An actual Python post
Superhumanly euphoric
Alan: Sir Edwin, which has been for you the most demanding of the great
Shakesperean tragic heroes that you've played?
Sir Edwin: Well, of course this is always a difficult one, but I think the
answer must be Hamlet.
A: Which you played at Stratford in 1963.
E: That's right, yes, I found the role a very taxing one. I mean, er, Hamlet
has eight thousand two hundred and sixty-two words, you see.
A: Really.
E: Oh yes. Othello's a bugger too, mind you--especially the cleaning up
afterwards, but he has nine hundred and forty-one words less than Hamlet.
On the other hand, the coon's got more pauses, sixty-two quite long ones, as
I recall. But then they're not so tricky, you see--you don't have to do so
much during them.
A: You don't.
E: No. No, not really. Andd they give you time to think what sort of face
you're going to pull during the next speech so that it fits the words you're
saying as far as possible.
A: How many words did you have to say as King Lear at the Aldwitch in '52?
E: Ah, well, I don't want you to get the impression it's just a question of the
number of words... um... I mean, getting them in the right order is just as
important. Old Peter Hall used to say to me, "They're all there already--
now we've got to get them in the right order." And, er, for example, you
can also say one word louder than another--er, "To *be* or not to be," or
"To be *or* not to be," or "To be or not to *be*"--you see? And so on.
A: Inflection.
E: And of course inflection. In fact, Lear has only seven thousand and fifty-
four words, but the real difficulty with Lear is that you've got to play
him all--you know, shaky legs and pratfalls and the dentures falling out,
'cause he's ancient as hell, and then there's that heartrending scene when
he goes right off his nut--you know, "bliddle dee dee diddle deebibble dee
dee dibble beep beep beep," and all that, which takes it out of you, what
with having the crown to keep on. So Lear is tiring, although not difficult
to act, because you've only got to do despair and a bit of anger, and
they're the easiest.
A: Are they? What are the hardest?
E: Oh... um, fear.
A: Fear?
E: Mmm, yes, never been able to get that--can't do the mouth. I look all
cross--it's a very fine line.
A: What else?
E: Apart from fear? Er, jealousy can be tricky... but for me, the most
difficult is being in love--you know, that openmouthed, vacant look that
Vanessa Redgrave's got off to a tee. Can't do that at all. And also I'm
frightfully awkward when I try that happy prancing, you know. Which is a
shame, really, because otherwise Romeo's quite good for me--only three
thousand and eight and quite a lote of climbing and kissing.
A: Sir Edwin--get stuffed.
E: I've enjoyed it.
======================================================
| I'm giving this group back to the proper people! |
| Saint |
| sa...@ctron.com Grand Old Sage of |
| Alt.Fan.Monty-Python |
======================================================
... and all you ignorant, arrogant little newbie trolls can
kiss my monkey!
Superhumanly euphoric
"All Things Dull And Ugly"
from Monty Python's Contractual Obligations Album
All things dull and ug-ly,
All creatures, short and squat,
All things rude and na-sty,
The Lord God made the lot.
Each little snake that poisons,
Each little wasp that stings,
He made their prudish venom,
He made their horrid wings.
All things sick and cancerous,
All evil great and small,
All things foul and dangerous,
The Lord God made them all.
Each nasty little hornet,
Each beastly little squid,
Who made the spiky urchin?
Who made the sharks? He did!
All things scant and ulcerous,
All pox both great and small,
Putrid, foul and gangrenous,
The Lord God made them all.
Amen.
Superhumanly euphoric
Television Host (Graham Chapman): Good evening. Tonight - dinosaurs. I have
here sitting in the studio next to me an elk.
Aaagghhhh! Oh, I'm sorry, Anne Elk, Mrs Anne
Elk.
Miss Elk (John Cleese, as a very prim lady): Miss.
Host: Miss Anne Elk, who is an expert on the...
Elk: No, no, no, Anne Elk.
Host: What?
Elk: Anne Elk, not Anne Expert.
Host: No, no, I was saying that you, Miss Elk, were an, A.N. not A.N.N.E.,
expert...
Elk: Oh!
Host: ...on elks - I'm sorry, on dinosaurs.
Elk: Yes, I certainly am, Chris, how very true, my word yes!
Host: Now, Miss Elk - Anne - you have a new theory about the brontosaurus.
Elk: Could I just say, Chris, for one moment that I have a new theory about
the brontosaurus?
Host: Er... exactly. What is it?
Elk: Where?
Host: No, no, no. What is your theory?
Elk: Oh, what is my theory?
Host: Yes.
Elk: Oh what is my theory, that it is. Yes, well you may well ask, what is my
theory.
Host: (slightly impatient) I am asking.
Elk: And well you may. Yes my word you may well ask what it is, this theory
of mine. Well, this theory that I have--that is to say, which is mine--
...is mine.
Host: (more impatient) I know it's yours. What is it?
Elk: Where? Oh, what is my theory?
Host: Yes!
Elk: Oh, my theory that I have follows the lines I am about to relate.
(Coughs) Ahem. Ahem. Ahem. Ahem. Ahem. Ahem.
Host: Oh God.
Elk: Ahem. Ahem. Ahem. Ahem. Ahem. Ahem. Ahem. Ahem. Ahem. Ahem.
Ahem. Ahem. [Impatient noises from Host] The Theory, by A. Elk. That's
A for Anne, it's not by a elk.
Host: Right....
Elk: This theory which belongs to me is as follows. Ahem. Ahem. This is how
it goes. Ahem. The next thing that I am about to say is my theory.
Ahem. Ready?
(Host moans)
Elk: The Theory by A. Elk brackets Miss brackets. My theory is along the
following lines.
Host: Oh God.
Elk: All brontosauruses are thin at one end, much MUCH thicker in the middle,
and then thin again at the far end. That is the theory that I have and
which is mine, and what it is too.
Host: That's it, is it?
Elk: Right, Chris.
Host: Well, Anne, this theory of yours seems to have hit the nail on the head.
Elk: And it's mine.
Host: (ironical) Thank you for coming along to the studio.
Elk: My pleasure, Chris.
Host: Er...Britain's newest wasp farm...
Elk: It's been a lot of fun.
Host: ...opened last week...
Elk: Saying what my theory is.
Host: Yes, thank you.
Elk: And whose it is.
Host: Yes. ...opened last week...
Elk: I have another theory.
Host: Not today, thank you.
Elk: My theory number two, which is the second theory that I have. Ahem!
This theory...
Host: Oh look...shut up!
Elk: ...is what I am about to say...
Host: Oh please shut up!
Elk: ...which, with what I have said, are the two theories that are mine and
belong to me.
Host: Look, if you don't shut up I shall shoot you.
Elk: Ahem! My brace of theories, which I possess the ownership of, which
belongs to me...
(BANG!)
(Pause)
Elk: Ahem. The Theory the Second by Anne...
(MACHINE GUN FIRE)
Superhumanly euphoric
Flying Circus"
Scene: A large posh office. Two clients, well-dressed city gents, sit facing
a large table at which stands Mr. Tid, the account manager of the
architectural firm.
(original cast: Mr Tid, Graham Chapman; Mr Wiggin, John Cleese; City Gent One,
Michael Palin; Client 2:, Terry Jones; Mr Wymer, Eric Idle)
Mr. Tid (Graham Chapman): Well, gentlemen, we have two architectural designs
for this new residential block of yours and I
thought it best if the architects themselves
explained the particular advantages of their
designs.
There is a knock at the door.
Mr. Tid: Ah! That's probably the first architect now. Come in.
Mr. Wiggin enters.
Mr. Wiggin (John Cleese): Good morning, gentlemen.
Clients: Good morning.
Mr. Wiggin: This is a 12-storey block combining classical neo-Georgian features
with the efficiency of modern techniques. The tenants arrive here
and are carried along the corridor on a conveyor belt in extreme
comfort, past murals depicting Mediterranean scenes, towards the
rotating knives. The last twenty feet of the corridor are heavily
soundproofed. The blood pours down these chutes and the mangled
flesh slurps into these....
Client 1: Excuse me.
Mr. Wiggin: Yes?
Client 1: Did you say 'knives'?
Mr. Wiggin: Rotating knives, yes.
Client 2: Do I take it that you are proposing to slaughter our tenants?
Mr. Wiggin: ...Does that not fit in with your plans?
Client 1: Not really. We asked for a simple block of flats.
Mr. Wiggin: Oh. I hadn't fully divined your attitude towards the tenants. You
see I mainly design slaughter houses.
Clients: Ah.
Mr. Wiggin: Pity.
Clients: Yes.
Mr. Wiggin: (indicating points of the model) Mind you, this is a real beaut.
None of your blood caked on the walls and flesh flying out of the
windows incommoding the passers-by with this one.
(confidentially) My life has been leading up to this.
Client 2: Yes, and well done, but we wanted an apartment block.
Mr. Wiggin: May I ask you to reconsider.
Clients: Well....
Mr. Wiggin: You wouldn't regret this. Think of the tourist trade.
Client 1: I'm sorry. We want a block of flats, not an abattoir.
Mr. Wiggin: ...I see. Well, of course, this is just the sort of blinkered
philistine ignorance I've come to expect from you non-creative
garbage. You sit there on your loathsome spotty behinds squeezing
blackheads, not caring a tinker's cuss for the struggling artist.
You excrement, you whining hypocritical toadies with your colour TV
sets and your Tony Jacklin golf clubs and your bleeding masonic
secret handshakes. You wouldn't let me join, would you, you
blackballing bastards. Well I wouldn't become a Freemason if you
went down on your lousy, stinking knees and begged me.
Client 2: We're sorry you feel that way but we did want a block of flats,
nice though the abattoir is.
Mr. Wiggin: Oh sod the abattoir, that's not important.
(He dashes forward and kneels in front of them.)
But if any of you could put in a word for me I'd love to be a
mason. Masonry opens doors. I'd be very quiet, I was a bit on
edge just now but if I were a mason I'd sit at the back and not get
in anyone's way.
Client 1: (politely) Thank you.
Mr. Wiggin: ...I've got a second-hand apron.
Client 2: Thank you.
(Mr. Wiggin hurries to the door but stops...)
Mr. Wiggin: I nearly got in at Hendon.
Client 1: Thank you.
Mr. Wiggin exits. Mr Tid rises.
Mr. Tid: I'm sorry about that. Now the second architect is Mr. Wymer of Wymer
and Dibble.
(Mr. Wymer enters, carrying his model with great care. He places it on the
table.)
Mr. Wymer: Good morning gentlemen. This is a scale model of the block, 28
stories high, with 280 apartments. It has three main lifts and two
service lifts. Access would be from Dibbingley Road.
(The model falls over. Mr Wymer quickly places it upright again.)
The structure is built on a central pillar system with...
(The model falls over again. Mr Wymer tries to make it stand up, but it won't,
so he has to hold it upright.)
...with cantilevered floors in pre-stressed steel and concrete.
The dividing walls on each floor section are fixed by recessed
magnalium-flanged grooves.
(The bottom ten floors of the model give way and it partly collapses.)
By avoiding wood and timber derivatives and all other inflammables
we have almost totally removed the risk of....
(The model is smoking. The odd flame can be seen. Wymer looks at the city
gents.)
Frankly, I think the central pillar may need strengthening.
Client 2: Is that going to put the cost up?
Mr. Wymer: I'm afraid so.
Client 2: I don't know we need to worry too much about strengthening
that. After all, these are not meant to be luxury flats.
Client 1: Absolutely. If we make sure the tenants are of light build and
relatively sedentary and if the weather's on our side, I think we
have a winner here.
Mr. Wymer: Thank you.
(The model explodes.)
Client 2: I quite agree.
Mr. Wymer: Well, thank you both very much.
