Original subtitles

Is this fucking thing on? Oh. Ladies and gentlemen.

He's wacky, he's zany,

he's one entire sixth of the greatest comedy team the world has ever seen.

Here to reveal all, please welcome Monty Python's Graham Chapman!

Er, before I begin,

there is a favour I would like to ask of all of you, please.

And I do mean every single person in the room.

No opting out. I'd like everyone to join in with this, please.

I would like to ask you all for 3O seconds...

of abuse.

Thank you so much.

Go home! Get off!

Thank you. Thank you so much.

Thank you. Thank you so much. Thank you.

15 seconds to go! Thank you. Thank you so much.

I want my fucking money back!

Oh, thank you. Thank you.

Get off that stage!

You suck!

You're a shit!

You-you-you-you... You miscreant!

I like you!

Thank you very much indeed. That was excellent abuse.

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

New York, 1976. The City Center theatre.

Monty Python's Flying Circus is appearing. We are in mid-sketch.

I am playing Oscar Wilde.

My congratulations, Wilde. Your play is a great success.

The whole of London is talking about you.

There is only one thing in the world worse than being talked about

and that is NOT being talked about.

Very witty, Wilde. Very witty.

There is only one thing worse in the world than being witty

and that is not being witty.

I wish I had said that.

You will, Oscar. You will.

Your Highness, do you know James McNeill Whistler?

Yes. We play squash together.

There is only one thing worse than playing squash together

and that is playing it by yourself.

He waits expectantly for the roars of laughter

and the shrieks of glee. They do not come.

The silence grows longer.

I wish I hadn't said that.

You did, Oscar. You did.

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

Wilde is desperate.

The Prince of Wales is leaving with a smile on his face

that had not been put there by Oscar Wilde. He blurts:

Your Majesty, you are like a big jam doughnut with cream on top.

I beg your pardon?

Er... er... Erm, it was one of Whistler's.

- I didn't say that. - You did, James. You did.

L...l meant that, er,

like a doughnut, your arrival, your Majesty, gives us pleasure,

and your departure only makes us hungry for more.

Your Majesty is like a stream of bat's piss.

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

Uh... uh... uh...

I have just dried. I cannot remember the next line.

I'm waiting, Wilde. I'm waiting.

The entire theatre waits and as they wait, so do I

for that damned line to enter my head. It refuses to come.

Oh, get on with it.

Get on with it.

Dr Chapman? We'll be landing in Los Angeles shortly.

Hello? Dr Chapman?

Are you all right, Dr Chapman?

Keep your seat belts fastened and luggage stowed safely.

Turn off your head sets and electrical equipment

until you see the seat belt sign turned off.

It's at moments like this when one thinks,

“Oh, fuck it. Does it really 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 February 7th,

during an air raid in which the Germans thought they were hitting Coventry.

My parents, Tim and Beryl

- sorry, Tim and Betty - were outraged when I arrived

because they'd been expecting a heterosexual black Jew

with several amusing birth deformities as they needed the problems.

They lived in an enormous Gothic castle in the south of France

called “Done Drinking Gin And Slimline Tonic With Ice But No Lemon 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,

not being allowed to sit next to the Czech girl because I once shat myself,

seeing bits of people hanging from trees... Oh!

That does sound interesting. Perhaps I should put that down.

I was three at the time

and my mother wanted to take me along to see my father.

- Walter. - Sorry, dear. I'm busy.

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

Walter, dear, we were just out shopping

and I thought that Graham might like...

Can't you come back later, dear? Has anyone found that head yet?

Has anyone in this street found a head? Oh, come on. Someone must have it.

I know this street. You'd steal anything.

I mean, what the bloody hell are you gonna do with a head?

Oh, dear. Perhaps we'll go and get your tea.

What? Oh, yes. Egg on toast, please.

Left arm here. Anyone missing a left arm?

We haven't got any eggs. There is a war on.

Ask Harold. Something's bound to have fallen off the back of a lorry.

All right, dear. Come on, Graham.

Stop staring at all that blood. It won't do you any good.

Oh, come on, mum. This must be one of my major formative experiences.

Eton.

"Summer term, or “wops" as we called it,

seemed to have dragged on endlessly.

The smell of freshly mown grass wafted over from far-off Hayes meadow,

the village clock chimed in the distance

and somewhere, miles above our petty earth,

a wisp of cloud took flame from the dying embers of the setting sun.

They combined to produce an atmosphere

so redolent of this type of writing.

“lam victoria tam facilis scrotum non valet...

We always beat Harrow anyway. Why bother?

Oh, Chapman, sir, may I clean your teeth tonight? Oh, please?

Why don't you bugger off, Shagspot?

Oh! Thank you, sir.

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

In a few days, I would be in Nice,

soaking up the sun at the side of my father's pool,

while Jenkins hovered by with a tray of vodkatinis.

Would you like another sandwich, dear?

What?

They're your favourite, sandwich spread.

So this is Nice?

What do you mean, Nice? This is Scarborough.

You do too much reading.

