Original subtitles

Is this fucking thing on?

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.

Before I begin, there is a favor 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.

But indeed, that was excellent abuse.

And it will certainly save a lot of time later on.

New York, 1976.

The city center theater.

Monty Python's Flying Circus is appearing.

We are in mid-sketch.

I am playing Oscar Wilde.

My congratulations, Wilde.

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 McNeil 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.

You must forgive me, Wilde, but I must get back up the palace.

Wilde is desperate. It's unheard of. The Prince of Wales leaving with a smile on

his face that had not been put there by Oscar Wilde. He blurts, Your Majesty,

you are like a big jam donut with cream on top.

I beg your pardon?

It was one of Whistler. I didn't say that. You did, Jan.

You did.

I meant that, like a donut, your arrival, Your Majesty, gives us

pleasure, and your departure only makes us hungry for more.

Your Majesty is like a stream of bats' piss.

I beg your pardon? It was one of Wilde's. One of Wilde's.

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?

It's at moments like this when one thinks, oh fuck it, does it really

matter? 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 the 7th of February during a rather botched

-up 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

rather 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 in 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 and not being allowed to

sit next to Lottie, the Czechoslovakian 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? Sorry, dear, I'm busy.

Hey, you, that sack's already got two legs in it.

Walter, dear, we were just out shopping and I thought that Graham might like...

Look, dear, can't you come back later?

Has anyone found that head yet?

Hey, 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 going to do with a head?

Well, dear, perhaps we'll go and get your teeth.

What? Oh, yes, um, 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 fall off the back of the 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 WAPS as we called it, seemed to have dragged on endlessly.

The smell of freshly mown grass wafted over from a far-off haze 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.

We always beat Harrow anyway.

Why bother?

Oh, a Chapman, sir. May I clean your teeth tonight, oh please?

Why don't you bugger off, Shagspot?

Thank you, sir.

Plucky little squit, that young Macmillan. Should go far.

In a few days, I would be a niece, soaking up the sun at the side of my

father's pool while Jenkins hovered by with a tray of vodka teenies.

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?

It's called Claudius the God by Robert Graves, a fine historical reconstruction

of the life of Claudius the Republican Roman Emperor.

thought of in its time as a pitiful fool, though the reign Mr. Graves

describes is far from folly. Is it?

Anyway,

finish your tea. We ought to go and get the haddock for Mrs. Richards.

There's plenty of time for that later on.

Thraxton's doesn't close till five. But they're bound to be out of haddock by

then. We'll get halibut.

Mrs. Richards 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 O3.

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 he's been reading. You can't learn everything out

of books, my lad.

There's no argument. It's a fact. Stop it, Graham.

No, come on. We'll go and get the fish. No, we won't. We'll stay here.

I think we should go and get the fish.

That ship over there is bringing wood from Norway.

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 Hartford.

The manufacture of continuous lengths, however, was... Oh, the Tates. Wasn't

their youngest walking about with that Barry Maskell?

No.

This process was developed by the stationer's messrs H&S Faudrinier. It

was her, you remember.

She was the one that got all the spots at Secretarial College.

Quiet, Edith.

The four Driniers were assisted in this by Mr. Brian Donkin, an inventor and

engineer. Donkin?

Wasn't his step-uncle, Stephanie, a wholesale poultry in Peatling Parlor?

No! Yes, he was. It was their youngest that moved downstairs next door to the

chemist in Wimbledon, nearly opposite the Gantlers.

Shut up!

Do you realize 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 had...

All right, we'll go and get your bloody flaming bloody haddock.

The 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. What book?

I, Biggles by Captain W.E. Graves. Captain, eh?

That sounds better.

Everything okay, Skipper? Tell you what, old man.

Having a bit of trouble with this one. How could you just pop your...

Hamdam, I've made 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.

Oh, sure am I.

What about me?

Oh, fuck off, Ginger!

To heck with a 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 the 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 fucker wolf 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.

Also, the use of zoological terminology in their navigational exchange with one

another. Old bison, old tapir, and even old guillemot clearly indicates the

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 ballyawful 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?