(They all shake hands, giving the secret Mason's handshake.)
Cut to Mr. Wiggin watching at the window.
Mr. Wiggin (turning to camera): It opens doors, I'm telling you.
Superhumanly euphoric
M= Man looking for an argument Michael Palin
R= Receptionist Carol Cleveland
Q= Abuser Terry Jones
A= Arguer John Cleese
C= Complainer Eric Idle
H= Head Hitter Graham Chapman
F= Inspector Fox (of the Yard) Terry Jones
T= Inspector Thompson's Gazelle (of the Yard) Eric Idle
P= Policeman at the end who ties the entire
sketch together with a fabulous performance,
we assume he's an inspector (from the Yard) John Cleese
R- Yes sir.
M- I'd like to have an argument, please.
R- Certainly sir. Have you been here before?
M- No, this is my first time.
R- I see. Do you want to have the full argument, or were you thinking of
taking a course?
M- Well, what would be the cost?
R- Well, It's one pound for a five minute argument, but only eight pounds for
a course of ten.
M- Hmm. Well, I think it's probably best if I start with the one and see
how it goes from there. Okay?
R- Fine. I'll see who's free at the moment. Uhhh. Mr. Bakey's free,
but he's a little bit conciliatory. Ahh yes, Try Mr. Barnard; room 12.
M- Thank you. (clears throat)
(Walks down the hall. Opens door.)
Q- WHAT DO YOU WANT?
M- Well, I was told outside that...
Q- Don't give me that, you snotty-faced heap of parrot droppings!
M- What?
Q- Shut your festering gob, you tit! Your type makes me puke. You vacuous,
toffee-nosed, malodorous, pervert!!!
M- Look, I CAME HERE FOR AN ARGUMENT!!
Q- OH, oh I'm sorry, this is abuse.
M- Oh, I see, well, that explains it.
Q- Ah no, you want 12A, next door.
M- I see.
Q- Yes.
M- Sorry.
Q- Not at all.
M- No, that's all right. (exits)
Q- (Under his breath) Stupid git!!
M- (Walk down the corridor, sees door marked 12A, knocks)
A- Come in.
M- Is this the right room for an argument?
A- I've told you once.
M- No you haven't.
A- Yes I have.
M- When?
A- Just now.
M- No you didn't.
A- Yes I did.
M- Didn't
A- I did!
M- Didn't!
A- I'm telling you I did!
M- You did not!!
A- Oh, I'm sorry. Is this a five minute argument or the full half hour?
M- Oh, oh, just the five minutes one.
A- Fine. (pause) Thank you. Anyway, I did.
M- You most certainly did not.
A- Look, let's get one thing quite clear; I most definitely told you.
M- You did not.
A- Yes I did.
M- You did not.
A- Yes I did.
M- Didn't.
A- Yes I did.
M- Didn't.
A- Yes I did.
M- Look, this isn't an argument.
A- Yes it is.
M- No it isn't. It's just contradiction.
A- No it isn't.
M- Yes it is!
A- It is not.
M- It is. You just contradicted me.
A- No I didn't.
M- Oh you did!!
A- No, no, no, no, no, no, no, no.
M- You did just then.
A- No, no, no. Nonsense!
M- Oh, look this is futile!
A- No it isn't.
M- I came here for a good argument.
A- No you didn't; you came here for an argument.
M- An argument is not the same as contradiction.
A- (Pause) It can be.
M- No it can't. An argument is a collected series of statements to establish
a definite proposition.
A- No it isn't.
M- Yes it is! It isn't just contradiction.
A- Look, if I argue with you, I must take up a contrary position.
M- But it isn't just saying 'No it isn't.'
A- Yes it is!
M- No it isn't! (pauses and thinks about that) Argument is an intellectual
process. Contradiction is just the automatic gainsaying of anything the
other person says.
A- No it isn't.
M- Yes it is.
A- Not at all.
M- Now look. I--
A- (Rings bell) Thank you. Good Morning.
M- What?
A- That's it. Good morning.
M- I was just getting interested.
A- Sorry, the five minutes is up.
M- That was never five minutes just now!
A- 'Fraid it was.
M- No it wasn't. (Pause)
A- I'm sorry, I'm not allowed to argue anymore.
M- What?!
A- If you want me to go on arguing, you have to pay for another five minutes.
M- But that was never five minutes, just now. Oh come on!
A- (Hums)
M- This is ridiculous.
A- I'm very sorry, but I told you I'm not allowed to argue unless you've
paid!
M- Oh, all right. (pays money) There you are.
A- Thank you. (short pause)
M- Well?
A- Well what?
M- That was never five minutes just now.
A- Look I'm not allowed to argue unless you've paid.
M- I just paid!
A- No you didn't.
M- I DID!
A- No you didn't.
M- I DID!
A- No you didn't.
M- I DID!
A- No you didn't.
M- Look, I don't want to argue about that.
A- Well, I'm very sorry, but you didn't pay.
M- Aha. Well, if I didn't pay, why are you arguing? Got you!
A- No you haven't.
M- Yes I have. If you're arguing, I must have paid.
A- Not necessarily. I could be arguing in my spare time.
M- Oh I've had enough of this.
A- No you haven't.
M- Oh shut up.
(Walks down corridor. Opens door.)
I want to complain.
C- You want to complain! Look at these shoes. I've only had them three
weeks and the soles are worn right through.
M- No, I want to complain about...
C- If you complain nothing happens, you might as well not bother. And my back
hurts and every other part and I'm sick and tired of this office!
M- (Slams door. Walks down corridor, opens next door.)
I want to... (get hit on head with mallet) Owwww!
H- Hold your head like this, and then go Waaah. Try it again. (Hits man on
head)
M- Whoahhhhh!!
H- Better, Better, but Waah, Waah! Hold your hands here.
M- No.
H- Now.. (again)
M- Waaaaah!!!
H- Good! That's it. That's it. Good.
M- Stop hitting me!!
H- What?
M- Stop hitting me!
H- Stop hitting you?
M- Yes!
H- Oh, uh, what did you come in here for then?
M- I came in to complain.
H- Oh I'm sorry. That's next door. It's being-hit-on-the-head lessons in
here.
M- What a stupid concept.
F- Right. Hold it here.
M/H- (together) What?
F- Allow me to introduce myself, I'm Inspector Fox of the Light Entertainment
Police: Comedy Division: Special Flying Squad.
M/H- Flying Fox of the Yard?!
F- Shut up (hits Man with billy club)
M- WoooAH!
H- No, Waaah.
F- And you (hits Hitter)
H- Waaah!
F- He's good. You could learn a thing or two from him. Right. Now you two me
old beauties. You are nipped.
M- What for?
F- I'm charging you under section 21 of the strange sketch acts.
M- The what?
F- You are hereby charged that you did willfully take part in a strange
sketch that is a skit, spoof or humorous vignette of an unconventional
nature with intent to cause grievous mental confusion to the Great
British public.
(Looks at camera) Good evening all.
And you talked... (hits Man)
M- Waaah!
F- That's excellent!!! Right. Come on down to the Yard.
T- Hold it. Hold it. Allow me to introduce myself, I'm Inspector Thompson's
Gazelle of the Program Planning Police: Light Entertainment Division:
Special Flying Squad.
F- Flying Thompson's Gazelle of the Yard?!
T- (Hits Fox) Shut up!
F- Yeowww!
H- He's good.
T- Shut up! (Hits Hitter)
H- Wowwah!
M- Rotten. (Gets hit) Waaah!
T- Goood. Now. I'm arresting this entire show on three counts. One, acts
of a self-conscious behavior contrary to the Not-in-front-of-the-Children
Act. Two, always saying "So-and-so of the Yard," every time the fuzz arrives.
And three, and this is the cruncher, offenses against the Getting-out-of-
Sketches-Without-Using-a-Proper-Punchline Act. Namely, simply ending
every bleeding sketch by having a policeman come in and... Wait a
minute...
P- Hold it. (Clasps his hand on Thompson's Gazelle's shoulder)
T- It's a fair cop.
(Another policeman comes in and grabs the last constable, who subsequently is
arrested himself... )
V- And now, one more minute of Monty Python's Flying Circus.
======================================================
| I'm giving this newsgroup back to the proper people! |
| Saint |
| sa...@ctron.com Grand Old Sage of |
| Alt.Fan.Monty-Python |
======================================================
... and all you ignorant, arrogant little newbie trolls
can suck my Semprini!
Superhumanly euphoric
(Sound: Church bells, lots of them, ringing.)
Man: I wish those bloody bells would stop.
Wife: Oh, it's quite nice dear, it's Sunday, it's the church.
M: What about us atheists? Why should we 'ave to listen to that
sectarian turmoil?
W: You're a lapsed atheist, dear.
M: The principle's the same. Bleeding C of E. The Mohmedans don't come 'round
here wavin' bells at us! We don't get Buddhists playing bagpipes in our
bathroom! Or Hindus harmonizing in the hall! The Shintus don't
come here shattering sheet glass in the shithouse, shouting slogans-
W: All right, don't practice your alliteration on me.
M: Anyway, when I get my membership card and blazer badge back from the
League of Agnostics, I shall urge the executive to lodge a protest
against that religious racket! Pass the butter knife!
W: WHAT??
M: PASS THE BUTTER KNIFE!! (pause) THANK YOU! IF ONLY WE HAD SOME
KIND OF MISSILE!
W: 'OLD ON, I'LL CLOSE THE WINDOW.
M: WHAT?!
W: I SAID, I'LL CLOSE THE WINDOW!
(Sound: Window closing, bells get faint, but are still there)
M: If only we had some kind of missile, we could take the steam out
of those bells.
W: Well, you could always use the number 14-St. Joseph-the-somewhat-
divine-on-the-hill ballistic missile. It's in the attic.
M: What ballistic missile would this be, then?
(Sound: Bells begin to get increasingly louder)
W: I made it for you, it's your birthday present!
M: Just what I wanted, 'ow nice of you to remember, my pet.
'ERE!
W: WHAT?
M: THOSE BELLS ARE GETTING LOUDER!
W: WHAT?
M: THOSE BELLS ARE GETTING LOUDER!!
W: THE BELLS ARE GETTING LOUDER! OOOH, LOOK!
M: WHAT?
W: THE CHURCH, IT.. ITS COMING CLOSER! ITS COMING DOWN THE 'ILL!
M: WHAT A LIBERTY!
W: ITS TURNING INTO OUR LANE!
W: STRAIGHT THROUGH THE LIGHTS! OF COURSE.
W: TYPICAL WHAT? WELL, YOU BETTER GO PUT IT OUT OF IT'S MISERY.
M: WHERE'S THIS MISSILE, THEN?
W: IT'S IN THE ATTIC. PRESS THE BUTTON MARKED CHURCH!
M: 'OW DO I AIM IT?
W: IT AUTOMATICALLY HOMES IN ON THE NEAREST PLACE OF WORSHIP!
M: BUT THAT'S ST. MARKS!
W: IT ISN'T NOW, LOOK!! OH, ITS OP'NING THE GATE.
M: WHAT? USE THE MEGAPHONE!
W: IT'S OP'NING THE GATE!!
M: I'LL POP UP ' THE AIRING CUPBOARD!
W: 'HURRY UP, ITS TRAMPLING OVER THE AZALIAS!
(Sound: Missle launch, explosion, bells diminish)
M: Did I 'it it?
W: Yes, right up the aisle.
M: Well I've always said, There's nothing an agnostic can't do if
he really doesn't know whether he believes in anything or not.
Superhumanly euphoric
A lot of people in this country pooh-pooh Australian table wines. This is a
pity, as many fine Australian wines appeal not only to the Australian palette,
but also to the cognoscenti of Great Britain.