It'll do you more good if you eat your tea.

Quite right. You can't get through to him when he's got a book in his hand.

- What is it, anyway? - "Claudius the God“ by Robert Graves."

A fine historical reconstruction of the life of Claudius, the Roman emperor,

thought of in his time as a pitiful fool,

though the reign Mr Graves describes is far from folly.

Is it?

Anyway, finish your tea. We ought to get a haddock for Mrs Richers.

There's plenty time for that later. Thraxted's doesn't close till five.

- They'll be out of haddock by then. - We'll get halibut.

Mrs Richers especially asked for the haddock.

Oh, haddock, halibut, cod. There's no difference. It's all fish.

Let's just sit here for a bit and enjoy the view.

- It's raining. - It's bracing.

You should have your window open, lad. Get a bit of ozone in your lungs.

Ozone is oxygen in a condensed state,

having three atoms to the molecule. 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. You can't learn everything out of books, my lad.

There's no argument. It's a fact.

Stop it, Graham. Now, come on. We'll go and get the fish.

- No, we'll stay here. - I think we should get the fish.

That ship over there ls bringing wood from 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 Hertford,

a manufacturer of continuous...

Oh, the Tates. Wasn't their youngest walking about with that Valerie Maskell?

No.

This process was developed by the stationers Messrs H and S Fourdrinier.

It was her.

She was the one that got all the spots at secretarial college.

Quiet, Edith.

The Fourdriniers were assisted by Mr Bryan Donkin, an inventor and engineer.

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

- No! - Yes, he was.

It was their youngest that moved downstairs

next door to the chemist in Wimbledon, nearly opposite the Gantleys.

Shut up.

Do you realise that if you look out there on a very clear day,

you can't quite see Denmark?

I think we should get the haddock.

Will you shut up about the bloody haddock?

- Why is it that every bloody year... - Language.

Every year our summer holiday consists of two weeks

in Scarborough, Filey or Bridlington, sitting in a car in the rain, bickering.

- Why don't we go to bloody Denmark? - Language!

- We did promise haddock. - Oh, all right!

We'll go and get your bloody, flaming, bloody haddock!

Trouble with you two is you don't appreciate the beauties of nature.

What's that you've got back there?

It's a book. “I, Biggles", by Captain W E Graves.

Captain, eh? Mm. That sounds better.

Everything OK, skipper?

Tell you what, old man. Having a bit of trouble with this.

Could you just pop your hand down my Mae West, old tapir?

Well, if that's an order, old guillemot.

- It is. - Righty-o.

Here it comes, old bison.

- Don't stop now! I'm nearly there. - So am I!

- What about me? - Oh, fuck off, Ginger.

To heck with the lot of them.

I'll just jolly well sit down here

and improve the bally old mind a little, don't you know.

“The Complete Works of Captain W E Johns“.

“How to speak English in other languages...

“The Interpretation of Dreams“, by Sigmund Freud.

In the following lecture, I, Sigmund Freud,

shall prove the entire psychology of man can only be understood

with a reference to the science of navigation.

Spot on.

In relation to this, I remember a young adolescent

who was having reoccurring dreams about flying.

A fictional aviator called Bigglesworth and his companions

are attempting to escape from a Focke-Wulf

which is pursuing them and shooting at them.

A typical dream recall of a particularly exciting episode

of an adventure story for boys. Or so it would seem.

Let's look at the dream more closely.

The first thing we notice is that throughout the scene

we see navigational elements hidden not so far below the surface.

A compass, indicating the plane's direction of travel.

A map behind the aviators telling them where they are going.

All unmistakable symptoms of a navigational obsession.

Note also the use of zoological terminology

in their navigational exchange with one another.

"Old bison, “ "old tapir" and even “old guillemot"

clearly indicates a yearning for a pre-rational animal state of existence

in which navigation is not yet distinguishable

from simply running around.

The boy patient clearly identifies himself with the minor character, Ginger,

who is excluded from the adventure because he is navigationally inadequate.

Ginger? That's me.

Inadequate? What a bally awful tone, don't you know, what ho, old chap.

- You've been bloody reading again. - I haven't.

Well, what's this in my hand?

“The Interpretation of Dreams“, by Sigmund Freud,

probably his most original work, in which he explored the unconscious

and found that neurotic symptoms are like dreams,

a product of conflict and compromise

between the conscious and unconscious states...

Is it? What's this?

“Sucking at the mother's breast

"is the starting point for the whole sexual life,

“the unmatched prototype of every latent sexual satisfaction"?

I've got the haddock. Now, what were you saying?

Oh, another book, dear? What is it this time?

Nothing. Just a road map.

"Who's “Frood," then?

He's an expert on... navigation. Very interesting.

His theories on navigation, you see. Longitude and latitude.

- That sort of thing. - Ah, well. That's enough of that.

Let's get back to Mrs Richers with this haddock.

Right.

Quite a lot happened over the next few years.

A disastrous sexual experiment with Rita Blake,

my first love affair with another boy.

Ooh!