Oh, it's the Interpretation of Dreams by Sigmund Freud. Probably his most

original work.

in which he discovered a way of exploring the unconscious and found that

neurotic symptoms are like dreams in that they are a product of conflict and

compromise between the conscious and unconscious states. He was able to... Is

it?

What's this?

Sucking at the mother's breast is the starting point for the whole sexual

life?

The unmatched hotel tribe of every later sexual satisfaction?

I've got the headache.

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 of navigation, you see. Longitude and latitude, that sort of

thing. Ah, well, that's enough of that.

Let's get back to Mrs.

Richards 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.

Stuffing snails into the gatepost with Annette Hoy.

The hen-stealing nuns.

Pigshit Freeman.

Miss Chamberlain's three consecutive head girls pregnant.

My questions about ejaculation to a biology master.

Albert the Groundman.

Me holding hands with Mark Collins in a math class, painting John Wilder black,

Bruno's Eskimo nail, Monsieur de Beauvoir, 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 large and fictitious memories can ferret for their

filth in other people's autobiographies.

In the spring of 1960 Splunge, John Cleese and Graham Chapman thought they

might like to do another television programme.

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.

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.

Jay Cleaves. Look, you Welsh git, we discarded that about two hours ago.

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 and on about it in such a high-pitched voice?

John Cleese guffaws like a barrister, 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 him?

Characteristic of his temperament, T. Jones calms down instantly, having

vented his spleen on inanimate objects.

I still like our stretching time.

M. Palin.

No, I've gone off that a bit. I prefer sex and violence.

But I do think Terry's got a point about a horse, a bucket and a spoon.

Oh, sorry.

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 I do think 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 and flat, you wonder why anyone chose it as a location for

anything.

The magnificence of St. John's, the noteworthy splendor of Trinity, the

sheer pauntliness of the backs, 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?

Stop everybody stop right If I find any more of you bloody idiots heating up

ether over an open flame, 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.

Well, Chapman, let's see.

Oh, now, do you play rugby?

I play for Melton Moby Rugby Football Club, 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.

What? Just a formality. Your A-level results.

You're taking three A levels. Oh, yes.

Will you pass physics?

No. Why not?

Well, I'm not sure.

Not sure?

That means you're in doubt.

Well, no.

Do you mean yes?

Yes.

So, a pass may be possible, eh?

Yes, possible.

Probable, even.

Well, I... 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?

Nice to point out to those of you who haven't noticed, and God knows 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.

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?

I'm most impressed by the whole thing.

It's your results.

What

does

it say?

It says, it says... Three

passes. That means you win, doesn't it?

Well done, Graham.

I had been accepted by Emanuel College.

I'd 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 because it meant that if anyone said anything I

didn't understand, I could puff on it and seem incredibly 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.

Heaven.

Right. Well, it's a sensitive organ.

What do you mean?

Well... Well, it's about four and a half inches long, and it's very sensitive.

Bald! 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.

Your answer shows not only a lack of anatomical knowledge, but a complete

social ignorance.

You've... Obviously, never slept with a woman.

Not that bit.

I'm 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's a short tutorial.

In my first year at Cambridge, I tried to join the Footlights Club, realizing

that the only reason I'd gone there in the first place was that I'd seen a

television version of a Footlights annual review.

I impersonated a carrot and a man with iron fingertips being pulled off stage

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 we were able to wear black taffy...

March 1964.

The new biochemistry and physiology block was being opened by Her Majesty

the Queen Mother.

At the time, being Secretary of the Students' Union, I was invited to join

Her Majesty for tea with other representatives of the student body

after her tour of the new premises.

I was very 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.

Jazz!

During tea, I explained to Her Majesty that I had the offer of going to New

Zealand as a member of the cast 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-in-England

type, and after a brief groan 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.

She was getting a lot of attention from the lads, but 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

doggy 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.

That's better.

I liked the experience, but after about nine months or so, it began to pall, and

I felt I would rather spend more time in the bar drinking with the lads.

This is hardly even partly true in retrospect.