"Black Stump Bordeaux" is rightly praised as a peppermint flavoured
Burgundy, whilst a good "Sydney Syrup" can rank with any of the world's
best sugary wines.
"Chateau Bleu", too, has won many prizes; not least for its taste, and
its lingering afterburn.
"Old Smokey, 1968" has been compared favourably to a Welsh claret,
whilst the Australian wino society thouroughly recommends a 1970 "Coq du
Rod Laver", which, believe me, has a kick on it like a mule: 8 bottles
of this, and you're really finished -- at the opening of the Sydney
Bridge Club, they were fishing them out of the main sewers every half an
hour.
Of the sparkling wines, the most famous is "Perth Pink". This is a
bottle with a message in, and the message is BEWARE!. This is not a
wine for drinking -- this is a wine for laying down and avoiding.
Another good fighting wine is "Melbourne Old-and-Yellow", which is
particularly heavy, and should be used only for hand-to-hand combat.
Quite the reverse is true of "Chateau Chunder", which is an Appelachian
controle, specially grown for those keen on regurgitation -- a fine wine
which really opens up the sluices at both ends.
Real emetic fans will also go for a "Hobart Muddy", and a prize winning
"Cuiver Reserve Chateau Bottled Nuit San Wogga Wogga", which has a
bouquet like an aborigine's armpit.
Superhumanly euphoric
Jones: Morning, Squadron Leader.
Idle: What-ho, Squiffy.
Jones: How was it?
Idle: Top-hole. Bally Jerry, pranged his kite right in the how's-your-father;
hairy blighter, dicky-birded, feathered back on his sammy, took a waspy,
flipped over on his Betty Harpers and caught his can in the Bertie.
Jones: Er, I'm afraid I don't quite follow you, Squadron Leader.
Idle: It's perfectly ordinary banter, Squiffy. Bally Jerry, pranged his kite
right in the how's-your-father; hairy blighter, dicky-birded, feathered
back on his sammy, took a waspy, flipped over on his Betty Harpers and
caught his can in the Bertie.
Jones: No, I'm just not understanding banter at all well today. Give us it
slower.
Idle: Banter's not the same if you say it slower, Squiffy.
Jones: Hold on then -- Wingco! -- just bend an ear to the Squadron Leader's
banter for a sec, would you?
Chapman: Can do.
Jones: Jolly good. Fire away.
Idle: Bally Jerry... (he goes through it all again)
Chapman: No, I don't understand that banter at all.
Idle: Something up with my banter, chaps?
GRAMS: AIR RAID SIRENS
(Enter Palin, out of breath)
Palin: Bunch of monkeys on the ceiling, sir! Grab your egg-and-fours and
let's get the bacon delivered!
Chapman (to Idle): Do *you* understand that?
Idle: No -- I didn't get a word of it.
Chapman: Sorry, old man, we don't understand your banter.
Palin: You know -- bally tenpenny ones dropping in the custard!
(no reaction)
Palin: Um -- Charlie choppers chucking a handful!
Chapman: No no -- sorry.
Jones: Say it slower, old chap.
Palin: Slower *banter*, sir?
Chapman: Ra-ther.
Palin: Um -- sausage squad up the blue end?
Idle: No, still don't get it.
Palin: Um -- cabbage crates coming over the briny?
The others: No, no.
(Film of air-raid)
Idle (voice-over): But by then it was too late. The first cabbage crates hit
London on July the 7th. That was just the beginning.
(Chapman seen sitting at desk, on telephone)
Chapman: Five shillings a dozen? That's ordinary cabbages, is it? And what
about the bombs?... Good Lord, they _are_ expensive.
Superhumanly euphoric
Something Completely Different"
Customer: Hello, is this the Barbershop Sketch?
Barber: Y-y-yes sir. B-b-b-be with you in a minute.
(The barber is now washing and re-washing his hands, trying to remove the
obvious blood-stains from them and his coat.)
Barber: H-h-how would you like it sir?
Customer: Just short back and sides.
Barber: How do you do that?
Customer: Oh, you know, just short back and sides.
Barber: It's not a... a razor cut, RAZOR CUT BLOOD ARTERY MURDER SPUrt.. arr...
Customer: No, just ordinary short back and sides, you know...
Barber: It's just s-s-s-scissors then...
Customer: Yes.
Barber: You wouldn't rather forget all about it?
Customer: What?
Barber: You wouldn't prefer to have it just combed?
Customer: Oh, no.. I want something cut off!
Barber: Cut, CUT HEART HITCHCOCK MURDER BLOOD PSYCHO HOMICIDE SPURT ARTERY
TREMOR CORTEX Arrrgg...!
(The barber fakes a few quick snips.)
Barber: There, finished.
Customer: I beg your pardon?
Barber: I've finished cutting, cutting, CUTTING, CUTTING YOUR HAIR!
Customer: Well, you haven't even done any cutting yet.
Barber: All right, I confess I didn't cut your hair. I hate hair. I-I I
can't bear cutting it. I have this uncontrolable fear whenever I see
hair. My mother said I was a fool! She said the only way to
overcome my fear would be to become a barber. I didn't want to be a
barber.
I wanted to be... A *LUMBERJACK*!
(music up)
Superhumanly euphoric
Announcer:
Hello! Hello! Hello! Thank you,thank you.
Hello good evening and welcome, to BLACKMAIL! Yes, it's another edition of
the game in which you can play with *yourself*. (applause)
And to start tonight's show, let's see our first contestant, all the way from
Manchester, on the big screen please: MRS. BETTY TEAL!
(applause, which suddenly stops when the clap track tape breaks)
'Ello, Mrs. Teal, lovely to have you on the show. Now Mrs. Teal, if you're
looking in tonight, this is for 15 pounds: and is to stop us from revealing
the name of your LOVER IN BOULTON!! So, Mrs. Teal, send us 15 pounds, by
return of post please, and your husband Trevor, and your lovely children
Diane, Janice, and Juliet, need never know the name... of your LOVER IN
BOULTON!
(applause; organ music)
Thank you Onan! And now: a letter, a hotel registration book, and a series of
photographs, which could add up to divorce, premature retirement, and possible
criminal proceedings for a company director in Bromsgrove. He's a freemason,
and a conservative M.P., so that's 3,000 pounds please Mr. S... thank you...
to stop us from revealing:
Your name
The name of the three other people involved,
The youth organization to which they belonged,
and The shop where you bought the equipment!
(organ music)
But right now, yes everyone is the moment you've all been waiting for; it's
time for our Stop the Film spots! As you know, the rules are very simple. We
have taken a film which contains compromising scenes and unpleasant details
which could wreck a man's career. (gasp) But, the victim may 'phone me at
any moment, and stop the film. But remember the money increases as the film
goes on, so,.... the longer you leave it, the more you have to pay! Tonight,
Stop the Film visits the little Thames-side village of Thames Ditton.
(music--announcer's voice over)
Well, here we go, here we go now, let's see...where's our man.
Oh yes, there he is behind the tree now....
Mm, boy, this is fun, this is good fun....
He looks respectable, so we should be in for some real...real shucks here....
A member of the government, could be a brain surgeon, they're the worst....
wHOW! Look at the *size* of that.....briefcase.
Aah, yes, he's, he's up to the door, rung the doorbell now....
O-oh, who's the little number with the nightie and the whip, eh? Heh-heh.
Doesn't look like his mother....could be his sister....
If it is he's in real trouble....
And just look at that, they're upstairs already... whoah, boy, this is fun!
A very brave man, our contestant tonight.
Who-ho-ho!! This is no Tupperware party!
Very brave man, they don't usually get this far...
What's--what's that, what's she's doing to his.....is that a CHICKEN up
there? No, no, it's just the way she's holding the grapefruit... Whoah, ho
ho...
('Phone rings; buzzer goes off. Applause)
(picking up 'phone)
Hello sir...yes...aha-ha-ha...yes, just in time, sir, that was...what?
No, no, sir, it's alright, we don't morally censor, we just want the
money. Thank you sir, yes,....what? You...okay....Thank you for playing the
game, sir, very nice indeed, okay....okay, see you tonight, Dad, bye bye.
Well, that's all from this edition of Blackmail. Join me next week, same
time, same channel....Join me, two dogs, and a vicar, when we'll be playing
"Pedorasto", the game for all the family.
Superhumanly euphoric
by A. NOTHER DOCTOR
from Monty Python's Brand New Papperbok
The human body is indeed a wonderul thing. Its infinitely complex way of
functioning would take a computer, working flat out, day and night, excluding
Bank Holidays and Christmas, 3,971 years to work out. The slightest flicker of
the eyelid, the smallest movement of the big toe, involves such extraordinarily
complex processes that the average man, working flat out, excluding Bank
Holidays and Christmas, but *including* weekends, would take 84,643 light years
to work it out. If you can imagine an Airedale terrier jumping in and out of a
watering can once every 7 minutes for 12 years you have some idea how long that
would take. And that's only one light year.
Even the most simple process that the body can perform -- like paying the
doctor -- would take a piece of asbestos over 9 billion years to work out. If
you can imagine a man at a cocktail party congratulating the hostess on the
avocado dip 40,000 times every second for 2 1/2 hours twice a week for 28,000
years you can begin to realise what an extraordinarily wonderful thing the
human body is.
To put it even more simply, if you can imagine a doctor leaving his lucrative
Harley St. practice to a younger partner, and cruising round the world 4 times
a year, drinking 3 bottles of champagne with a friend's wife every afternoon,
and writing an article on How Your Body Works once every 96 days, you'll get
some idea of why I was struck off the register. Good evening.
Superhumanly euphoric
Customer: (entering the bookshop) Good morning.
Proprietor (John Cleese): Good morning, sir. Can I help you?
C: Er, yes. Do you have a copy of "Thirty Days in the Samarkind Desert with
the Duchess of Kent" by A. E. J. Eliott, O.B.E.?
P: Ah, well, I don't know the book, sir....
C: Er, never mind, never mind. How about "A Hundred and One Ways to
Start a Fight"?
P: ...By?
C: An Irish gentleman whose name eludes me for the moment.
P: Ah, no, well we haven't got it in stock, sir....
C: Oh, well, not to worry, not to worry. Can you help me with "David
Coperfield"?
P: Ah, yes, Dickens.
C: No....
P: (pause) I beg your pardon?
C: No, Edmund Wells.
P: I... *think* you'll find Charles Dickens wrote "David Copperfield", sir....
C: No, no, Dickens wrote "David Copperfield" with *two* Ps. This is
"David Coperfield" with *one* P by Edmund Wells.
P: "David Coperfield" with one P?
C: Yes, I should have said.
P: Yes, well in that case we don't have it.
C: (peering over counter) Funny, you've got a lot of books here....
P: (slightly perturbed) Yes, we do, but we don't have "David Coperfield"
with one P by Edmund Wells.
C: Pity, it's more thorough than the Dickens.
P: More THOROUGH?!?
C: Yes...I wonder if it might be worth a look through all your "David Copper-
field"s...
P: No, sir, all our "David Copperfield"s have two P's.
C: Are you quite sure?
P: Quite.
C: Not worth just looking?
P: Definitely not.
C: Oh...how 'bout "Grate Expectations"?
P: Yes, well we have that....
C: That's "G-R-A-T-E Expectations," also by Edmund Wells.
P: (pause) Yes, well in that case we don't have it. We don't have anything
by Edmund Wells, actually: he's not very popular.
C: Not "Knickerless Knickleby"? That's K-N-I-C-K-E-R-L-E-S-S.
P: (taciturn) No.
C: "Khristmas Karol" with a K?
P: (really quite perturbed) No....
C: Er, how about "A Sale of Two Titties"?
P: DEFINITELY NOT.