Stuffing snails into a gatepost, the hen-stealing nuns,

Pig-Shit Freeman,

Miss Chamberlain's three consecutive head girls pregnant,

my questions about ejaculation to the biology master,

Albert the groundsman, holding hands with Mark Collins in a maths class,

painting John Wilder black,

Prunose Eskimo Nell,

Monsieur Le Beau Vatten,

and elderly spinsters' wanking-off birthday cakes.

But such trivia needs no elaboration. One childhood is much like another.

Amateur psychologists who think it clever to explain the character of the later man

for a jumble of largely fictitious memories

can ferret for their filth in other people's autobiographies.

In the spring of nineteen sixty-splunge,

John Cleese and Graham Chapman

thought they might like to do another television program.

In another part of London, Michael Palin, Terry Jones and Eric Idle,

and an American draft dodger - and who can blame him? -

called Terry Vance Gilliam thought they would too.

Me? Hmm-mm. I still like "owl stretching time“."

Of course, it was my idea. Terry Jones.

And lots of noises only the Welsh can make.

I still like "a horse, a bucket and a spoon".

His suggestion. J Cleese.

Look, you Welsh git. We discarded that about two hours ago.

Oh, fucking hell!

I remember not being particularly interested in the debate about titles.

Had I given up medicine for trivia such as this?

- Aren't we able to talk about things? - Yes.

But do we have to go on about it in such a high-pitched voice?

John Cleese guffaws like a 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 it?

Characteristic of his temperament, T Jones calms down instantly,

having vented his spleen on inanimate objects.

I still like “owl stretching time." M Palin.

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

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

Oh, sorry, Graham. You're doing all the voices in this bit, aren't you?

I'll shut up.

M Palin.

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

but Terry's got a point about “a horse, a bucket and a spoon“.

Oh, come off it.

And so it was decided to call it.

Monty Python's Flying Circus.

Cambridge, a university town built in a featureless, flat landscape.

So featureless, in fact,

you wonder why anyone chose it as a location for anything.

The magnificence of St John's,

the noteworthy splendour of Trinity,

the sheer portliness of the banks

and some very high walls, behind which a semi-aristocratic elite

could hide from the outside world and go to each other's rooms for sherry.

And gazing at the magnificent,

noteworthy, sheer splendour of the portly King's College chapel,

it would be a world-weary traveller indeed who did not pause to think,

"Why the fuck didn't they build the whole town two inches to the right?"

Sorry!

Hmm.

Tsk. Hmm.

Hmm.

Stop! Everybody stop! Right.

If I find any more of you bloody idiots heating up ether over an open flame,

I'll... I'll kill you!

I haven't been a munitions expert in two world wars

to get slaughtered by a load of ignorant tits!

If you don't know what you're doing, get out!

So, Chapman, let's see.

Oh, now, do you play rugby?

I play for Melton Mowbray, first team.

- What position do you play? - Second row.

That's good. We need a second row.

Absolutely. We'll see you in September.

There is just one small matter, of course. Just a formality.

Your A-level results here. You're taking three A-levels?

- Oh, yes, yes. - Will you pass physics?

No.

Why not?

Uh... well, I'm not sure.

Not sure, eh? That means you're in doubt?

- Well, no... - Do you mean yes?

Uh... Yes.

So a pass may be possible, eh?

Uh, yes. Possible.

- Probable, even? - Well, I, uh...

Let me put it another way.

Are you going to fail?

No.

No?

- How did it go? - Oh, fine.

Mind you, I've got to pass physics.

Well, you'll do that, won't you?

I think at about this juncture,

it would be wise to point out to those of you who haven't noticed,

and it's apparent enough,

Jonathan Miller and myself come from good families

and have had the benefits of a public school education.

Whereas the other two members of the cast

have worked their way up from working-class origins.

And yet Jonathan and I are working together with them in the cast...

and treating them as equals.

And I'd like to say it's proving to be a most enjoyable,

worthwhile and stimulating experience for both of us.

- Wouldn't you agree, Jonathan? - Certainly is. I'm most impressed.

It's... it's your results.

Ah.

What... What does it... What does it say?

It says... It says...

Three passes! That means you're in, doesn't it?

Well done, Graham.

I have been accepted by Emmanuel College.

I've bought a gown, several club ties,

walked around in a tweed suit with a pipe and tried to look clever.

The pipe was very useful. If anyone said anything I didn't understand,

I could puff on it and seem deep in thought.

The tweed suit didn't fool anybody, but the pipe worked a treat.

In tutorials, I was asked fewer questions.

It also helped clobber the stench of formalin in the dissecting rooms.

Describe the vagina.

- Kevin. - Um, right.

- Well, it's a sensitive organ. - What do you mean?

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

and it's, uh, very sensitive.

Balls! The only thing sensitive about the vagina is in the front of it, lad.

Apart from a certain sensation

because something has passed through the perineal musculature,

the vagina itself is virtually numb!

You answer shows not only a lack of anatomical knowledge,

but a complete social ignorance.

You've obviously never slept with a woman!

No! Aah!

