of the portly King's College chapel,
it would be a world-weary traveller
indeed who did not pause to think,
"Why the fuck didn't they build
the whole town two inches to the right?"
Sorry!
Hmm.
Tsk. Hmm.
Hmm.
Stop! Everybody stop! Right.
If I find any more of you bloody idiots
heating up ether over an open flame,
I'll...I'll kill you!
I haven't been a munitions expert
in two world wars
to get slaughtered
by a load of ignorant tits!
If you don't know what you're doing,
get out!
So, Chapman, let's see.
Oh, now, do you play FUQBY?
I play for Melton Mowbray, first team.
- What position do you play?
- Second row.
That's good.
We need a second row.
Absolutely.
We'll see you in September.
There is just one small matter,
of course. Just a formality.
Your A-level results here.
You're taking three A-levels?
- Oh, yes, yes.
- Will you pass physics?
No.
Why not?
Uh...well, I'm not sure.
Not sure, eh?
That means you're in doubt?
- Well, no...
- Do you mean yes?
Uh... Yes.
So a pass may be possible, eh?
Uh, yes. Possible.
- Probable, even?
- Well, I, uh...
Let me put it another way.
Are you going to fail?
No.
No?
- How did it go?
- Oh, fine.
Mind you, I've got to pass physics.
Well, you'll do that, won't you?
I think at about this juncture,
it would be wise to point out to those
of you who haven't noticed,
and it's apparent enough,
Jonathan Miller and myself
come from good families
and have had the benefits
of a public school education.
Whereas the other two members
of the cast
have worked their way up
from working-class origins.
And yet Jonathan and I are working
together with them in the cast...
...and treating them as equals.
And I'd like to say it's proving
to be a most enjoyable,
worthwhile and stimulating experience
for both of us.
- Wouldn't you agree, Jonathan?
- Certainly is. I'm most impressed.
It's...it's your results.
Ah.
What... What does it...
What does it say?
It says... It says...
Three passes!
That means you're in, doesn't it?
Well done, Graham.
I have been accepted
by Emmanuel College.
I've bought a gown,
several club ties,
walked around in a tweed suit
with a pipe and tried to look clever.
The pipe was very useful. If anyone
said anything I didn't understand,
I could puff on it
and seem deep in thought.
The tweed suit didn't fool anybody,
but the pipe worked a treat.
In tutorials,
I was asked fewer questions.
It also helped clobber the stench
of formalin in the dissecting rooms.
Describe the vagina.
- Kevin.
- Um, right.
- Well, it's a sensitive organ.
- What do you mean?
Well, it's about four and a half
inches long
and it's, uh, very sensitive.
Balls! The only thing sensitive about
the vagina is in the front of it, lad.
Apart from a certain sensation
because something has passed through
the perineal musculature,
the vagina itself is virtually numb!
You answer shows not only a lack
of anatomical knowledge,
but a complete social ignorance.
You've obviously never slept
with a woman!
No! Aah!
Not that bit!
Awfully sorry, old chap,
but sex is a rather difficult subject
and I don't know what came over me.
Oh, well. Better go and have lunch,
I suppose.
Anyone coming to the bun shop?
Oh, thank God.
That was a short tutorial.
In my first year at Cambridge,
I tried to join the Footlights Club,
realising that the only reason
I'd gone there in the first place
was that I'd seen a television version
of a Footlights annual revue.
I impersonated a carrot
and a man with iron fingertips being
pulled offstage by an enormous magnet.
Really super.
In the same set of auditions,
John Cleese did a routine
of trampling on hamsters
and can still do
a good pain-ridden squeak.
How about that?
We were both selected and very soon
were able to wear black sashes
with "Ars Est Celare Artem" on them.
"The art was to conceal the art."
March 1964. The new biochemistry
and physiology block
was being opened by
Her Majesty the Queen Mother.
Being secretary
of the Students' Union,
I was invited to join Her Majesty for tea
with other members of the student body
after her tour of the new premises.