C: (moving towards door) Sorry to trouble you....
P: Not at all....
C: Good morning.
P: Good morning.
C: (turning around) Oh!
P: (deep breath) Yesss?
C: I wonder if you might have a copy of "Rarnaby Budge"?
P: No, as I say, we're right out of Edmund Wells!
C: No, not Edmund Wells - Charles Dikkens.
P: (pause - eagerly) Charles Dickens??
C: Yes.
P: (excitedly) You mean "Barnaby Rudge"!
C: No, "Rarnaby Budge" by Charles Dikkens. That's Dikkens with two Ks, the
well-known Dutch author.
P: (slight pause) No, well we don't have "Rarnaby Budge" by Charles Dikkens
with two Ks, the well-known Dutch author, and perhaps to save time I
should add that we don't have "Karnaby Fudge" by Darles Chickens, or
"Farmer of Sludge" by Marles Pickens, or even "Stickwick Stapers" by Farles
Wickens with four M's and a silent Q!!!!! Why don't you try W. H. Smith's?
C: Ah did, They sent me here.
P: DID they.
C: Oh, I wonder...
P: Oh, do go on, please.
C: Yes...I wonder if you might have "The Amazing Adventures of Captain Gladys
Stoutpamphlet and her Intrepid Spaniel Stig Amongst the Giant Pygmies of
Beckles"...volume eight.
P: (after a pause for recovery) No, we don't have that...funny, we've got a lot
of books here...well, I musn't keep you standing here...thank you,--
C: Oh, well do, do you have-- ---
P: No, we haven't. No, we haven't. |
C: B-b-b-but-- |
P: Sorry, no, it's one o'clock now, we're |
closing for lunch-- |
C: Ah, I--I saw it-- |-------loud arguments
P: I'm sorry-- |
C: I saw it over there! I saw it... |
P: What? What? WHAT?!? ---/
C: I saw it over there: "Olsen's Standard Book of British Birds".
P: (pause; trying to stay calm) "Olsen's Standard Book of British Birds"?
C: Yes...
P: O-L-S-E-N?
C: Yes....
P: B-I-R-D-S??
C: Yes.....
P: (beat) Yes, well, we do have that, as a matter of fact....
C: The expurgated version....
P: (pause; politely) I'm sorry, I didn't quite catch that...?
C: The expurgated version.
P: (exploding) The EXPURGATED version of "Olsen's Standard Book of British
Birds"?!?!?!?!?
C: (desperately) The one without the gannet!
P: The one without the gannet-!!! They've ALL got the gannet!! It's a
Standard British Bird, the gannet, it's in all the books!!!
C: (insistent) Well, I don't like them...they wet their nests.
P: (furious) All right! I'll remove it!! (rrrip!) Any other birds you don't
like?!
C: I don't like the robin...
P: (screaming) The robin! Right! The robin! (rrrip!) There you are, any
others you don't like, any others?
C: The nuthatch?
P: Right! (flipping through the book) The nuthatch, the nuthatch, the
nuthatch, 'ere we are! (rrriiip!) There you are! NO gannets, NO robins,
NO nuthatches, THERE's your book!
C: (indignant) I can't buy that! It's torn!
P: (incoherent noise)
C: Ah, I wonder if you have--
P: God, ask me anything!! We got lots of books here, you know, it's a
bookshop!!
C: Er, how 'bout "Biggles Combs his Hair"?
P: No, no, we don't have that one, funny!
C: "The Gospel According to Charley Drake"?
P: No, no, no, try me again!
C: Ah...oh, I know! "Ethel the Aardvark goes Quantity Surveying".
P: No, no, no, no, no,...What? WHAT??????
C: "Ethel the Aardvark goes Quantity Surveying".
P: "Ethel the Aa--" YES!!!YES!!! WE'VE GOT IT!! (throwing books wildly about)
I-I've seen it somewhere!!! I know it!!! Hee hee hee hee hee!!! Ha ha hoo
ho---WAIT!! WAIT!! Is it?? Is it??? (triumphant) YES!!!!!! Here we are,
"Ethel the Aardvark goes Quantity Surveying"!!!!! There's your book!!
(throwing it down) Now, BUY IT!!!
C: (quickly) I don't have enough money.
P: (desperate) I'll take a deposit!
C: I don't have ANY money!
P: I'll take a check!!
C: I don't have a checkbook!
P: I've got a blank one!!
C: I don't have a bank account!!
P: RIGHT!!!! I'll buy it FOR you! (ring) There we are, there's your change,
there's some money for a taxi on the way home, there's your book, now, now..
C: Wait, wait, wait!
P: What? What?!? WHAT?!? WHAT???!!
C: I can't read!!!
P: (staggeringly long pause; very quietly) You can't...read. (pause) RIGHT!!!
Sit down!! Sit down!! Sit!! Sit!! Are you sitting comfortably???
Right!!! (opens book) "Ethel the Aardvark was hopping down the river valley
one lovely morning, trottety-trottety-trottety, when she might a nice little
quantity surveyor..." (fade out)
Superhumanly euphoric
(Banal intro music)
Ghastly Quizmaster (Cleese): Hello, good evening and welcome to the very final
edition of your favourite television quiz
programme Spot the Braincell. Thirty minutes of
cheerful ritual humiliation of the old and
greedy. And could we have our first contestant,
please!
(Piano chords. Hostess (Chapman in drag) escorts Old ratbag (Jones in drag)
onto stage.)
Quizmaster: Ha ha ha ... ha ha ha. Good evening, Madam! And your name is?
Ratbag: Yes, Michael.
Quizmaster: Ha ha ha! Jolly good -- and what is your name?
Ratbag: I go to church regularly.
Quizmaster: Ha ha ha, I see. And which particular prize do you have eyes for
this evening?
Ratbag: I'd like the blow on the head.
Quizmaster: The blow -- on the head!
Ratbag: Yes, just there, where it hurts.
Quizmaster: Jolly good! Well now Madam your first question for the blow on
the head this evening is: Which great opponent of Cartesian
dualism resists the reduction of psychological phenomena to a
physical state and insists there is no point of contact between the
extended and the unextended?
Ratbag: I don't know that.
Quizmaster: Well -- have a guess!
Ratbag: Oh... Henri Bergson?
Quizmaster: ...is the correct answer! (Piano chords)
Ratbag: Ooh, that was lucky. I never even heard of him.
Quizmaster: Ha ha ha!
Ratbag: I don't like darkies.
Quizmaster: Ha ha ha (maniacal cackle) She doesn't like darkies. Ha ha ha.
Who does? Ha ha ha! Well now, Mrs Scum, your second question for
the blow on the head is: What is the main food eaten by penguins?
What is the principal food that penguins eat?
Ratbag: Pork luncheon meat.
Quizmaster: No.
Ratbag: Spam.
Quizmaster: No, no, no, no. Penguins. Penguins.
Ratbag: Horses.
Quizmaster: No.
Ratbag: Armchairs.
Quizmaster: No, no. All right, take it easy. I'll give you a clue. (Does
fish impression, opening and closing mouth, puffing up face etc.)
Ratbag: Oh, I know, I know, I know! Brian Clough!
Quizmaster: No, ha ha, no.
Ratbag: Brian Johnstone.
Quizmaster: No.
Ratbag: Brian Inglis.
Quizmaster: No.
Ratbag: Brian Forbes.
Quizmaster: No, ha ha.
Ratbag: Nanette Newman.
Quizmaster: No, ha ha (cackles). No, now listen, I'll give you one more clue,
one more clue. What lives in the sea and gets caught in nets?
Ratbag: Goats.
Quizmaster: No.
Ratbag: Underwater goats with snorkels and flippers.
Quizmaster: No, no.
Ratbag: A buffalo with an aqualung.
Quizmaster: No.
Ratbag: Reginald Maudling.
Quizmaster: (Pause) Yes, that's near enough. I'll give you that. (Piano)
Right, now you have won tonight's star prize. Do you still want
the blow on the head?
Ratbag: Oh, yes please, Michael.
Quizmaster: (Deliberate Pause) I'm offering you a poke in the eye...
Ratbag: No no.
Quizmaster: All right then, a punch in the throat.
Ratbag: No.
Quizmaster: My very last offer Mrs Scum -- a knee in the temple and a dagger
up the clitoris! (Piano) (Audience cries of "Take the Money!"
etc)
Ratbag: That's very tempting, I've never had one up there before! No, I'll
still have the blow on the head.
Quizmaster: Right, the blow on the head. Mrs Scum, you have won tonight's
star prize, the blow on the (cackles) (16 ton weight falls on
Ratbag).
Superhumanly euphoric
Brian ... the babe they called Brian
Grew ... grew grew and grew, grew up to be
A boy called Brian
A boy called Brian
He had arms and legs and hands and feet
This boy whose name was Brian
And he grew, grew, grew and grew
Grew up to be
Yes he grew up to be
A teenager called Brian
A teenager called Brian
And his face became spotty
Yes his face became spotty
And his voice dropped down low
And things started to grow
On young Brian and show
He was certainly no
No girl named Brian
Not a girl named Brian
And he started to shave
And have one off the wrist
And want to see girls
And go out and get pissed
This man called Brian
This man called Brian
Three camels are silhouetted against the bright stars of the
moonless sky, moving slowly along the horizon. A star leads
them towards Bethlehem. The Wise Men enter the gates of the
sleeping town and make their way through the deserted streets.
A dog snarls at them. They approach a stable, out of which
streams a beam of light. They dismount and enter to find a
typical manger scene, with a baby in a rough crib of straw and
patient animals standing around. The mother nods by the side
of the child. Suddenly she wakes from her lightish doze, sees
them, shrieks and falls backwards off her straw. She's up
again in a flash, looking guardedly at them. She is a ratbag.
Mandy: Who are you?
Wise Man 1: We are three wise men.
Wise Man 2: We are astrologers. We have come from the East.
Mandy: Is this some kind of joke?
Wise Man 1: We wish to praise the infant.
Wise Man 2: We must pay homage to him.
Mandy: Homage!! You're all drunk you are. It's disgusting.
Out, out!
Wise Man 3: No, no.
Mandy: Coming bursting in here first thing in the morning
with some tale about Oriental fortune tellers...
get out!
Wise Man 1: No. No we must see him.
Mandy: Go and praise someone else's brat, go on.
Wise Man 2: We were led by a star.
Mandy: Led by a bottle, more like. Get out!
Wise Man 2: We must see him. We have brought presents.
Mandy: Out!
Wise Man 1: Gold, frankincense, myrrh.
(her attitude changes immediately)
Mandy: Well, why didn't you say so? He's over here...Sorry
this place is a bit of a mess. What is myrrh, anyway?
Wise Man 3: It is a valuable balm.
Mandy: A balm, what are you giving him a balm for? It might
bite him.
Wise Man 3: What?
Mandy: It's a dangerous animal. Quick, throw it in the trough.
Wise Man 3: No it isn't.
Mandy: Yes it is.
Wise Man 3: No, no, it is an ointment.
Mandy: An ointment?
Wise Man 3: Look.
Mandy: (sampling the ointment with a grubby finger)
Oh. There is an animal called a balm or did I dream it?
You astrologers, eh? Well, what's he then?
Wise Man 2: H'm?
Mandy: What star sign is he?
Wise Man 2: Capricorn.
Mandy: Capricorn, eh, what are they like?
Wise Man 2: He is the son of God, our Messiah.
Wise Man 1: King of the Jews.
Mandy: And that's Capricorn, is it?
Wise Man 3: No, no, that's just him.
Mandy: Oh, I was going to say, otherwise there'd be a lot of
them.
(The Wise Men are on their knees)
Wise Man 2: By what name are you calling him?
(Dramatic Holy music)
Mandy: Brian.