Not that bit!

Awfully sorry, old chap, but sex is a rather difficult subject

and I don't know what came over me.

Oh, well. Better go and have lunch, I suppose.

Anyone coming to the bun shop?

Oh, thank God. That was a short tutorial.

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

realising that the only reason I'd gone there in the first place

was that I'd seen a television version of a Footlights annual revue.

I impersonated a carrot

and a man with iron fingertips being pulled offstage by an enormous magnet.

Really super.

In the same set of auditions,

John Cleese did a routine of trampling on hamsters

and can still do a good pain-ridden squeak.

How about that?

We were both selected and very soon were able to wear black sashes

with "Ars Est Celare Artem“ on them."

“The art was to conceal the art."

March 1964. The new biochemistry and physiology block

was being opened by Her Majesty the Queen Mother.

Being secretary of the Students' Union,

I was invited to join Her Majesty for tea with other members of the student body

after her tour of the new premises.

I was pleased to find out that she had asked to come to tea with the students

and not with a lot of old gits in red gowns and stupid floppy hats.

- Ah, yes. - How do you take yours?

Gin and Slimline tonic with ice but no lemon in, Your Majesty.

Cheers.

I explained to Her Majesty that I had the offer of going to New Zealand

as a member of Cambridge Circus, a revue,

but that this would mean taking six months off medicine

and my parents had yelped strongly against this.

You really must see New Zealand.

It's a very beautiful place.

My sexual life consisted of going to bed with women

while dreaming about men.

The first one was the student's traditional friend, a nurse.

She was rather podgy and extremely repellent,

but I just wanted to get my end away.

She was a real "lie down and think of hockey and England“ type",

and after a brief grope that was not enthusiastically received,

I looked her hard in the breasts and thought, "Yuck."

“The bar's still open. I'll get rid of her.“

There was another female student getting a lot of attention from the lads.

Of a rather fawning, not daring to ask nature, I sat down at her table.

Ignoring her minions, I boldly passed her a plate of sandwich spread sandwiches

and asked her if she'd go.

"She was intelligent enough to say, “See you in my room tonight."

We had a bloody good time for a whole year.

She was athletic and imaginative. We went right through the card.

It wasn't just British missionary, but doggie on the floor,

on the floor standing, on the desk, in the shower, in the bath,

near the bath, at someone else's place while they weren't looking,

and in a guard's van through the whole of Birmingham.

The description of this passage has made me feel... Excuse me.

Oh, that's better.

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

and I felt I'd rather spend more time in the bar drinking with the lads.

This is hardly even partly true in retrospect.

It's just that I remember once or twice

thoughts of men's bodies creeping into my mind while in coitus.

I decided that I should do some clinical tests on myself,

so whenever I went in a taxicab, tube, train or bus,

I looked at each passer-by and tried to tell myself honestly

which ones I would like to go to bed with.

And the ratio of boys to girls was something like seven to three,

which puts me clearly on the homosexual side of the scale,

as suggested in the Kinsey Report.

Look. He says he's on tour

with something called Cambridge Circus, a revue.

The Queen Mother told him, you know,

and as Her Majesty was telling Graham, New Zealand is such a beautiful place.

She said he really had to go and see it. It's by royal command, really.

A trip to New Zealand and America

made me more broad-minded about myself.

Immediately after qualifying, I gave up medicine and became a raging poof.

But no mincing. A butch one with a pipe.

Graham, taxi's here for the BBC!

- Thank you very much indeed. - Class.

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

Come in.

Come in, Thompson. Nice to see you. It's time we had a little chat.

- Thank you, sir. - Good.

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

How are you, Thompson?

- Fine, sir. - Good. Splendid. You look well.

I was talking this morning to Miss Evans about your Latin verse.

The prose is all right, but verse is weak. You've got to do something about it.

- Yes, sir. - Hmm.

Thompson, have you been shot?

Yes, sir. Just a bit.

Well, who shot you? A master or a boy?

- A boy, sir. - Oh, good.

Hi, guys. Hello. Super show tonight. Super.

Look, I can't stop. Got a flight to catch.

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

It'd be super, absolutely super.

I'm sending you off to Spain to write the script. It'll be great fun.

Anyway, I've got to go. They're calling my flight. Bye.

Super.

Well, now we're here, the first thing we should do is examine all the beaches

to find out which will be the best place to write a film set in London.

Well, it usually takes me two weeks to get acclimatised

and I still haven't thrown off this throat.

It is rather hot, isn't it? I'm feeling a bit groggy myself.

Perhaps a couple of weeks' rest might be a good idea.

But do you think we should? I mean, David frost and all that.

- He has paid us, Graham. - Yes, I suppose you're right.

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

Yes, right. That's fine. We'll start 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

sunning yourself and shout a few lines in, right?

Fine. Great.

Oh, bugger.

Graham, do you mind if we don't start till the evening, actually?

I promised to take Connie out tomorrow. She's only got a few more days here.

Bit awkward to get out of it now, you know? Damn!

Fine by me. We have done a synopsis of the film.