It's just that I definitely do 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 taxi cab... tube train or bus i looked at each

passerby 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

He says he's on tour with something called Cambridge Circus. A review.

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 a little more broad-minded about

myself and immediately after qualifying i gave up edson and became a raging poof

but no minzy a butch one with a pipe

ground

taxes here for the bbc

Thank you very much indeed.

Tonight, class.

Some people say it's disappearing, but if modern advertising is the...

Action!

Come in.

Ah, come in, Thompson. Nice to see you.

Time to have a little chat.

Good.

Don't sit on the floor, Thompson. Sit on the chair.

Good. Well, how are you, Thompson?

Splendid. You look well.

I was talking this morning to, uh, to Mr. Evans, Iggy, about your Latin verse.

A bit shaky. The prose is all right, but verse is weak. Yes, sir. We ought to do

something about it, you know. It's very important.

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. Very good.

Hello, hello.

Super show tonight. Super. Look, I can't stop. I've got a flight to catch.

I was thinking you boys ought to write a film script. It'll 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.

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 about two weeks to get acclimatized, and I'm

starting to throw up 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.

Do you think we should? I mean, David Frost and all that, he has paid us,

Grail. Yes, I suppose you're right.

Yes, well I'll probably be all right tomorrow.

Yes. Yes, right. That's fine. Yes. We'll start tomorrow 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 in the Sun Sunning itself and

shout a few lines it right fine great

Great. You mind if we don't start till the evening, actually? I promised I'd

take Connie to Calabasas tomorrow, and she's only got a few more days here. A

bit awkward to get out of it now, you know? Damn.

Oh, that's fine by me. We have done the synopsis for the film. I mean, I

wouldn't mind taking a bit of time off. So we'll start on Friday, yes?

Yes, right.

Um,

it'll 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. 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 think. That brings us to Monday.

We'll start on Monday. No, Monday and Tuesday are Connie's last two days. I'd

like to see her off at the airport 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. Oh, I've got to fly. Bye.

Bring, bring.

Bring, bring.

Hello? Who was that?

Oh, it was one of the painters. It sounded like one of the painters.

Well,

yes, it probably did a bit.

No, no, you just don't understand London, Mother. This is not like

Leicester. For a whole year, I'd lived in terror, an almost Thorpian terror 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, no, great. You don't understand.

I'm just very surprised, because ever since I've known you, you've played

rugby a lot, you drank a lot of beer, you smoked a pipe, you wore a tweed suit

and brogues, and this is not a standard gay profile.

The other extraordinary action 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, and that it

was quite fun, and we actually loved each other. It wasn't at all naughty.

Coming! Trouble at the mill?

Oh, no.

What sort of trouble? One of the crossbeams gone out askew on the

treadle. Pardon?

One of the crossbeams gone out askew on the treadle.

I don't understand what you're saying.

One of the crossbeams has gone out askew on the treadle.

What on earth does that mean?

I don't know. Mr. Wentworth just told me to come in here and say that there was

trouble at the mill, that's all. 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.

He 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, A.D. 59, Chapter 1.

In which Paul castigated the Antipodeans, empty showing of holiness,

of fornicators and abusers of mankind, of poverty and tolerance, exhorteth 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 incorruptible 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 realize 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 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.

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 could properly look up.

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.

Mr Chapman, two minutes to act two, Mr Chapman.

Full of gin and the feeling of superiority over mortals, which commonly

afflicts the adulated, I had reached my zenith in a naughty and to this day

illegal act on 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 oralize 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.

our faces in all sorts of places and play till we're blown away.

What kind of a fellow is Martin Python, by the way? Um, he's black.

Black and he's homosexual.

That's about all you can say about him, really. He's a pretty easy person to sum

up.

Good. Greece, there's no one to go to bed with. Where are all the young men

around here? This is absolutely dreadful.

Oh,

all right.

What's it like being a film star I'm not just

It's just an extra.

Just an extra? Yes.

It's the crown and this that probably... Yeah, I was looking for a Graham thing.

Ah, yes. He's around somewhere. Is he?

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 order lies.

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.