Three Wise Men:
We worship you, Oh, Brian, who are Lord over
us all. Praise unto you, Brian and to the
Lord our Father. Amen.
Mandy: Do you do a lot of this, then?
Wise Man 1: What?
Mandy: This praising.
Wise Man 1: No, no, no.
Mandy: Oh! Well, if you're dropping by again do pop in. (they
take the hint and rise) And thanks a lot for the gold
and frankincense but...don't worry too much about the
myrrh next time. Thank you...Goodbye. (to Brian)
Well, weren't they nice...out of their bloody minds,
but still...
In the background we see the Wise Men pause outside another door
as a gentle glow suffuses them. They look at each other, confer
and then stride back in and grab the presents from Mandy and turn
to go again, pushing Mandy over.
Mandy: Here, here, that's mine, you just gave me that. Ow!
The Leper Scene
(As MANDY and BRIAN pass through the city gate, they attract a sort of
muscular, fit and healthy young BEGGAR, who pursues them relentlessly through
the busy streets.)
EX-LEPER
Spare a talent for an old ex-leper, sir.
MANDY
(to EX-LEPER)
Buzz off!
EX-LEPER
(The EX-LEPER has come round to BRIAN's side.)
Spare a talent for an old ex-leper, sir.
BRIAN
Did you say -- ex-leper?
EX-LEPER
That's right, sir. (he salutes) ... sixteen years behind the bell, and
proud of it, thank you sir.
BRIAN
What happened?
EX-LEPER
I was cured, sir.
BRIAN
Cured?
EX-LEPER
Yes sir, a bloody miracle, sir. Bless you.
BRIAN
Who cured you?
EX-LEPER
Jesus did. I was hopping along, when suddenly he comes and cures me.
One minute I'm a leper with a trade, next moment me livelihood's gone.
Not so much as a by your leave.
(gestures in the manner of a conjuror)
You're cured mate, sod you.
MANDY
Go away.
EX-LEPER
Look. I'm not saying that being a leper was a bowl of cherries. But it
was a living. I mean, you try waving muscular suntanned limbs in people's
faces demanding compassion. It's a bloody disaster.
MANDY
You could go and get yourself a decent job, couldn't you?
EX-LEPER
Look, sir, my family has been in begging six generations. I'm not about
to become a goat-herd, just because some long-haired conjuror starts
mucking about. (makes gesture again)
Just like that. "You're cured." Bloody do-gooder!
BRIAN
Well, why don't you go and tell him you want to be a leper again?
EX-LEPER
Ah yeah, I could do that, sir yes, I suppose I could. What I was going
to do was ask him if he could ... you know, just make me a bit lame in one
leg during the week, you know, something beggable, but not leprosy, which
is a pain in the arse to be quite blunt, sir, excuse my French but ...
(They have reached BRIAN and MANDY's house. MANDY goes in. BRIAN gives the
BEGGAR a coin.)
BRIAN
There you are.
EX-LEPER
Thank you sir ... half a denary for my bloody life story!
BRIAN
There's no pleasing some people
EX-LEPER
That's just what Jesus said.
The Inalienable Rights Scene
(A huge Roman amphitheatre sparsely attended. REG, FRANCIS, STAN and JUDITH
are seated in the stands. They speak conspiratorially.)
JUDITH
... Any Anti-Imperialist group like ours must *reflect* such a divergence
of interests within its power-base.
REG
Agreed.
(General nodding.)
Francis?
FRANCIS
I think Judith's point of view is valid here, Reg, provided the Movement
never forgets that it is the inalienable right of every man ...
STAN
Or woman.
FRANCIS
Or woman ... to rid himself ...
STAN
Or herself.
REG
Or herself. Agreed. Thank you, brother.
STAN
Or sister.
FRANCIS
Thank you, brother. Or sister. Where was I?
REG
I thought you'd finished.
FRANCIS
Oh, did I? Right.
REG
Furthermore, it is the birthright of every man ...
STAN
Or woman.
REG
Why don't you shut up about women, Stan, you're putting us off.
STAN
Women have a perfect right to play a part in our movement, Reg.
FRANCIS
Why are you always on about women, Stan?
STAN
... I want to be one.
REG
... What?
STAN
I want to be a woman. From now on I want you all to call me Loretta.
REG
What!?
STAN
It's my right as a man.
JUDITH
Why do you want to be Loretta, Stan?
STAN
I want to have babies.
REG
You want to have babies?!?!?!
STAN
It's every man's right to have babies if he wants them.
REG
But you can't have babies.
STAN
Don't you oppress me.
REG
I'm not oppressing you, Stan -- you haven't got a womb. Where's the
fetus going to gestate? You going to keep it in a box?
(STAN starts crying.)
JUDITH
Here! I've got an idea. Suppose you agree that he can't actually have
babies, not having a womb, which is nobody's fault, not even the Romans',
but that he can have the *right* to have babies.
FRANCIS
Good idea, Judith. We shall fight the oppressors for your right to have
babies, brother. Sister, sorry.
REG
What's the point?
FRANCIS
What?
REG
What's the point of fighting for his right to have babies, when he can't
have babies?
FRANCIS
It is symbolic of our struggle against oppression.
REG
It's symbolic of his struggle against reality.
The Front's Demands Scene
(The interior of MATTHIAS'S HOUSE. A cellar-like room with a very
conspiratorial atmosphere. REG and STAN are seated at a table at one end of
the room. FRANCIS, dressed in commando gear -- black robes and a red sash
around his head -- is standing by a plan on the wall. He is addressing an
audience of about eight MASKED COMMANDOS. Their faces are partially hidden.)
FRANCIS
We get in through the underground heating system here ... up through to
the main audience chamber here ... and Pilate's wife's bedroom is here.
Having grabbed his wife, we inform Pilate that she is in our custody and
forthwith issue our demands. Any questions?
COMMANDO XERXES
What exactly are the demands?
REG
We're giving Pilate two days to dismantle the entire apparatus of the
Roman Imperialist State and if he doesn't agree immediately we execute her.
MATTHIAS
Cut her head of?
FRANCIS
Cut all her bits off, send 'em back every hour on the hour ... show him
we're not to be trifled with.
REG
Also, we're demanding a ten foot mahogany statue of the Emperor Julius
Caesar with his cock hanging out.
STAN
What? They'll never agree to that, Reg.
REG
That's just a bargaining counter. And of course, we point out that they
bear full responsibility when we chop her up, AND ... that we shall NOT
submit to blackmail.
ALL
(Applause) No blackmail!!!!
REG
They've bled us white, the bastards. They've taken everything we had,
not just from us, from our fathers and from our fathers' fathers.
STAN
And from our fathers' fathers' fathers.
REG
Yes.
STAN
And from our fathers' fathers' fathers' fathers.
REG
All right, Stan. Don't labour the point. And what have they ever given
us IN RETURN? (he pauses smugly)
XERXES
The aqueduct?
REG
What?
XERXES
The aqueduct.
REG
Oh yeah, yeah they gave us that. Yeah. That's true.
MASKED COMMANDO
And the sanitation!
STAN
Oh yes ... sanitation, Reg, you remember what the city used to be like.
REG
All right, I'll grant you that the aqueduct and the sanitation are two
things that the Romans HAVE done ...
MATTHIAS
And the roads ...
REG
(sharply) Well YES OBVIOUSLY the roads ... the roads go without saying.
But apart from the aqueduct, the sanitation and the roads ...
ANOTHER MASKED COMMANDO
Irrigation ...
OTHER MASKED VOICES
Medicine ... Education ... Health
REG
Yes ... all right, fair enough ...
COMMANDO NEARER THE FRONT
And the wine ...
GENERAL
Oh yes! True!
FRANCIS
Yeah. That's something we'd really miss if the Romans left, Reg.
MASKED COMMANDO AT BACK
Public baths!
STAN
AND it's safe to walk in the streets at night now.
FRANCIS
Yes, they certainly know how to keep order ...
(general nodding)
... let's face it, they're the only ones who could in a place like this.
(more general murmurs of agreement)
REG
All right ... all right ... but apart from better sanitation and medicine
and education and irrigation and public health and roads and a freshwater
system and baths and public order ... what HAVE the Romans done for US?
XERXES
Brought peace!
REG
(very angry, he's not having a good meeting at all)
What!? Oh ... (scornfully) Peace, yes ... shut up!
Latin Lesson
Brian is writing a slogan to a wall, oblivious to the Roman patrol approaching
from behind. The slogan is "ROMANES EUNT DOMUS".
C: What's this thing?
"ROMANES EUNT DOMUS"?
"People called Romanes they go the house"?
B: It, it says "Romans go home".
C: No it doesn't. What's Latin for "Roman"?
B: (hesitates)
C: Come on, come on!
B: (uncertain) "ROMANUS".
C: Goes like?
B: "-ANUS".
C: Vocative plural of "-ANUS" is?
B: "-ANI".
C: (takes paintbrush from Brian and paints over) "RO-MA-NI".
"EUNT"? What is "EUNT"?
B: "Go".
C: Conjugate the verb "to go"!
B: "IRE". "EO", "IS", "IT", "IMUS", "ITIS", "EUNT".
C: So "EUNT" is ...?
B: Third person plural present indicative, "they go".
C: But "Romans, go home!" is an order, so you must use the ...?
(lifts Brian by his hairs)
B: The ... imperative.
C: Which is?
B: Ahm, oh, oh, "I", "I"!
C: How many romans? (pulls harder)
B: Plural, plural! "ITE".
C: (strikes over "EUNT" and paints "ITE" to the wall)
(satisfied) "I-TE".
"DOMUS"? Nominative? "Go home", this is motion towards, isn't it, boy?
B: (very anxious) Dative?
C: (draws his sword and holds it to Brian's throat)
B: Ahh! No, ablative, ablative, sir. No, the, accusative, accusative,
ah, DOMUM, sir.
C: Except that "DOMUS" takes the ...?
B: ... the locative, sir!
C: Which is?
B: "DOMUM".
C: (satisfied) "DOMUM" (strikes out "DOMUS" and writes "DOMUM") "-MUM".
Understand?
B: Yes sir.
C: Now write it down a hundred times.
B: Yes sir, thank you sir, hail Caesar, sir.
C: (salutes) Hail Caesar.
If it's not done by sunrise, I'll cut your balls off.
B: (very reliefed) Oh thank you sir, thank you sir, hail Caesar and
everything, sir!
The Brian in Jail Scene
(BRIAN wakes up with a smile on his face to find himself being dragged along a
cell corridor by TWO GUARDS. The horrible figure of the JAILER spits at him
and flings him into a dark damp cell, slamming the iron grate behind him and
turning the key hollowly in the lock. BRIAN slumps to the floor. A voice
comes out of the darkness behind him.)
BEN
You LUCKY bastard!
BRIAN
(spins around and peers into the gloom)
Who's that?
BEN
(In the darkness BRIAN just makes out an emaciated figure, suspended on the
wall, with his feet off the ground, by chains round his wrists. This is BEN.)
You lucky, lucky bastard.
BRIAN
What?
BEN
(with great bitterness) Proper little gaoler's pet, aren't we?
BRIAN
(ruffled) What do you mean?
BEN
You must have slipped him a few shekels, eh?
BRIAN
Slipped him a few shekels!? You saw him spit in my face!
BEN
Ohh! What wouldn't I give to be spat at in the face! I sometimes hang
awake at nights dreaming of being spat in the face.
BRIAN
Well, it's not exactly friendly, is it? They had me in manacles ...
BEN
Manacles! Oooh.
(his eyes go quite dreamy)
My idea of heaven is to be allowed to be put in manacles ... just for a
few hours. They must think the sun shines out of your arse, sonny!
BRIAN
Listen! They beat me up before they threw me in here.