I was pleased to find out that she had
asked to come to tea with the students
and not with a lot of old gits
in red gowns and stupid floppy hats.
- Ah, yes.
- How do you take yours?
Gin and Slimline tonic with ice
but no lemon in, Your Majesty.
Cheers.
I explained to Her Majesty that I had
the offer of going to New Zealand
as a member of Cambridge Circus,
a revue,
but that this would mean taking
six months off medicine
and my parents had yelped
strongly against this.
You really must
see New Zealand.
It's a very beautiful place.
My sexual life consisted of going to bed
with women
while dreaming about men.
The first one was the student's
traditional friend, a nurse.
She was rather podgy
and extremely repellent,
but I just wanted to get my end away.
She was a real "lie down and think
of hockey and England" type,
and after a brief grope
that was not enthusiastically received,
I looked her hard in the breasts
and thought, "Yuck.
"The bar's still open.
I'll get rid of her."
There was another female student
getting a lot of attention from the lads.
Of a rather fawning, not daring
to ask nature, I sat down at her table.
Ignoring her minions, I boldly passed her
a plate of sandwich spread sandwiches
and asked her if she'd go.
She was intelligent enough to say,
"See you in my room tonight."
We had a bloody good time
for a whole year.
She was athletic and imaginative.
We went right through the card.
It wasn't just British missionary,
but doggie on the floor,
on the floor standing, on the desk,
in the shower, in the bath,
near the bath, at someone else's place
while they weren't looking,
and in a guard's van
through the whole of Birmingham.
The description of this passage
has made me feel... Excuse me.
Oh, that's better.
I liked the experience, but after nine
months or so, it began to pall
and I felt I'd rather spend more time
in the bar drinking with the lads.
This is hardly even partly true
in retrospect.
It's just that I remember once or twice
thoughts of men's bodies
creeping into my mind while in coitus.
I decided that I should do
some clinical tests on myself,
so whenever I went in a taxicab,
tube, train or bus,
I looked at each passer-by
and tried to tell myself honestly
which ones I would like
to go to bed with.
And the ratio of boys to girls
was something like seven to three,
which puts me clearly
on the homosexual side of the scale,
as suggested in the Kinsey Report.
Look. He says he's on tour
with something called
Cambridge Circus, a revue.
The Queen Mother told him,
you know,
and as Her Majesty was telling Graham,
New Zealand is such a beautiful place.
She said he really had to go and see it.
It's by royal command, really.
A trip to New Zealand
and America
made me more broad-minded
about myself.
Immediately after qualifying, I gave up
medicine and became a raging poof.
But no mincing.
A butch one with a pipe.
Graham, taxi's here for the BBC!
Thank you very much indeed.
Tonight: class.
Some people say it's disappearing,
but if modern advertising...
Come in.
Come in, Thompson. Nice to see you.
It's time we had a little chat.
- Thank you, sir.
- Good.
Don't sit on the floor, Thompson.
Sit on the chair.
How are you, Thompson?
- Fine, sir.
- Good. Splendid. You look well.
I was talking this morning to Miss Evans
about your Latin verse.
The prose is all right, but verse is weak.
You've got to do something about it.
- Yes, sir.
- Hmm.
Thompson, have you been shot?
Yes, sir. Just a bit.
Well, who shot you?
A master or a boy?
- A boy, sir.
- Oh, good.
Hi, guys. Hello.
Super show tonight. Super.
Look, I can't stop.
Got a flight to catch.
I was thinking you boys ought
to write a film script.
It'd be super, absolutely super.
I'm sending you off to Spain to write
the script. It'll be great fun.
Anyway, I've got to go.
They're calling my flight. Bye.
Super.
Well, now we're here, the first thing
we should do is examine all the beaches
to find out which will be the best place
to write a film set in London.
Well, it usually takes me two weeks
to get acclimatised
and I still haven't thrown off
this throat.