I wouldn't mind taking a bit of time off.

- We'll start on Friday, yes? - Yes. Right.

Um... Be a bit noisy, but we can shut ourselves away.

- Noisy? - Well, there's the fiesta this weekend.

Lots of dancing, fireworks, wine and that sort of thing.

Oh. I've never been to Spain before.

Haven't you? Oh, well. You must, then.

You must go to the fiesta. So let's have a drink.

That brings us to Monday. We'll start on Monday.

No, Monday and Tuesday are Connie's last two days

and I'd like to see her off on Wednesday, so let's start Thursday.

Look, why don't we make it two weeks?

Done.

I SEY-

Just look at that.

I spent the next two weeks searching for something

that I knew was probably very sexy.

Super, boys, super. Really super.

I look forward to reading more than ten pages.

Ooh, got to fly. Bye!

Hello?

Who was that?

One of the painters.

It sounded like one of the painters I've spoken to before.

Well, yes, it probably did a bit.

It's a bit late for painting, isn't it?

No, no. You just don't understand London, mother.

This is not like Leicester.

For a whole year, I've lived in terror, an almost Thorpean 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, Graham, you don't understand.

I'm just very surprised.

Ever since I've known you, you've played rugby, drank a lot of beer,

you smoked a pipe, you wore a tweed suit and brogues

and this is not a standard gay profile.

Yes.

Ooh!

The other extraordinary reaction was from Keith Moon,

who was quite stunned. Obviously, he was quite young then,

but I had to explain to him what it all meant,

that I actually did go to bed with people of the same sex,

that it was quite fun and that we actually loved each other.

It wasn't at all naughty.

Come in.

- Trouble at mill. - Oh, no. What sort of trouble?

One of crossbeams gone out of skew on treadle.

Pardon?

One of crossbeams gone out of skew on treadle.

I don't understand.

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

- But what on earth does that mean? - I don't know.

Mr Wentworth just told me to come in and say there was trouble at the mill.

I didn't expect a kind of Spanish inquisition.

Suddenly I feel like digressing for another moment about morality.

I intend to publish here for the first time

what I believe to be a missing portion of the New Testament.

The papyrus manuscript, translated here from the original Greek,

was discovered in 1979 by the author at Auckland airport.

It was there, in transit to Sydney, Australia, whiling away a few moments,

when the manuscript was given to him by a Maori chieftain toilet attendant.

The first epistle of Paul the Apostle to the New Zealanders, AD 59.

Chapter 1,

in which Paul castigated the Antipodeans' empty showing of holiness,

of fornicators and abusers of mankind,

of poverty and tolerance,

exorteth them to beware of false prophets.

“Dear New Zealanders, what is all this nonsense

"about certain of your number kneeling down in front of crosses?"

“That is naughty in the extreme.

"You've changed the glory of an incorruptible god into an image."

“L understand that the very same people collect together in churches

“for the purpose of worship. Who needs it?

“God doesn't. I've asked him. He's fed up with it, especially the psalms.

"They give him a headache and cause his teeth to strike together."

“Don't they realise their praise is meaningless?

“Why can't they concentrate on being better behaved towards one another

“and forget about this empty show of holiness?

“He says, though don't quote me on this, 'They can stuff it up their arses.'

“He said that, not I.

"L, 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.

“L would like to state quite clearly that sex is nothing more

“than the way in which two or more people

“can have lots of harmless, cheap fun,

"provided that they are clean and that the aim is not reproduction."

“The betterment of the lot of mankind is impossible

“without strict limits on reproduction, so don't make the mistake

“the rest of the world has made and overpopulate yourselves.

“Not everyone has to have children, for Christ's sake.

“He didn't have any and I should know.

“If you really feel you have to have children, then make sure

“that, as parents, you have no more than you can properly look after.

“L exhort you to be empathetic,

"be splendid, be aware of your own ignorance,"

“and, as always, beware of those who claim to lead you

“to better self-knowledge by taking your money.

"Must finish now as I have to catch the post."

"Lots of love, P. Kiss, kiss, kiss."

Socrates himself ls particularly missed.

Mr Chapman. Two minutes till act two, Mr Chapman.

Full of gin and the feeling of superiority over mortals

which commonly afflicts the adulated,

I'd reached my zenith in a naughty and to this day illegal act

upon the floor of an empty dressing room.

Sit on my face And tell me that you love me

I'll sit on your face And tell you I love you

I love to hear you oralise

When I'm between your thighs You blow me away

Sit on my face And let my lips embrace you

I'll sit on your face And then I'll love you truly

Life can be fine If we both 69

If we sit on our faces In all sorts of places

And play till we're blown away.

What kind of a fellow is Monty Python, by the way?

He's black. Black and he's homosexual.

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

Good grief. There's no one to go to bed with.

Where are all the young men around here? This is absolutely dreadful.

Ta-da!

Oh, all right.

Sit on my face And tell me that you love me.

Could you try and keep the noise down!

Knock it off!

Be quiet!

Sit on my face, mama

Sit on my face Baby, baby.