BEN
Oh yeah? The only day they don't beat me up is on my birthday.
BRIAN
Oh shut up.
BEN
Well, your type makes me sick! You come in here, you get treated like
Royalty, and everyone outside thinks you're a bloody martyr.
BRIAN
Oh, lay off me ... I've had a hard time!
BEN
YOU'VE had a hard time! Listen, sonny! I've been here five years and
they only hung me the right way up yesterday!
BRIAN
All right! All right!
BEN
I just wish I had half your luck. They must think you're Lord God
Almighty!
BRIAN
What'll they do to me?
BEN
Oh, you'll probably get away with crucifixion.
BRIAN
Crucifixion!
BEN
Yeah, first offence.
BRIAN
Get away with crucifixion!
BEN
Best thing the Romans ever did for us.
BRIAN
(incredulous) What?
BEN
Oh yeah. If we didn't have crucifixion this country would be in a right
bloody mess I tell you.
BRIAN
(who can stand it no longer) Guard!
BEN
Nail 'em up I say!
BRIAN
(dragging himself over to the door) Guard!
BEN
Nail some sense into them!
GUARD
(looking through the bars) What do you want?
BRIAN
I want to be moved to another cell.
(GUARD spits in his face.)
BRIAN
Oh! (he recoils in helpless disgust)
BEN
Oh ... look at that! Bloody favouritism!
GUARD
Shut up, you!
BEN
Sorry! Sorry!
(he lowers his voice)
Now take my case. I've been here five years, and every night they take
me down for ten minutes, then they hang me up again ... which I regard as
very fair ... in view of what I done ... and if nothing else, it's taught
me to respect the Romans, and it's taught me that you'll never get
anywhere in life unless you're prepared to do a fair day's work for a fair
day's pay ...
BRIAN
Oh ... Shut up!
CENTURION
Pilate wants to see you.
BRIAN
Me?
CENTURION
Come on.
BRIAN
Pilate? What does he want to see me for?
CENTURION
I think he wants to know which way up you want to be crucified.
(He laughs. The TWO SOLDIERS smirk. BEN laughs uproariously.)
BEN
... Nice one, centurion. Like it, like it.
CENTURION
(to BEN) Shut up! (BRIAN is hustled out. The door slams.)
BEN
Terrific race the Romans ... terrific.
The Pilate's Chamber Scene
(BRIAN is hauled into PILATE'S audience chamber. It is big and impressive,
although a certain amount of redecorating is underway. The CENTURION salutes.)
CENTURION
Hail Caesar.
PILATE
Hail Caesar.
CENTURION
Only one survivor, sir.
PILATE
Thwow him to the floor.
CENTURION
What sir?
PILATE
Thwow him to the floor.
CENTURION
Ah!
(He indicates to the two roman GUARDS who throw BRIAN to the ground.)
PILATE
Now, what is your name, Jew?
BRIAN
Brian.
PILATE
Bwian, eh?
BRIAN (trying to be helpful)
No, *BRIAN*.
(The CENTURION cuffs him.)
PILATE
The little wascal has spiwit.
CENTURION
Has what, sir?
PILATE
*SPIWIT*.
CENTURION
Yes, he did, sir.
PILATE
No, no, spiwit ... bwavado ... a touch of dewwing-do.
CENTURION (still not really understanding)
Ah. About eleven, sir.
PILATE (to BRIAN)
So you dare to waid us.
BRIAN (rising to his feet)
To what?
PILATE
Stwike him, centuwion, vewwy woughly.
CENTURION
And throw him to the floor, sir?
PILATE
What?
CENTURION
THWOW him to the floor again, sir?
PILATE
Oh yes. Thwow him to the floor.
(The CENTURION knocks BRIAN hard on the side of the head again and the TWO
GUARDS throw him to the floor.)
PILATE
Now, Jewish wapscallion.
BRIAN
I'm not Jewish ... I'm a Roman!
PILATE
*WOMAN*?
BRIAN
No, *ROMAN*.
(But he's not quick enough to avoid another blow from the CENTURION.)
PILATE
So, your father was a *WOMAN*. Who was he?
BRIAN (proudly)
He was a centurion in the Jerusalem Garrison.
PILATE
Oh. What was his name?
BRIAN
Nortius Maximus.
(An involuntary titter arises from the CENTURION.)
PILATE
Centuwion, do we have anyone of that name in the gawwison?
CENTURION
Well ... no sir.
PILATE
You sound vewwy sure ... have you checked?
CENTURION
Well ... no sir ... I think it's a joke, sir ... like ... Sillius Soddus
or ... Biggus Dickus.
PILATE
What's so funny about Biggus Dickus?
CENTURION
Well ... it's a ... joke name, sir.
PILATE
I have a vewwy gweat fwend in Wome called Biggus Dickus.
(Involuntary laughter from a nearby GUARD surprises PILATE.)
PILATE
Silence! What is all this insolence? You will find yourself in
gladiator school vewwy quickly with wotten behaviour like that.
(The GUARD tries to stop giggling. PILATE turns away from him. He is angry.)
BRIAN
Can I go now sir ...
(The CENTURION strikes him.)
PILATE
Wait till Biggus hears of this!
(The GUARD immediately breaks up again. PILATE turns on him.)
PILATE
Wight! Centuwion ... take him away.
CENTURION
Oh sir, he only ...
PILATE
I want him fighting wabid wild animals within a week.
CENTURION
Yes, sir.
(He starts to drag out the wretched GUARD. BRIAN notices that little
attention is being paid to him.)
PILATE
I will not have my fwends widiculed by the common soldiewy.
(He walks slowly towards the other GUARDS.)
PILATE
Now ... anyone else feel like a little giggle when I mention my fwend ...
(He goes right up to one of the GUARDS.)
Biggus ... Dickus. He has a wife you know.
(The GUARDS tense up.)
Called Incontinentia.
(The GUARDS relax.)
Incontinentia Buttocks!
(The GUARDS fall about laughing. BRIAN takes advantage of the chaos to slip
away.)
PILATE
Silence! I've had enough of this wowdy wabble webel behaviour. Stop it!
Call yourselves Pwaetonian guards. Silence!
(But the GUARDS are all hysterical by now. PILATE notices BRIAN escaping.)
PILATE
You cwowd of cwacking-up cweeps. Seize him! Blow your noses and seize
him! Oh my bum.
The Market Haggling Scene
(After BRIAN has escaped the CENTURIONS, he runs off towards the crowded
market square. At one end of the market there is a speakers' corner, with
many strangely bearded and oddly dressed PROPHETS attempting to attract an
audience. The noisiest or the most controversial are clearly doing best at
attracting PASSERS-BY. A STRANGE FIGURE with a rasta hairstyle, covered in
mud, and with two severed hands on a pole waves wildly at the audience.)
BLOOD & THUNDER PROPHET
... and shall ride forth on a serpents' back, and the eyes shall be red
with the blood of living creatures, and the whore of Babylon shall rise
over the hill of excitement and throughout the land there will be a great
rubbing of parts ...
(Beside him, another PROPHET with red hair, none the less fierce, is trying to
attract some of the BLOOD & THUNDER PROPHET'S audience.)
FALSE PROPHET
And he shall bear a nine-bladed sword. Nine-bladed. Not two. Or five
or seven, but nine, which he shall wield on all wretched sinners and that
includes you sir, and the horns shall be on the head ...
(In front of each PROPHET is a ROMAN GUARD, clearly bored but there to break
up any trouble. BRIAN races into the market place. A cohort of ROMANS are
searching the square roughly turning over baskets and shaking down PASSERS-BY.
BRIAN appears near a rather dull little PROPHET, who is standing underneath
the high window that backs out of MATTHIAS' house, the revolutionary HQ.
BORING PROPHET
And there shall in that time be rumours of things going astray, and there
will be a great confusion as to where things really are, and nobody will
really know where lieth those little things with the sort of raffia work
base, that has an attachment they will not be there.
(Across the square the ROMANS appear, searching. BRIAN spots HARRY, the beard
salesman and moves towards his stall, an idea forming in his mind.)
(The BORING PROPHET drones on and on.)
BORING PROPHET
At this time a friend shall lose his friends's hammer and the young shall
not know where lieth the things possessed by their fathers that their
fathers put there only just the night before ...
(BRIAN runs up to HARRY the beard seller's stall and hurriedly grabs an
artificial beard.)
BRIAN
How much? Quick!
HARRY
What?
BRIAN
It's for the wife.
HARRY
Oh. Twenty shekels.
BRIAN
Right.
HARRY
What?
BRIAN
(as he puts down 20 shekels) There you are.
HARRY
Wait a moment.
BRIAN
What?
HARRY
We're supposed to haggle.
BRIAN
No, no, I've got to ...
HARRY
What do you mean, no?
BRIAN
I haven't time, I've got to get ...
HARRY
Give it back then.
BRIAN
No, no, I paid you.
HARRY
Burt! (BURT appears. He is very big.)
BURT
Yeah!
HARRY
This bloke won't haggle.
BURT
(looking around) Where are the guards?
BRIAN
Oh, all right ... I mean do we have to ...
HARRY
Now I want twenty for that ...
BRIAN
I gave you twenty.
HARRY
Now are you telling me that's not worth twenty shekels?
BRIAN
No.
HARRY
Feel the quality, that's none of yer goat.
BRIAN
Oh ... I'll give you nineteen then.
HARRY
No, no. Do it properly.
BRIAN
What?
HARRY
Haggle properly. This isn't worth nineteen.
BRIAN
You just said it was worth twenty.
HARRY
Burt!!
BRIAN
I'll give you ten.
HARRY
That's more like it. (outraged) Ten!? Are you trying to insult me?
Me? With a poor dying grandmother ... Ten!?!
BRIAN
Eleven.
HARRY
Now you're getting it. Eleven!?! Did I hear you right? Eleven? This
cost me twelve. You want to ruin me.
BRIAN
Seventeen.
HARRY
Seventeen!
BRIAN
Eighteen?
HARRY
No, no, no. You go to fourteen now.
BRIAN
Fourteen.
HARRY
Fourteen, are you joking?
BRIAN
That's what you told me to say.
(HARRY registers total despair.)
Tell me what to say. Please.
HARRY
Offer me fourteen.
BRIAN
I'll give you fourteen.
HARRY
(to onlookers) He's offering me fourteen for this!
BRIAN
Fifteen.
HARRY
Seventeen. My last word. I won't take a penny less, or strike me dead.
BRIAN
Sixteen.
HARRY
Done. (He grasps BRIAN'S hand and shakes it.) Nice to do business with
you. Tell you what, I'll throw in this as well. (He gives BRIAN a gourd.)
BRIAN
I don't want it but thanks.
HARRY
Burt!
BURT
(appearing rapidly) Yes?
BRIAN
All right! All right!! Thank you.
HARRY
Where's the sixteen then?
BRIAN
I already gave you twenty.
HARRY
Oh yes ... that's four I owe you then. (starts looking for change)
BRIAN
... It's all right, it doesn't matter.
HARRY
Hang on.
(Pause as HARRY can't find change. BRIAN sees a pair of prowling ROMANS.)
BRIAN
It's all right, that's four for the gourd -- that's fine!
HARRY
Four for the gourd. Four!!!! Look at it, that's worth ten if it's worth
a shekel.
BRIAN
You just gave it to me for nothing.
HARRY
Yes, but it's *worth* ten.
BRIAN
All right, all right.
HARRY
No, no, no. It's not worth ten. You're supposed to argue. "What? Ten
for that, you must be mad!"
(BRIAN pays ten, runs off with the gourd, and fixes the beard on his face.)
Ah, well there's one born every minute.
Always Look on the Bright Side of Life
Cheer up, Brian. You know what they say.