It is rather hot, isn't it?
I'm feeling a bit groggy myself.
Perhaps a couple of weeks' rest
might be a good idea.
But do you think we should?
I mean, David frost and all that.
- He has paid us, Graham.
- Yes, I suppose you're right.
Yes, well,
I'll probably be all right tomorrow.
Yes, right. That's fine. We'll start
tomonow, first thing in the morning.
Right. Yes, yes, yes.
Fine, then.
I'll sit in the shade with the typewriter
and you can sit out on the balcony
sunning yourself
and shout a few lines in, right?
Fine. Great.
Oh, bugger.
Graham, do you mind if we don't start
till the evening, actually?
I promised to take Connie out tomorrow.
She's only got a few more days here.
Bit awkward to get out of it now,
you know? Damn!
Fine by me.
We have done a synopsis of the film.
I wouldn't mind taking a bit of time off.
- We'll start on Friday, yes?
- Yes. Right.
Um... Be a bit noisy,
but we can shut ourselves away.
- Noisy?
- Well, there's the fiesta this weekend.
Lots of dancing, fireworks, wine
and that sort of thing.
Oh. I've never been to Spain before.
Haven't you?
Oh, well. You must, then.
You must go to the fiesta.
So let's have a drink.
That brings us to Monday.
We'll start on Monday.
No, Monday and Tuesday
are Connie's last two days
and I'd like to see her off on Wednesday,
so let's start Thursday.
Look, why don't we make it
two weeks?
Done.
I say...
Just look at that.
I spent the next two weeks
searching for something
that I knew was probably very sexy.
Super, boys, super.
Really super.
I look forward to reading
more than ten pages.
Ooh, got to fly- Bye!
Hello?
Who was that?
One of the painters.
It sounded like one of the painters
I've spoken to before.
Well, yes, it probably did a bit.
It's a bit late for painting, isn't it?
No, no. You just don't understand
London, mother.
This is not like Leicester.
For a whole year, I've lived in terror,
an almost Thorpean tenor,
of being found out for what I was.
A poof.
"Fuck it," I thought.
"Why go through all this agony?"
I decided that I would invite my closest
friends to a party to meet David
and explain to them all
that I was a bit bent.
This was a coming-out party.
No, Graham, you don't understand.
I'm just very surprised.
Ever since I've known you,
you've played rugby, drank a lot of beer,
you smoked a pipe,
you wore a tweed suit and brogues
and this is not a standard gay profile.
Yes.
Ooh!
The other extraordinary reaction
was from Keith Moon,
who was quite stunned.
Obviously, he was quite young then,
but I had to explain to him
what it all meant,
that I actually did go to bed
with people of the same sex,
that it was quite fun and that we
actually loved each other.
It wasn't at all naughty.
Come in.
- Trouble at mill.
- Oh, no. What sort of trouble?
One of crossbeams
gone out of skew on treadle.
Pardon?
One of crossbeams
gone out of skew on treadle.
I don't understand.
One of the crossbeams
has gone out of skew on the treadle.
- But what on earth does that mean?
- I don't know.
Mr Wentworth just told me to come in
and say there was trouble at the mill.
I didn't expect a kind of
Spanish inquisition.
Suddenly I feel like digressing
for another moment about morality.
I intend to publish here for the first time
what I believe to be a missing portion
of the New Testament.
The papyrus manuscript,
translated here from the original Greek,
was discovered in 1979 by the author
at Auckland airport.
It was there, in transit to Sydney,
Australia, whiling away a few moments,
when the manuscript was given to him
by a Maori chieftain toilet attendant.
The first epistle of Paul the Apostle
to the New Zealanders, AD 59.
Chapter 1,
in which Paul castigated the
Antipodeans' empty showing of holiness,
of fornicators and abusers
of mankind,
of poverty and tolerance,
exorteth them
to beware of false prophets.
"Dear New Zealanders,
what is all this nonsense
"about certain of your number
kneeling down in front of crosses?