Sit on my face In all sorts of places

Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah.

What's it like being a film star?

I'm not. I'm just an extra.

- You're just an extra? - Yes.

It's the crown and this that probably...

Yeah, I was looking for Graham Fink.

Ah, yes. He's around somewhere.

Sit on my face Come on, baby

Let my lips embrace

Tell me that you love me

Sit on my face And tell me that you love me

I'll sit on your face And tell you I love you too

I love to hear you oralise

When I'm between your thighs You blow me away

Sit on my face and let my lips embrace you

I'll sit on your face And then I'll love you truly

Life can be fine If we both 69

If we sit on our faces In all sorts of places

And play till we're blown away

Good afternoon. Beverly Hills Hotel reception.

Ugh! Los Angeles.

Up, down. Up, down.

Up, down. Up, down.

Up, down.

- Hi! - Hi.

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!

Ah. There. You enjoying that?

Ooh, yeah. Do you feel that?

I feel that.

Just get right in there.

Bye, Graham.

Oh, and do say hello to Monty for me.

Tell him I'm his biggest fan!

That was fun. Zoom.

Um, excuse me.

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

Ooh, aah.

Do that to me. Ooh.

If it's an order, old guillemot.

Ooh, big boy. Mm.

Aah! Touch me here.

Oh, my God. Do it to me there!

- Right-o. Here it comes. - Ooh! Right there.

Oh, my God. Yes!

Oh, do that to me! Ooh!

Big boy! Oh, my God! Oh, yeah.

Yes! Oh, my Gad!

You, in fact, were more than...

...drunk on one occasion. You were in fact an alcoholic.

Yes, I did a lot of drinking.

- A great deal indeed, Michael. - You were an alcoholic?

You can safely say I did do a very great deal.

And how much at your peak, so to speak, were you drinking?

Four pints of gin a day.

Four pints of gin a day?

I didn't know Graham was an alcoholic. Did you?

Why was that, do you think?

I think... I don't know, really, the answer to that.

Deep inside I think actually that I was insecure.

I didn't really feel that I'd deserved the success that I'd achieved.

How difficult was it?

Actually, once the decision had been made, once I decided to stop,

it was easy, except for the three days of unpleasantness.

Oh, get on with it.

Graham? Are you all right? You look a bit pale.

Would you like a cup of tea and maybe a bit of toast?

- With a nice poached egg on top? - No. I'm... I'll...

J-just a... m-moment.

Later. I'll get up, be fine.

- Uh, Vichy water? - N... Yes, yes.

- Da-David, the curtains. - Sorry.

Silent night

Holy night

All is calm.

There.

All is bright.

Introducing, ladies and gentlemen, tonight,

all the way from a mud-wrestling tour of the OPEC countries,

in the red corner, Colin "Bomber" Harris!

And, ladies and gentlemen, in the blue corner, Colin "Bomber" Harris!

Well now, ladies and gentlemen, this is the first time

that Colin "Bomber" Harris has met himself.

A few formalities and we'll be ready for round one.

There goes the bell.

He just made it to the rope!

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

Going for the hand hold. He's got it.

Into the head squeeze.

A favourite move of Colin's. Fine there.

Double overhead nostril. Should be able to twist out of this.

And he does!

A lovely move there!

Colin must be pleased with himself, having pulled himself out of that one.

The strawberry whip! A vanilla whip!

Chocolate whip! There it is.

Colin's most famous whip. And there it is.

He just got a little lucky, though.

A double Eydie Gormé. There it is.

Colin's most famous hold! The one-leg-over-shoulder Jerry Ford!

And he's caught himself there and Colin's in real trouble!

And Colin did not like that one little bit!

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

A lovely move there! He's caught himself by surprise!

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

And Colin bit himself on purpose there

and has been given a public warning by the referee.

Look, you stupid bastard, you've got no arms left.

He's looking pretty ruggy. And that is it!

Colin "Bomber" Harris has knocked himself out

and so he is the winner and he goes on next week

to meet himself in the final.

- Graham, you're an alcoholic. - Uh, yes.

- Do you want not to be? - Yes.

Right. We'll start the treatment.

Your liver function tests are appalling.

Ten times over the acceptable norm of the gamma GTP, for instance.

But there's no sign of enlargement and, with a bit of luck,

there's a chance you may not have damaged your liver permanently.

We'll phase out the Heminevrin and Valium gradually

and you can take an abstem tablet in the morning and one in the evening,

so that if you drink any alcohol,

you'll feel as ill as you were five days ago.

It's up to you whether you drink or not.

It's your liver. It's your life.

Oh, dear puss, London is far behind us. What shall we do now?

- Meow. - What's that? Sing a song?

- Meow. - What, now? For all the children?

- Meow. - Shall we sing a song, children?

Of all the organs the body contains The liver's the one for me

It processes food It deals with the waste

It's cleverer than a knee

When it throws up its hands at alcohol and makes you extremely ill

It's best to take heed You're not being a weed

You're just being sensible.

You've only got two stations.