Some things in life are bad,
They can really make you mad.
Other things just make you swear and curse.
When you're chewing on life's gristle,
Don't grumble, give a whistle!
And this'll help things turn out for the best...
And...
(the music fades into the song)
..always look on the bright side of life!
(whistle)
Always look on the bright side of life...
If life seems jolly rotten,
There's something you've forgotten!
And that's to laugh and smile and dance and sing,
When you're feeling in the dumps,
Don't be silly chumps,
Just purse your lips and whistle -- that's the thing!
And... always look on the bright side of life...
(whistle)
Come on!
(other start to join in)
Always look on the bright side of life...
(whistle)
For life is quite absurd,
And death's the final word.
You must always face the curtain with a bow!
Forget about your sin -- give the audience a grin,
Enjoy it -- it's the last chance anyhow!
So always look on the bright side of death!
Just before you draw your terminal breath.
Life's a piece of shit,
When you look at it.
Life's a laugh and death's a joke, it's true,
You'll see it's all a show,
Keep 'em laughing as you go.
Just remember that the last laugh is on you!
And always look on the bright side of life...
(whistle)
Always look on the bright side of life
(whistle)
Superhumanly euphoric
Mrs. Conclusion (Chapman): Hullo, Mrs. Premise.
Mrs. Premise (Cleese): Hullo, Mrs. Conclusion.
Conclusion: Busy Day?
Premise: Busy? I just spent four hours burying the cat.
Conclusion: *Four hours* to bury a cat?
Premise: Yes - it wouldn't keep still.
Conclusion: Oh - it wasn't dead, then?
Premise: No, no - but it's not at all well, so as we were going to be on the
safe side.
Conclusion: Quite right - you don't want to come back from Sorrento to a dead
cat. It'd be so anticlimactic. Yes, kill it now, that's what I
say. We're going to have to have our budgie put down.
Premise: Really - is it very old?
Conclusion: No, we just don't like it. We're going to take it to the vet
tomorrow.
Premise: Tell me, how do they put budgies down, then?
Conclusion: Well, it's funny you should ask that, because I've just been
reading a great big book about how to put your budgie down, and
apparently you can either hit them with the book, or you can shoot
them just there, just above the beak.
Premise: Just there? Well, well, well. 'Course, Mrs Essence flushed hers
down the loo.
Conclusion: No, you shouldn't do that - no, that's dangerous. They *breed* in
the *sewers*! And soon you get huge, evil-smelling flocks of soiled
budgies flying out of peoples' lavatories and infringing their
personal freedom!
Announcer: Personal freedom infringed? Ring "Straighter Nazis" 01478, or
if closed, the Department of Skill and Industry. Ooh! Ooh!
Superhumanly euphoric
Landlady (Terry Jones): Hello, Mr and Mrs Johnson?
Mr Johnson (Eric Idle): Yes, that's right. Yes.
Landlady: Oh, come on in. Excuse me not shaking hands, I've just been
putting a bit of lard on the cat's boils. (Door closes)
Johnson: Thank you.
Landlady: Oh, you must be tired. It's a long way from Coventry, isn't it?
Johnson: Well, we usually reckon on five and a half hours and it took us six
hours and 53 minutes, with the 25 minute stop at Frampton Cottrell to
stretch our legs; and we had to wait half an hour to get onto the M5
at Droitwich.
Landlady: Really?
Johnson: Then there was a three mile queue just before Bridgewater on the A38.
We usually come round on the B3339, you see, just before Bridgewater.
Landlady: Yeah. Really?
Johnson: We decided to risk it 'cause they always say they're going to widen
it there. Yes, well just by the intersection there where the A372
joins up. There's plenty of room to widen it there, there's only
grass verges. They could get another six feet, knock down that
hospital. Then we took the coast road through Williton - we got all
the Taunton traffic on the A358 from Crowcombe and Stogumber.
Landlady: Well you must be dying for a cup of tea.
Johnson: Well, wouldn't say no, long as it's warm and wet.
Landlady: Well come on in the lounge, I'm just going to serve afternoon
tea.
Johnson: Very nice.
Landlady: Come on in, Mr and Mrs Johnson and meet Mr and Mrs Phillips.
Mr Phillips (Graham Chapman): Good afternoon.
Johnson: Good afternoon.
Landlady: It's their third time here; we can't keep you away, can we?
And over there is Mr Hilter.
(In the corner are three German generals in full Nazi uniform, poring over a
map.)
Hilter (Cleese with heavy German accent): Ach. Ha! Gut time, er, gut afternoon.
Landlady: Oho, planning a little excursion, eh, Mr Hilter?
Hilter: Ja, ja, ve haff a little... (to Palin) was ist Abweise bewegen?
Bimmler (Michael Palin, also with German accent): Hiking.
Hilter: Ah yes, ve make a little *hike* for Bideford.
Johnson: Ah yes. Well, you'll want the A39. Oh, no, you've got the wrong map
there. This is Stalingrad. You want the Ilfracombe and Barnstaple
section.
Hilter: Ah! Stalingrad! Ha ha ha, Heinri...Reginald, you have the wrong map
here you silly old leg-before-vicket English person.
Bimmler: I'm sorry mein Fuhrer, mein (cough) mein Dickie old chum.
Landlady: Oh, lucky Mr Johnson pointed that out. You wouldn't have had much
fun in Stalingrad, would you? Ha ha.
(stony silence)
I said, you wouldn't have had much fun in Stalingrad, would you?
Hilter: Not much fun in Stalingrad, no.
Landlady: Oh I'm sorry. I didn't introduce you. This is Ron. Ron Vibbentrop.
Johnson: Oh, not Von Ribbentrop, eh?
Vibbentrop (Graham Chapman, with German Accent): Nein! Nein! Oh. Ha ha.
Different other chap. I in Somerset am being born. Von Ribbentrop is born
Gotterdammerstrasse 46, Dusseldorf Vest 8.....so they say!
Landlady: And this is the quiet one, Heinrich Bimmler.
Bimmler: Pleased to meet you, squire. I also am not of Minehead being born
but I in your Peterborough Lincolnshire was given birth to. But am
staying in Peterborough Lincolnshire house all time during vor, due
to jolly old running sores, and vos unable to go in the streets or to
go visit football matches or go to Nuremburg. Ha ha. Am retired
vindow cleaner and pacifist, without doing war crimes. Oh...and am
glad England vin Vorld Cup. Bobby Charlton. Martin Peters. And
eating I am lots of chips and fish and hole in the toads and Dundee
cakes on Piccadilly Line, don't you know old chap, vot! And I vos
head of Gestapo for ten years.
(Hilter elbows him in the ribs)
Ah! Five years!
(Hilter elbows him again, harder)
Nein! No! Oh. NOT head of Gestapo AT ALL! I was not, I make joke!
(laughs)
Landlady: Oh, Mr Bimmler. You do have us on! (Telephone rings) Oh excuse me.
I'd better get that.
Johnson: How long are you down here for, Mr Hilter, just the fortnight?
Hilter: Vot you ask that for, are you a spy? Get on against the wall,
Britischer Pig, you are going to die!
Bimmler: Take it easy, Dickie old chum!
Vibbentrop: He's a bit on edge, Mr Johnson, he hasn't slept since 1945.
Hilter: Shut your cake-hole, you Nazi!
Vibbentrop: Cool it, Fuhrer cat!
Bimmler: Ha ha, the fun we have!
Johnson: Haven't I seen you on the television?
Hilter, Vibbentrop, Bimmler: (hastily) Nicht. Nein. No.
Johnson: Simon Dee show, or was it Frosty?
Hilter, Vibbentrop, Bimmler: Nein. No.
Landlady: Telephone, Mr Hilter. It's Mr McGoering from the Bell and
Compasses. He says he's found a place where you can hire bombers by
the hour...?
Hilter: If he opens his big mouth again, it's Lapschig time!
Bimmler: Shut up! Ha ha, hire bombers! He's a joker, that Scottish person.
Vibbentrop: Good old Norman!
Landlady (to Johnson): He's on the phone the whole time now.
Johnson: In business, is he?
Bimmler: Soon, baby!
Landlady: Of course it's his big day Thursday. They've been planning it for
months.
Johnson: What's happening Thursday then?
Landlady: Well it's the North Minehead bye-election. Mr Hilter's standing as
the National Bocialist. He's got wonderful plans for Minehead!
Johnson: Like what?
Landlady: Well, for a start he wants to annex Poland.
Johnson: North Minehead's Conservative, isn't it?
Landlady: Well, yes, he gets a lot of people at his rallies.
(Short scene cut: huge crowds outside going "Sieg Heil. Sieg Heil. Sieg Heil.")
Hilter: I am not a racialist, but...and dis is a big but...the National
Bocialist party says that das (stream of German).
Bimmler: Mr Hitler (Hilter slaps him)
...Hilter says historically Taunton is a part of Minehead already!
Hilter: Und der Minehead ist nicht die letze (stream of German)...in die
Welt!
Crowd: Sieg Heil.
( Cut to interviews on the street: )
Yokel (Jones): Oi don't loike the sound of these 'ere Boncentration Bamps.
Woman (Idle): Well, I gave him my baby to kiss, and he bit it in the head!
Upper class (Cleese): Well, I think he'd do a lot of good to the Stock
Exchange.
Gumby (Palin): I THINK HE'S GOT BEAUTIFUL LEGS!
Conservative (Chapman): (droning) Well... well... as the Conservative
candidate I just drone on and on and on and on without
letting anyone else get a word in edgeways, until I
start to froth at the mouth and fall over backwards.
Ooo-aaahhh. (THUD)
Superhumanly euphoric
Customer: Good Morning.
Owner: Good morning, Sir. Welcome to the National Cheese Emporium!
Customer: Ah, thank you, my good man.
Owner: What can I do for you, Sir?
C: Well, I was, uh, sitting in the public library on Thurmon Street just now,
skimming through "Rogue Herrys" by Hugh Walpole, and I suddenly came over
all peckish.
O: Peckish, sir?
C: Esuriant.
O: Eh?
C: 'Ee, Ah wor all 'ungry-laake!
O: Ah, hungry!
C: In a nutshell. And I thought to myself, "a little fermented curd will do
the trick," so, I curtailed my Walpoling activites, sallied forth, and
infiltrated your place of purveyance to negotiate the vending of some cheesy
comestibles!
O: Come again?
C: I want to buy some cheese.
O: Oh, I thought you were complaining about the bazouki player!
C: Oh, heaven forbid: I am one who delights in all manifestations of the
Terpsichorean muse!
O: Sorry?
C: 'Ooo, Ah lahk a nice tuune, 'yer forced too!
O: So he can go on playing, can he?
C: Most certainly! Now then, some cheese please, my good man.
O: (lustily) Certainly, sir. What would you like?
C: Well, eh, how about a little red Leicester.
O: I'm, a-fraid we're fresh out of red Leicester, sir.
C: Oh, never mind, how are you on Tilsit?
O: I'm afraid we never have that at the end of the week, sir, we get it
fresh on Monday.
C: Tish tish. No matter. Well, stout yeoman, four ounces of Caerphilly, if
you please.
O: Ah! It's beeeen on order, sir, for two weeks. Was expecting it this
morning.
C: 'T's Not my lucky day, is it? Aah, Bel Paese?
O: Sorry, sir.
C: Red Windsor?
O: Normally, sir, yes. Today the van broke down.
C: Ah. Stilton?
O: Sorry.
C: Ementhal? Gruyere?
O: No.
C: Any Norweigan Jarlsburg, per chance.
O: No.
C: Lipta?
O: No.
C: Lancashire?
O: No.
C: White Stilton?
O: No.
C: Danish Brew?
O: No.
C: Double Goucester?
O: <pause> No.