"That is naughty in the extreme.
"You've changed the glory
of an inconuptible god into an image.
"I understand that the very same people
collect together in churches
for the purpose of worship.
Who needs it?
"God doesn't. I've asked him. He's fed up
with it, especially the psalms.
"They give him a headache
and cause his teeth to strike together.
"Don't they realise their praise
is meaningless?
"Why can't they concentrate on being
better behaved towards one another
"and forget about this empty show
of holiness?
"He says, though don't quote me on this,
'They can stuff it up their arses.'
"He said that, not I.
"I, a mere mortal,
would not have put it quite like that.
"I'm afraid I think too much
about my earthly reputation,
"but I cannot help agreeing with him
about fornicators, adulterers,
"effeminates and abusers of mankind.
"I'm constantly being misquoted
on this point.
"I would like to state quite clearly
that sex is nothing more
"than the way in which
two or more people
"can have lots of harmless, cheap fun,
"provided that they are clean
and that the aim is not reproduction.
"The betterment of the lot of mankind
is impossible
"without strict limits on reproduction,
so don't make the mistake
"the rest of the world has made
and overpopulate yourselves.
"Not everyone has to have children,
for Christ's sake.
"He didn't have any
and I should know.
"If you really feel you have to have
children, then make sure
"that, as parents, you have no more
than you can properly look after.
"I exhort you to be empathetic,
"be splendid,
be aware of your own ignorance,
"and, as always, beware of those
who claim to lead you
"to better self-knowledge
by taking your money.
"Must finish now
as I have to catch the post.
"Lots of love, P.
Kiss, kiss, kiss."
# Socrates himself
ls particularly missed
Mr Chapman.
Two minutes till act two, Mr Chapman.
Full of gin and the feeling
of superiority over mortals
which commonly afflicts the adulated,
I'd reached my zenith in a naughty
and to this day illegal act
upon the floor
of an empty dressing room.
# Sit on my face
And tell me that you love me
# I'll sit on your face
And tell you I love you
# I love to hear you oralise
# When I'm between your thighs
You blow me away
# Sit on my face
And let my lips embrace you
# I'll sit on your face
And then I'll love you truly
# Life can be fine
If we both 69
# If we sit on our faces
In all sorts of places
# And play till we're blown away
What kind of a fellow
is Monty Python, by the way?
He's black.
Black and he's homosexual.
That's all you can say about him, really.
He's a pretty easy person to sum up.
Good grief.
There's no one to go to bed with.
Where are all the young men around
here? This is absolutely dreadful.
Ta-da!
Oh, all right.
Sit on my face
And tell me that you love me
Could you try
and keep the noise down!
Knock it off!
Be quiet!
# Sit on my face, mama
# Sit on my face
Baby, baby
# Sit on my face
# In all sorts of places
# Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah
What's it like being a film star?
I'm not. I'm just an extra.
- You're just an extra?
- Yes.
It's the crown and this that probably...
Yeah, I was looking for Graham Fink.
Ah, yes. He's around somewhere.
Sit on my face
Come on, baby
# Let my lips embrace
# Tell me that you love me
# Sit on my face
And tell me that you love me
# I'll sit on your face
And tell you I love you too
# I love to hear you oralise
# When I'm between your thighs
You blow me away
# Sit on my face
and let my lips embrace you
# I'll sit on your face
And then I'll love you truly
# Life can be fine
If we both 69
# If we sit on our faces
In all sorts of places
# And play till we're blown away #
Good afternoon.
Beverly Hills Hotel reception.
Ugh! Los Angeles.
Up, down.
Up, down.
Up, down.
Up, down.
Up, down.
- Hi!
- Hi.
Ain't you that guy?
I'm so thrilled to meet you!
I love your Monty Python.
- Shall we go up to my room?
- Sure!
Ah. There.
You enjoying that?
Ooh, yeah. Do you feel that?
I feel that.