I bought Marylebone from you last time you landed on Graham's hotel.

- I'll give you the waterworks. - I don't want it.

Perhaps Graham does. Graham? Do you want the waterworks?

- No, I'll buy the camelopard. - What?

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

He's gone again.

Oh, Graham.

It's Christmas in heaven

Snow falls from the sky.

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

Sigmund de Bouvier answered the phone

and said that he was out distributing leaflets. Or was that a sketch?

It's Christmas in heaven

There's great films on TV.

Do I talk here?

No, Graham. That's the table lamp.

- The microphone's on your right. - Right. Good.

Take 59.

You bastards! We've been planning this for months!

Well, tough titty for you, fish-face.

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

Brian, beaten, bruised and bleeding,

is thrown into Pilate's darkest stinking dungeon.

That was marvellous. Let's move on.

Oh, you lucky bastard.

Brian is on the run from the Romans

and to avoid capture pretends to be a lobster.

Sorry, Graham. We had a rogue lobster in there.

Oh, I'm sorry about that. Are we ready?

Brian trailer, take 60.

Brian is on the run from the Romans and to avoid lobster...

We seem to have a colony of lobsters in there, Graham.

- Well, all right. - Take 61.

Brian is on the run from the Romans and to avoid capture pretends to lob...

Let's start it again. Sorry.

- Let's move on. - It's certainly clean.

An unbeliever!

Kill the heretic!

Leave him alone! Leave him alone!

Brian escapes from the crowd and goes home with Judith.

Alone together at last, the two rush naked at each other

and meet in a frenzy of darting tongues...

Sorry, Graham. That bit's been cut.

- All of it, I'm afraid. - Even this bit here?

Yes. The boys loved the lobster idea, so they're gonna re-shoot that bit.

Oh.

OK, next bit, Graham, please. Take 62.

You're fucking nicked, me old beauty!

Brian is 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's sentenced to be... to be crucified.

- Yes, I think that's a little too light. - What shall I try?

We'll use the take before. We'll be able to make all that work.

- Thanks for coming in. - That's it, is it?

Yes, that's it. If you want to collect your 30 pounds on the way out.

Yeah. 30 pounds.

Yes, well, uh...

I was led to believe that probably it might be a little, um...

Yes, look. It's not a big budget movie, you know.

We'll have a whip round and see what loose change we've got

and we should be able to give you another two pounds.

All right, yes.

Goodbye.

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

Who's mummy's little baby?

- How beautifully you are clad. - And so are you.

- You're still butch, aren't you? - Oh, yeah.

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

Yes.

No! On, no!

Graham, please don't tell your father. It'll kill him.

- Of course it won't kill him. - It will! It'll kill him!

Of course it won't. Shut up.

Never mind. Let's go on to your manifesto.

You said that you would like to state quite clearly

that sex is nothing more than a way in which two or more people

can have lots of harmless, cheap fun,

provided that they are clean and that the aim is not reproduction.

Yes.

Look, Graham, your mother's told me why she's upset.

Don't worry about it.

If you want to go around talking about this stuff, it's fine.

She just doesn't understand these things.

Ladies and gentlemen, it is now two years later,

and we'll be shortly arriving at Los Angeles airport.

Would you please extinguish all cigarettes and fasten your safety belts.

Hmm. This is the place.

Come on. Open the door.

Hello. Starlight emergency 24-hour luxury door-opening service.

Opening doors to the stars.

Yes. We need someone here straightaway to open our door.

It's account number 2248.

Hi!

Thank you, thank you.

Now, grip the teat and whet the micro-tome.

If tea party there be,

let cucumber be slivered to the thinnest with precision

and pressed twixt finest slices of good bread.

Bravo! Bravo!

Graham, isn't that George Lazenby over there,

seen enjoying a can of specially imported Foster's lager?

What, you mean behind Christopher lsherwood and Georgia Brown,

seen there enjoying a joke with Ian La Frenais?

Yes, between Peter Cook, Dudley Moore, Bo Diddley and the piano,

all seen enjoying a brief rest in a tight schedule.

And who's that with the Hollywood psychiatrist, Dr Stuart Lerner?

It could be either Jane Seymour, Jenny Agutter,

Susan George, Shelly Duvall or Victor Borge.

- Victor Borge? - Sorry. Did I say Victor Borge?

Only, I also thought I caught sight of Victor Borge

"enjoying a quiet word with Charlton “Chuck" Heston

and screenwriter companion Alan Katz.

Yes, but who's the girl with Stuart Lerner?

Hmm. Ah! That's Sylvia Kristel.

Good God!

Graham, do you realise that in the last few minutes alone,

you've dropped no less than 17 famous names?

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

They're friends of mine. Uh, they live here.

I want you to repeat what you've just said to yourself

and think about it as a medical man.

- You mean I've got... - Yes.

Niven-ism. It's a common enough complication of angelitis.

It's an endemic autobiographical complaint

whereby people live vicariously through the fame of other people.

Ahh.