We'll see you next time.

Los Angeles.

Hi. Oh, 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.

There. You enjoying that?

Oh, yeah. Do you feel that?

I feel that.

Let's just get right in there.

Bye,

Graham. Oh, and do say hello to Monty for me. Tell him...

That was fun.

Zoom.

Um, excuse me.

Is 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 to. I don't mind if it's a local call.

Do that to me.

If it's an order, old guillemot.

Big boy.

Touch me here.

Oh, my God.

Do it to me there. Right there. Right there.

Oh, my God.

Yes.

Do that to me.

Big boy.

Oh, my God.

Oh, yeah.

Yes.

Oh, my God.

You, in fact.

were more than... Than drunk on one occasion. You were, in fact, an

alcoholic, were you? Yes, I did a lot of drinking, a great deal, a very great

deal indeed, Michael, yes.

You were an alcoholic?

Safely so, yes.

I did do a very great deal.

And how much at your peak, so to speak, how much 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... Well, I don't know, really.

To be honest with 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.

Yes, I was going to say, how difficult was it?

Actually, once the decision had been made, once I'd decided to stop, it was

easy, except for the three days of unpleasantness.

I'll get on with it.

Braham, are you alright?

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'll just leave.

Later. Get up.

You'll be fine.

Vichy water?

No. Yes. Yes.

There.

Dave. Dave.

Curtains. Sorry.

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 now, any moment now. We'll be ready. He just made it to the

rope.

Colin moves to the middle of the ring there. He's looking for an opening.

Going for the handhold.

He's got it. Into the head squeeze.

Favorite move of Colin's in the opening stage.

Flying there.

Double overhead nostril. Should be able to twist out of this when he does, but

he's looking pretty groggy.

He's caught himself by surprise.

Call himself out with that one.

A strawberry whip.

A vanilla whip.

Chocolate whip.

There it is. The hot loves.

Colin's most famous whip. There it is.

He's just a little lucky there.

Double easy gourmet.

There it is. Colin's most famous hold. The one leg over shoulder Jerry Ford.

He's called himself out with two forearms presses.

And Colin's in real trouble.

And Colin did not like that one little bit.

All right.

Double overhead back kick. And Colin must be pretty pleased with himself.

He did a lovely move there. He's caught himself by surprise with a lovely move

there. And into the bus crayfish. No, it's a crawfish.

And Colin bit himself on purpose there, and he has been given a public warning

by the ref.

He's looking pretty grumpy.

And that is it. Colin Barber Harris has knocked himself out. And so he is the

winner. And he goes on next week and leaves 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 that you may not have damaged your liver

permanently. We'll phase out the hemineverin and valium gradually.

And you can take an Amstam 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?

Yeah!

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.

I bought two stations.

I bought Marylebone from you last time you landed on Graham's hotel in the old

Kent Road. I'll give you the waterworks. I don't want it. Perhaps Graham does.

Graham, do you want the waterworks?

No, I'll buy the camellopard.

What? It's a camel that looked like a leopard. A giraffe.

He's gone again.

Oh, Graham.

It's Christmas in heaven.

Do you know, last time I was in Paris, I really did ring Jean-Paul Sartre, and

Simon de Beauvoir answered the phone and said that he was out distributing

leaflets. Or was that a sketch?

Do I talk here? No, Graham, that's the table lamp. The microphone's on your

right. Right.

Take 59.

You bastards, we've been planning this for months.

Tough titty for you, free face.

The raid backfires. Brian is captured and all the rest are killed.

Brian, beaten, bruised and bleeding, is thrown into Pilot's darkest, stinking

dungeon.

Oh, you lucky bastard.

Brian is on the run from the Romans, and to avoid capture, pretends to be a

lobster. Sorry, Graham, to stop you. We had a rogue lobster in there. Oh, I'm

sorry, sir.

Are you ready?

Brian Traylor, take 60.

Brian is on the run from the Romans, and to avoid lobster, captures... I'm sorry,

we should 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...

I'll start it again. Sorry. Sorry.

Let's move on.

Let's make it clean.