Just get right in there.
Bye, Graham.
Oh, and do say hello to Monty
for me.
Tell him I'm his biggest fan!
That was fun. Zoom.
Um, excuse me.
ls there a telephone around here
I can use?
Sure.
Use the one in my room.
But it's my mother
who needs to use the phone.
Well, bring her up too.
I don't mind if it's a local call.
Ooh, aah.
Do that to me. Ooh.
If it's an order, old guillemot.
Ooh, big boy. Mm.
Aah! Touch me here.
Oh, my God.
Do it to me there!
- Right-0. Here it comes.
- Ooh! Right there.
Oh, my God. Yes!
Oh, do that to me! Ooh!
Big boy! Oh, my God!
Oh, yeah.
Yes! Oh, my God!
You, in fact, were more than...
...drunk on one occasion.
You were in fact an alcoholic.
Yes, I did a lot of drinking.
- A great deal indeed, Michael.
- You were an alcoholic?
You can safely say
I did do a very great deal.
And how much at your peak,
so to speak, were you drinking?
Four pints of gin a day.
Four pints of gin a day?
I didn't know Graham was an alcoholic.
Did you?
Why was that, do you think?
I think... I don't know, really,
the answer to that.
Deep inside I think actually
that I was insecure.
I didn't really feel that I'd deserved
the success that I'd achieved.
How difficult was it?
Actually, once the decision had been
made, once I decided to stop,
it was easy, except for the three days
of unpleasantness.
Oh, get on with it.
Graham? Are you all right?
You look a bit pale.
Would you like a cup of tea
and maybe a bit of toast?
- With a nice poached egg on top?
- No. I'm... I'll...
J-just a...m-moment.
Later. I'll get up, be fine.
- Uh, Vichy water?
- N... Yes, yes.
- Da-David, the curtains.
- Sony.
Silent night
# Holy night
# All is calm
There.
# All is bright
Introducing, ladies and gentlemen,
tonight,
all the way from a mud-wrestling tour
of the OPEC countries,
in the red corner,
Colin "Bomber" Harris!
And, ladies and gentlemen, in the blue
corner, Colin "Bomber" Harris!
Well now, ladies and gentlemen,
this is the first time
that Colin "Bomber" Harris
has met himself.
A few formalities
and we'll be ready for round one.
There goes the bell.
He just made it to the rope!
Colin moves to the middle of the ring.
He's looking for an opening.
Going for the hand hold.
He's got it.
Into the head squeeze.
A favourite move of Colin's.
Fine there.
Double overhead nostril.
Should be able to twist out of this.
And he does!
A lovely move there!
Colin must be pleased with himself,
having pulled himself out of that one.
The strawberry whip!
A vanilla whip!
Chocolate whip!
There it is.
Colin's most famous whip.
And there it is.
He just got a little lucky, though.
A double Eydie Gorm.
There it is.
Colin's most famous hold!
The one-leg-over-shoulder Jerry Ford!
And he's caught himself there
and Colin's in real trouble!
And Colin did not like that
one lile bit!
Double overhead back-kick and Colin
must be pretty pleased with himself.
A lovely move there!
He's caught himself by surprise!
And into the crayfish.
No, it's a crawfish.
And Colin bit himself on purpose there
and has been given a public warning
by the referee.
Look, you stupid bastard,
you've got no arms left.
He's looking pretty ruggy.
And that is it!
Colin "Bomber" Harris
has knocked himself out
and so he is the winner
and he goes on next week
to meet himself in the final.
- Graham, you're an alcoholic.
- Uh, yes.
- Do you want not to be?
- Yes.
Right. We'll start the treatment.
Your liver function tests are appalling.
Ten times over the acceptable norm
of the gamma GTP, for instance.
But there's no sign of enlargement
and, with a bit of luck,
there's a chance you may not
have damaged your liver permanently.