It was, coincidentally, David Frost's 40th birthday party,

his third that afternoon,

and I'd promised to try and look in for a moment or two.

Super!

Super, super. Super!

Really super.

Happy birthday

Dear... David Frost!

Super!

We think you're swell

You've achieved so much

And done so well

That everybody here agrees You deserve more OBEs

And that was the message That was.

Super, super, super. Super.

Super.

On the way out, I consoled an agitated Rod Stewart,

who unfortunately had had to come to the party in person.

He'd got married that morning

and the blow-ups of the happy couple could not be processed in time.

- Hello, Keith. - Hello, Graham. What do you want?

Would you like to come to a party at my place later?

- I think I'm already at one. - George said he'd drop by.

- And Harry and Richard will be there. - Can I bring Mick and Ronnie?

- All right. See you later. - And Pete and Ringo?

Sure. See you later. I'm just gonna nip off down through Boys Town.

- I want to pick up some zoom. - I'll bet that's not all.

Graham, you must face up to this name-dropping problem.

- What should I do? Move to Finland? - You'll just have to sweat it out.

Isn't there anything I can do to speed up my recovery?

There is, but it isn't going to be pleasant, I'm afraid.

Revulsion therapy.

I'm going to prescribe an intensive course of Hollywood parties for you.

It's your only hope.

Hello, Graham.

Is that young lady all right over there?

It's working, Graham. Stick with it.

Good evening, Mr Chapman. I am Jose.

I'll be your star to bed tucker-inner to the stars this evening.

Jolly good.

I had slipped into a state of inertia.

All further activities seemed pointless.

I decided to have a farewell party.

David made the cucumber sandwiches

and I slipped out in my beige spacesuit

to see if the others would be prepared to pop along.

I stepped up nimbly through the air lock

and deftly percolated past Elton John's piano-shaped moon buggy.

He was obviously entertaining David Bowie and Ken Liberace,

so I passed on.

I knew the next space vehicle was occupied for an at-home evening

by David Hockney and Alan Bennett, comparing the size of their accents.

Custard cream, David?

Just a weak Darjeeling, please, Alan.

So I didn't bother with them.

- Can you come to our party? - No!

And I have got to do the hoovering!

- Can you come to our party? - Sorry, Gray.

Diary's absolutely chock-a-block.

“Here lies Oscar Fingal O'Flahertie Wilde.

"“Gone out for good."

Can you come to our party?

There is a time in the affairs of greed,

which, taken at the kludge, leads on to brutalness.

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

Damon Runyan had a bunion. For all, they say, hey I.

What's that supposed to mean?

My heart bakes. A drowsy numbness fills my...

Let it be. Let it be.

Oh, come on, Wilde. What does that mean?

It means, your Majesty, it means...

Learn your lines. You had us waiting for hours.

I didn't think anyone noticed.

No, I suppose they didn't.

The end.

Graham Chapman, co-author of the parrot sketch,

is no more. He has ceased to be.

Bereft of life, he rests in peace.

He's kicked the bucket, hopped the twig,

bit the dust, snuffed it, wheezed his last

and gone to meet the great Head of Light Entertainment in the sky.

And I guess that we're all thinking how sad it is

that a man of such talent,

of such capability for kindness,

of such unusual intelligence,

should now so suddenly be spirited away at the age of only 48

before he'd achieved many of the things of which he was capable

and before he'd had enough fun.

Well, I feel that I should say, "Nonsense.

“Good riddance to him, the freeloading bastard. I hope he fries."

And the reason I feel I should say this...

is he would never forgive me if I didn't,

if I threw away this glorious opportunity

to shock you all on his behalf.

Anything for him but mindless good taste.

Inflammation of the foreskin

Reminds me of your smile

I've had ballanital chancroids

For quite a little while

I gave my heart to NSU

That lovely night in June

I ache for you, my darling

And I hope you'll get well soon

My penile warts

Your herpes My syphilitic sores

Your monilial infection

How I miss you more and more

Your Dhobi's itch My scrumpox

Our lovely gonorrhoea

And at least we both were lying

When we said that we were clear

Our syphilitic kisses

Sealed the secret of our tryst

You gave me scrotal pustules

With a quick flick of your wrist

Your tricho-vaginitis

Sent shivers down my spine

I got snail tracks in my anus

When your spirochetes met mine

Gonococcal urethritis

Streptococcal balanitis

Meningomyelitis

Diplococcal cephalitis

Epididymitis

Interstitial keratitis

Syphilitic choroiditis

And anterior uveitis

Gonococcal urethritis

Streptococcal balanitis

Meningomyelitis

Diplococcal cephalitis

Epididymitis

Interstitial keratitis

Syphilitic choroiditis

And anterior uveitis

Sit on my face And tell me that you love me

I'll sit on your face And tell you I love you too

I love to hear you oralise

When I'm between your thighs You blow me away

Sit on my face And let my lips embrace you

I'll sit on your face And then I'll love you truly

Life can be fine If we all 69

If we sit on our faces In all sorts of places

And play till we're blown away.

Ooh. Terribly sorry.