C: Cheshire?
O: No.
C: Dorset Bluveny?
O: No.
C: Brie, Roquefort, Pol le Veq, Port Salut, Savoy Aire, Saint Paulin, Carrier
de lest, Bres Bleu, Bruson?
O: No.
C: Camenbert, perhaps?
O: Ah! We have Camenbert, yessir.
C: (suprised) You do! Excellent.
: Yessir. It's..ah,.....it's a bit runny...
C: Oh, I like it runny.
O: Well,.. It's very runny, actually, sir.
C: No matter. Fetch hither the fromage de la Belle France! Mmmwah!
O: I...think it's a bit runnier than you'll like it, sir.
C: I don't care how fucking runny it is. Hand it over with all speed.
O: Oooooooooohhh........! <pause>
C: What now?
O: The cat's eaten it.
C: <pause> Has he.
O: She, sir.
(pause)
C: Gouda?
O: No.
C: Edam?
O: No.
C: Case Ness?
O: No.
C: Smoked Austrian?
O: No.
C: Japanese Sage Darby?
O: No, sir.
C: You...do *have* some cheese, don't you?
O: (brightly) Of course, sir. It's a cheese shop, sir. We've got--
C: No no... don't tell me. I'm keen to guess.
O: Fair enough.
C: Uuuuuh, Wensleydale.
O: Yes?
C: Ah, well, I'll have some of that!
O: Oh! I thought you were talking to me, sir.
Mister Wensleydale, that's my name.
(pause)
C: Greek Feta?
O: Uh, not as such.
C: Uuh, Gorgonzola?
O: no
C: Parmesan,
O: no
C: Mozarella,
O: no
C: Paper Cramer,
O: no
C: Danish Bimbo,
O: no
C: Czech sheep's milk,
O: no
C: Venezuelan Beaver Cheese?
O: Not *today*, sir, no.
(pause)
C: Aah, how about Cheddar?
O: Well, we don't get much call for it around here, sir.
C: Not much ca-- It's the single most popular cheese in the world!
O: Not 'round here, sir.
C: <slight pause> and what IS the most popular cheese 'round hyah?
O: 'Illchester, sir.
C: IS it.
O: Oh, yes, it's staggeringly popular in this manusquire.
C: Is it.
O: It's our number one best seller, sir!
C: I see. Uuh...'Illchester, eh?
O: Right, sir.
C: All right. Okay.
'Have you got any?' he asked, expecting the answer 'no'.
O: I'll have a look, sir...
nnnnnnnnnnnnnnnno.
C: It's not much of a cheese shop, is it?
O: Finest in the district!
C: (annoyed) Explain the logic underlying that conclusion, please.
O: Well, it's so clean, sir!
C: It's certainly uncontaminated by cheese....
O: (brightly) You haven't asked me about Limburger, sir.
C: Would it be worth it?
O: Could be....
C: Have you --SHUT THAT BLOODY BAZOUKI OFF!
O: Told you sir....
C: (slowly) Have you got any Limburger?
O: No.
C: Figures.
Predictable, really I suppose. It was an act of purest optimism to have
posed the question in the first place. Tell me:
O: Yessir?
C: (deliberately) Have you in fact got any cheese here at all.
O: Yes,sir.
C: Really?
(pause)
O: No. Not really, sir.
C: You haven't.
O: Nosir. Not a scrap. I was deliberately wasting your time,sir.
C: Well I'm sorry, but I'm going to have to shoot you.
O: Right-0, sir.
The customer takes out a gun and shoots the owner.
C: What a *senseless* waste of human life.
H.B. Kellick
little uncalled for though since it WAS Saint who started the whole
thing anyways aka not like I care what he thinks of me anyways aka
Monkeys? WHERE! I love Monkeys! Here mr. monkey have some Spam, I've
stored away in my makeshift cupboard away from Sir James's searching
nose.aka Join the Very Silly Party!
--
Sir Troll / Trollus Of Borg * hbk...@ultb.isc.rit.edu
President of a.f.m-p.s * "I am the Troll that sometimes says Ni!!!
The newsgroup that never was * And sometimes sings about We!" - Me
Leader of the Very Silly Party* "I'll be mellow when I'm dead!" -Weird Al
H.B. Kellick
O.K., now something IS amiss. This is what an actual Python post is?
Just rehashing of the same old stuff. Hmmmm, a.f.m-p.o may not be such a
bad idea.
Reconsidering the newsgroup, until then no matter what certain unsaintly
Saints think or do, I'm still posting and he can shove that monkey up
his own #@!#$.
Sir Troll aka OK Darkwolf, I think I will take you up on that offer. aka
I am officially out of any war for a.f.m-p and hope that certain CIC
Davids and Leader of Cavalry Darkwolf's decide to take it to the proper
newsgroup. aka And just as I was beggining to think that Saint isn't a
total Jerk because he complained about the consistently overused jokes
(meaning we need new jokes, but the posts should stay. Well that's what
I say at least. I'm sure Satan oops Saint wouldn't agree though) and
told us to basically calm down or get out.
David Warnick
an (non) ignorant, (non) freshman, newbie (non-troll), I must say
I am grateful that you finally responded to my request to show us
how it OUGHT to be done. Yes, I see now. It's good to know that
one *doesn't* need an original sense of humor around here. Just
books and the ability to type, apparently.
peccadilla
somehow...scrolling thru allllllll these loverly scriptz iz NOT phune on
2400 baud. call me strange if u must. but...somehow...anyone else at iu
wanna help me to get a.f.m-p.o? argh......i'm going to kill someone or
somethine...
peccadilla aka actually i love saint. more than jester, more n' ian.
Jennifer S Merritt
once by Saint on this newsgroup. I also must admit I saved more than half of
them. I think it would be just dandy if we could keep being silly, while
people also posted scripts, hopefully 2 or 3 at a time so as to avoid massive
flooding of one's news (70 articles in one day!!). But that's just my own
compromise opinion, I don't expect anyone to give an inch now that Saint & Sir
Troll have started playing dirty. And Saint, if you didn't want the silliness
to take over here, why didn't you post scripts earlier? Before today I had
seen maybe three authentic scripts since I'd subscribed.
Jen the Wench aka Troll's best girlie by his side...
Liam T. Yore
(Jennifer S Merritt) wrote:
Yeah, Saint, I saved the scripts, too (they are good to have on line) but I
have _All the Words_, and I imagine most of the people on this group do
(Pantheon Press, $14.00 -- 2 vol) so you just saved me some typing, but
this almost seems like borderline harassment...
I don't know what has been flowing on email, but it sounds as if it's been
none too pleasant. There's no call for that, there is absolutely no
justification for harassment. Troll, Dave the Bruce, and co. have as much
right to this netspace as you. This is public domain. This is not *your*
personal playground either, just because you were here first.
Personally, I think you are acting like a spoiled child who is pissed off
because the game isn't going his way, so now you're going to play dirty.
If the "Old Guard" don't like the turn the group's taken, where are they?
Where are the thirty posts saying "Yeah, we're sick of it, too?" Maybe
they've wandered off, but we still have one of the busiest groups on the
internet, and I don't really see any need for a change.
Troll, I hope you dropped a note to his sysadmin. Let's stick around just
to piss Saint off.
Sir Liam the holier-than-thou
**************************************************************************
Liam T. Yore * "Fury spat out of his eyes when he told
Northwestern University * of things he hated; great glows of joy
Medical School * replaced this when he suddenly got happy;
lty...@merle.acns.nwu.edu * every muscle twitched to live and go."
* -- Jack Kerouac
**************************************************************************
H.B. Kellick
>In article <CJHL9...@usenet.ucs.indiana.edu> meds...@silver.ucs.indiana.edu (peccadilla) writes:
>>ANYONE _ELSE_ PISSED OFF BY SAINT YET??
>>somehow...scrolling thru allllllll these loverly scriptz iz NOT phune on
>>2400 baud. call me strange if u must. but...somehow...anyone else at iu
>>wanna help me to get a.f.m-p.o? argh......i'm going to kill someone or
>>somethine...
>>peccadilla aka actually i love saint. more than jester, more n' ian.
>I must admit I wasn't too happy at the sheer volume of scripts posted at
>once by Saint on this newsgroup. I also must admit I saved more than half of
>them. I think it would be just dandy if we could keep being silly, while
>people also posted scripts, hopefully 2 or 3 at a time so as to avoid massive
>flooding of one's news (70 articles in one day!!). But that's just my own
>compromise opinion, I don't expect anyone to give an inch now that Saint & Sir
^^^^^
My Dear Jen, what are you talking about? I Have not played dirty
(Jen mumbles something about Nudge Nudge) well perhaps I have but not
in the aboved mention fashion. Didn't you see the post where I tried to
say O.K., we can all stay in this group. I tried to compromise me and
his Saintship changed my words so completely it wasn't funny. I TRIED to
compromise and keep a.f.m-p as is, but someone decided to throw me out.
Well fine, he can have his newsgroup, all I warned was that in the
longrun, this newsgroup would get so unpopulated, while the new one
should work decently well.
And Saint, if you didn't want the silliness
>to take over here, why didn't you post scripts earlier? Before today I had
>seen maybe three authentic scripts since I'd subscribed.
>Jen the Wench aka Troll's best girlie by his side...
Sir Troll aka "Oooooooohhhhh, I'm a Lumberjack and..."
Old man at side" Stop it! Stop it! There will be no singing here. It is
silly and this is not a silly group"
Sir Troll ak "Oh, sorry"
--
Sir Troll / Trollus Of Borg * hbk...@ultb.isc.rit.edu
Co-Founder of a.f.m-p.o...The * "I am the Troll that sometimes says Ni!!!
newsgroup for original fans * And sometimes sings about We!" - Me
Sir DarkWolf
Python post, and to think that we wasted band width before. Will someone
please tell this idiot what ftp is for. Monty python newsgroup or not, you
do not post half the contents of an ftp site to any newsgroup. And he has
the nerve to complain about us violating netiquette!!
>
>
> ======================================================
>| I'm giving this newsgroup back to the proper people! |
>| Saint |
>| sa...@ctron.com Grand Old Sage of |
>| Alt.Fan.Monty-Python |
> ======================================================
> ... and all you ignorant, arrogant little newbie trolls
> can suck my Semprini!
nice .sig
Are you sure you're not a newbie yourself, you're sure acting like one.
What do you mean 'giving it back to the proper people', where does it say that
YOU own this newsgroup, Old Guard or not, everyone has the same right to post,
from the origional creator to the newest newbie, there is *NO SUCH THING* as
usenet senority.
For your information (just for the record since I was included in this guys
origional flame) I am a *senior* computer science major and have been on the
internet since before this newsgroup ever existed. Just because I didn't
belong to this actual newsgroup till 5 months ago doesn't mean that I'm a
newbie to usenet. And you have the gall to complain about netiquette, saying
that we're not following the origional rules of this newsgroup. Well my little
saint (saint? HA!) there are no such thing as official rules or guidlines as
to whats supposed to be in a certain newsgroup except for the title and
description (for alternative newsgroups anyway, yes mainstream ones have
charters, but this isn't a mainstream group). For your information the
official description for this newsgroup is...
electronic fan club for those wacky Brits
Now please tell me where that makes a distinction as to discussing strictly
python scripts, movies, songs, ect. and not posting origional humor along
a monty-python theme. Would you care to define fan club for us all, since you
obviously have a different definition of it than the rest of the posting
a.f.m-p world.
Sir DarkWolf aka Stick *THAT* in your Semprini and suck it yourself!!!
--
*************Grand Master of the Cavalry*************
* Sir DarkWolf * The dirty grey knight *
* drk...@wam.umd.edu * with blue speckles. *
***********Of Wolf and Man ---- Metallica************