We'll phase out the Heminevrin
and Valium gradually
and you can take an abstem tablet
in the morning and one in the evening,
so that if you drink any alcohol,
you'll feel as ill as you were
five days ago.
It's up to you whether you drink or not.
It's your liver.
It's your life.
Oh, dear puss, London is far behind us.
What shall we do now?
- Meow.
- What's that? Sing a song?
- Meow.
- What, now? For all the children?
- Meow.
- Shall we sing a song, children?
# Of all the organs the body contains
The liver's the one for me
# It processes food
It deals with the waste
# It's cleverer than a knee
# When it throws up its hands at alcohol
and makes you extremely ill
# It's best to take heed
You're not being a weed
# You're just being sensible
You've only got two stations.
I bought Marylebone from you
last time you landed on Graham's hotel.
- I'll give you the watenuorks.
- I don't want it.
Perhaps Graham does. Graham?
Do you want the waterworks?
- No, I'll buy the camelopard.
- What?
It's a camel that looked like a leopard.
A giraffe.
He's gone again.
Oh, Graham.
# It's Christmas in heaven
# Snow falls from the sky
Do you know, last time I was in Paris,
I really did ring John-Paul Sartre.
Sigmund de Bouvier
answered the phone
and said that he was out distributing
leaflets. Or was that a sketch?
# It's Christmas in heaven
# There's great films on TV
Do I talk here?
No, Graham.
That's the table lamp.
- The microphone's on your right.
- Right. Good.
Take 59.
You bastards!
We've been planning this for months!
Well, tough titty for you, fish-face.
The raid backfires. Brian is captured
and all the rest are killed.
Brian, beaten, bruised and bleeding,
is thrown into Pilate's
darkest stinking dungeon.
That was marvellous. Let's move on.
Oh, you lucky bastard.
Brian is on the run from the Romans
and to avoid capture
pretends to be a lobster.
Sorry, Graham.
We had a rogue lobster in there.
Oh, I'm son'y about that.
Are we ready?
Brian trailer, take 60.
Brian is on the run from the Romans
and to avoid lobster...
We seem to have a colony
of lobsters in there, Graham.
- Well, all right.
- Take 61.
Brian is on the run from the Romans
and to avoid capture pretends to lob...
Let's start it again. Sorry.
- Let's move on.
- It's certainly clean.
An unbeliever!
Kill the heretic!
Leave him alone!
Leave him alone!
Brian escapes from the crowd
and goes home with Judith.
Alone together at last,
the two rush naked at each other
and meet in a frenzy
of darting tongues...
Sorry, Graham.
That bit's been cut.
- All of it, I'm afraid.
- Even this bit here?
Yes. The boys loved the lobster idea,
so they're gonna re-shoot that bit.
Oh.
OK, next bit, Graham, please.
Take 62.
You're fucking nicked, me old beauty!
Brian is anested and taken before Pilate,
where he is sentenced to be crucified.
Could we try one a little lighter, please?
Brian is arrested
and taken before Pilate,
where he's sentenced to be...
to be crucified.
- Yes, I think that's a little too light.
- What shall I try?
We'll use the take before.
We'll be able to make all that work.
- Thanks for coming in.
- That's it, is it?
Yes, that's it. If you want to collect
your 30 pounds on the way out.
Yeah. 30 pounds.
Yes, well, uh...
I was led to believe that probably
it might be a little, um...
Yes, look. It's not a big budget movie,
you know.
We'll have a whip round
and see what loose change we've got
and we should be able to give you
another two pounds.
All right, yes.
Goodbye.
Will you please welcome hard-working
mother of one, Graham Chapman.
Who's mummy's little baby?
- How beautifully you are clad.
- And so are you.
- You're still butch, aren't you?
- Oh, yeah.
Even though you go about telling people
who haven't asked that you're gay.
Yes.
No! Oh, no!
Graham, please don't tell your father.
It'll kill him.
- Of course it won't kill him.
- It will! It'll kill him!
Of course it won't. Shut up.
Never mind.