Brian seizes the opportunity to escape 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, grabbing her... What?

Is it? Yes, all of it, I'm afraid.

Well, even this bit here. Yes, the boys love the lobster idea, so they're going

to reshoot that bit.

Oh, I know.

OK, next bit, Graham, please.

Take 62.

You're fucking nicked, me old beauty!

Right. Brian is arrested 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 is sentenced to be

crucified.

Yes, I think that's a little too light. Well, what shall I try? No problem.

We'll use the tape before.

First, Graham will be able to make all that work. Thanks for coming in. That's

it, is it? I mean, that really is it? Yes, that's definitely it, if you want

to collect your £30 on the way out.

Yeah, £30.

Yes, well, uh... That was lead, so I believe that probably might

be a little, um... Yes, look, it's not a big-budget movie, you know.

I tell you what, we'll have a whip round and see what news change we've got, and

we should be able to give you another two pounds. Ah, yes.

Well, all right.

Yes.

Will you please welcome hard-working mother-of-one, Graham Chapman.

Even though you go back telling people who haven't asked that you're gay.

Yes

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.

Cinturón de seguridad.

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 straight away to open our door.

It's account number 2248.

Thank you, thank you.

Now grit the teeth and whet the microtome.

If tea party there be, let cucumber be slivered to the thinnest with precision

and pressed to its finest slices of good bread.

Graham, isn't that George Lazenby over there, seen enjoying a can of specially

imported Foster's lager?

What? You mean behind Christopher Isherwood and Georgia Brown, seen there

enjoying a joke with Ian LaFrennais?

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 Aguta, Susan George, Shelley Duvall, or

Victor Borger.

Victor Borger?

Sorry, did I say Victor Borger? Only I also thought I caught sight of Victor

Borger enjoying a quiet word with Charlton Chuck Heston and screenwriter

companion Alan Katz. Yes, but who's that girl with Stuart Lerner?

Ah,

that's Sylvia Christelle.

Good God!

Graham? You realize that in the last few minutes alone you've dropped no less

than 17 famous names?

Have I? I didn't intend to. It's just that I happen to know these people.

They're friends of mine.

They live here.

I want you to repeat what you just said to yourself and think about it as a

medical man.

You mean I've got... Yes, nivinism.

It's a common enough complication of angelitis.

It's an endemic autobiographical complaint.

whereby people live vicariously through the fame of other people.

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.

real cynical.

On the way out, I consoled an agitated Rod Stewart, who unfortunately had had

to come to the party in person.

He'd only got married that morning, and the blow-ups of the happy couple could

not be processed in time.

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 alright over there, Graham?

It's working, Graham.

Stick with it.

Good evening, Mr. Chapman. I am Jose.

I'll be your star to bear Ducker in her to the stars this evening.

I had slipped

into a state of inertia.

All further activity 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 out nimbly through the airlock 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?

You're just a very weak Darjeeling, please, Alan.

So I didn't bother with them.

Can you come to our party?

Can you come to our party? Sorry, Gray.

Diaries absolutely chock-a-block.

Here lies Oscar Fingal O'Flaherty Wilde. Gone out for good.

Can you come to our party?

There is a time in the affairs of grieves which taken at the clutch leads

on to brutalness.

A man is not a wasp, nor Dusseldorf built in a day.

Damon Runyon had a bunion, and for all they say, they are.

What's that supposed to mean?

My heart bakes. A drowsy numbness fills my gents. 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 parrot sketch, is no more.

He has ceased to be.

For rest of life, he rests in peace.

He's kicked the bucket, hopped the twig, bit the dust, snuffed it, breezed 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's found.

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 balanital shancroids for quite a little while.

I gave my-

Is each my scrum pox a lovely gonorrhea?

At least we both were lying when we said that we were clear

Our syphilitic kisses sealed the secret of our

frist You gave me scrotal pustules with a quick flick of

your wrist

Shabbat Shalom

Thank you.

interstitial keratitis, syphilitic coronitis, 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 order lies.

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're all 69.

If we sit on our faces in all sorts of places and play till we're blown away.