Let's go on to your manifesto.
You said that you would like to state
quite clearly
that sex is nothing more than a way
in which two or more people
can have lots of harmless, cheap fun,
provided that they are clean
and that the aim is not reproduction.
Yes.
Look, Graham, your mother's told me
why she's upset.
Don't worry about it.
If you want to go around talking
about this stuff, it's fine.
She just doesn't understand
these things.
Ladies and gentlemen,
it is now two years later,
and we'll be shortly arriving
at Los Angeles airport.
Would you please extinguish all
cigarettes and fasten your safety belts.
Hmm.
This is the place.
Come on. Open the door.
Hello. Starlight emergency
24-hour luxury door-opening service.
Opening doors to the stars.
Yes. We need someone here
straightaway to open our door.
It's account number 2248.
Hi!
Thank you, thank you.
Now, grip the teat
and whet the micro-tome.
If tea party there be,
let cucumber be slivered
to the thinnest with precision
and pressed twixt finest slices
of good bread.
Bravo! Bravo!
Graham, isn't that George Lazenby
over there,
seen enjoying a can of specially
imported Foster's lager?
What, you mean behind Christopher
lsherwood and Georgia Brown,
seen there enjoying a joke
with Ian La Frenais?
Yes, between Peter Cook, Dudley
Moore, Bo Diddley and the piano,
all seen enjoying a brief rest
in a tight schedule.
And who's that with the Hollywood
psychiatrist, Dr Stuart Lerner?
It could be either Jane Seymour,
Jenny Agutter,
Susan George, Shelly Duvall
or Victor Borge.
- Victor Borge?
- Sorry. Did I say Victor Borge?
Only, I also thought I caught sight
of Victor Borge
enjoying a quiet word
with Charlton "Chuck" Heston
and screenwriter companion Alan Katz.
Yes, but who's the girl
with Stuart Lerner?
Hmm. Ah!
That's Sylvia Kristel.
Good God!
Graham, do you realise
that in the last few minutes alone,
you've dropped no less than 17
famous names?
Have I? I didn't intend to.
I just happen to know these people.
They're friends of mine.
Uh, they live here.
I want you to repeat
what you've just said to yourself
and think about it as a medical man.
- You mean I've got...
- Yes.
Niven-ism. It's a common enough
complication of angelitis.
It's an endemic autobiographical
complaint
whereby people live vicariously
through the fame of other people.
Ahh.
It was, coincidentally,
David Frost's 40th birthday party,
his third that afternoon,
and I'd promised to try and look in
for a moment or two.
Super!
Super, super.
Super!
Really super.
# Happy birthday
# Dear...David Frost!
Super!
# We think you're swell
# You've achieved so much
# And done so well
# That everybody here agrees
You deserve more OBEs
# And that was the message
That was
Super, super, super. Super.
Super.
On the way out,
I consoled an agitated Rod Stewart,
who unfortunately had had to come
to the party in person.
He'd got married that morning
and the blow-ups of the happy couple
could not be processed in time.
- Hello, Keith.
- Hello, Graham. What do you want?
Would you like to come to a party
at my place later?
- I think I'm already at one.
- George said he'd drop by.
- And Harry and Richard will be there.
- Can I bring Mick and Ronnie?
- All right. See you later.
- And Pete and Ringo?
Sure. See you later. I'm just gonna
nip off down through Boys Town.
- I want to pick up some zoom.
- I'll bet that's not all.
Graham, you must face up
to this name-dropping problem.
- What should I do? Move to Finland?
- You'll just have to sweat it out.
Isn't there anything I can do
to speed up my recovery?
There is, but it isn't going to be pleasant,
I'm afraid.
Revulsion therapy.
I'm going to prescribe an intensive
course of Hollywood parties for you.
It's your only hope.
Hello, Graham.
Is that young lady all right over there?
It's working, Graham.
Stick with it.
Good evening, Mr Chapman.
I am Jose.
I'll be your star to bed tucker-inner
to the stars this evening.
Jolly good.
I had slipped
into a state of inertia.
All further activities seemed pointless.
I decided to have a farewell party.
David made the cucumber sandwiches
and I slipped out in my beige spacesuit
to see if the others
would be prepared to pop along.
I stepped up nimbly through the air lock
and deftly percolated past Elton John's
piano-shaped moon buggy.
He was obviously entertaining
David Bowie and Ken Liberace,
so I passed on.
I knew the next space vehicle
was occupied for an at-home evening
by David Hockney and Alan Bennett,
comparing the size of their accents.
Custard cream, David?
Just a weak Darjeeling, please, Alan.
So I didn't bother with them.
- Can you come to our party?
- No!
And I have got to do
the hoovering!
- Can you come to our party?
- Sorry, Gray.
Diary's absolutely chock-a-block.
"Here lies Oscar Fingal
O'Flahertie Wilde.
"Gone out for good."
Can you come to our party?
There is a time
in the affairs of greed,
which, taken at the kludge,
leads on to brutalness.
A man is not a wasp,
nor Dfisseldorf built in a day.
Damon Runyan had a bunion.
For all, they say, hey I.
What's that supposed to mean?
My heart bakes.
A drowsy numbness fills my...
Let it be. Let it be.
Oh, come on, Wilde.
What does that mean?
It means, your Majesty, it means...
Learn your lines.
You had us waiting for hours.
I didn't think anyone noticed.
No, I suppose they didn't.
The end.
Graham Chapman,
co-author of the pan-ot sketch,
is no more.
He has ceased to be.
Bereft of life, he rests in peace.
He's kicked the bucket,
hopped the twig,
bit the dust, snuffed it,
wheezed his last
and gone to meet the great
Head of Light Entertainment in the sky.
And I guess that we're all thinking
how sad it is
that a man of such talent,
of such capability for kindness,
of such unusual intelligence,
should now so suddenly be spirited
away at the age of only 48
before he'd achieved many of the things
of which he was capable
and before he'd had enough fun.
Well, I feel that I should say,
"Nonsense.
"Good riddance to him, the freeloading
bastard. I hope he fries."
And the reason I feel I should say this...
...is he would never forgive me
if I didn't,
if I threw away this glorious opportunity
to shock you all on his behalf.
Anything for him
but mindless good taste.
# Inflammation of the foreskin
# Reminds me of your smile
# I've had ballanital chancroids
# For quite a little while
# I gave my heart to NSU
# That lovely night in June
# I ache for you, my darling
# And I hope you'll get well soon
# My penile warts
# Your herpes
My syphilitic sores
# Your monilial infection
# How I miss you more and more
# Your Dhobi's itch
My scrumpox
# Our lovely gononhoea
# And at least we both were lying
# When we said that we were clear
# Our syphilitic kisses
# Sealed the secret of our tryst
# You gave me scrotal pustules
# With a quick flick of your wrist
# Your tricho-vaginitis
# Sent shivers down my spine
# I got snail tracks in my anus
# When your spirochetes met mine
# Gonococcal urethritis
# Streptococcal balanitis
# Meningomyelitis
# Diplococcal cephalitis
# Epididymitis
# Interstitial keratitis
# Syphilitic choroiditis
# And anterior uveitis
# Gonococcal urethritis
# Streptococcal balanitis
# Meningomyelitis
# Diplococcal cephalitis
# Epididymitis
# Interstitial keratitis
# Syphilitic choroiditis
# And anterior uveitis
# Sit on my face
And tell me that you love me
# I'll sit on your face
And tell you I love you too
# I love to hear you oralise
# When I'm between your thighs
You blow me away
# Sit on my face
And let my lips embrace you
# I'll sit on your face
And then I'll love you truly
# Life can be fine
If we all 69
# If we sit on our faces
In all sorts of places
# And play till we're blown away
Ooh. Terribly sorry.