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Mr Abe Appenheimer.

Hello, and welcome to this documentary

containing new and exclusive interviews

with the five surviving members
of Monty Python.

The producers wish to make it clear
that any opinions expressed herein

are those of the individuals speaking
and hold no truth whatsoever.

Pursuant, therefore, to clause 4.6 of the
Broadcasting, Video, Television Act, 1989,

subsection 4, 3 and 2, clause...

..subject to clause 4.123,

no viewer or watcher
may copy, repeat, impersonate, mime,

either contextually or noncontextually,

any material whatsoever in any public place,

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Baptist church...

Python

The brand-new documentary of Python

It's a new documentary

It's about Monty Python

Unlike other Monty Python documentaries

This is brand-new

It's a new documentary

It's not complimentary

But it's better than a hysterectomy

It's Monty

Python

Meanwhile, how glad and grateful is Britain

that thousands have fought their way out
and come home.

And are they glad to be back again?

Well, they'll tell you
that after what they've been seeing,

England looks all right.

- You glad to be back, boys?
- Sure!

England was in black-and-white
after the war,

and until about 1959, I think,
we had rationing.

I remember we didn't have enough.

We had butter rations, you can have
a piece of butter a week,

and bread rationing and meat rationing.

London was completely composed
of holes and bomb sites,

and it was a sort of
grey duffel-coat-wearing,

very respectable, everybody
talked in received English...

"Good evening, this is the BBC,
and here is the news."

On the radio, the news announcers
wore black tie to read the news.

So it was that kind
of unnecessarily uptight place.

I think I had quite a happy childhood.

My poor old dad gets quite a bad press,

cos I've mentioned him being
a bit cantankerous.

Apart from his slight cantankerousness,

he was a fond father, he quite liked jokes,

he liked practical jokes a lot.

In fact, I've still got a fake dog turd
that he bought me.

I mean, how many people's fathers
would buy their sons a dog turd?

"You've got into Oxford. Here's a turd."

My mother, she was terrific, my mum.
She was absolutely great.

And she was more encouraging
what I wanted to do.

My father was obsessed with money,
or rather, the lack of it,

and worried that I might follow
my sister's progress into acting.

He just didn't want that, he just said...
he felt that was the way to rack and ruin,

whereas my mother, I think, understood
a little bit of my interest in performing.

My relationship with my father was...

It was...always at one remove,
in a way, because...

I think he must have seen me
when I was a few days old,

but he was in the RAF, up in Scotland.

Then he was shipped off to India,
and spent the war in India,

so he never saw me again
until I was four and a half.

And I can remember going down
to Colwyn Bay railway station

and walking up the steps
with my mum and my brother

and standing on the platform,

and then my mother getting terribly anxious
that he wasn't there.

Suddenly, as the crowds vanished,
there was a man in a forage cap

and a kit bag, a big kit bag,
at the end of the platform.

And that was my dad.
And so he kisses my mum and my brother,

and then he kisses me,
and he's got a moustache!

I'd never been kissed by anybody
with a moustache before.

So I've always been...
I've always had horrors

about being kissed
by men in moustaches ever since!

Graham, as a policeman's son,

had had a very good,
solid family background,

but I think, because life was tough
when he was growing up,

and for a country copper during the war,
it was a very busy time.

There was not a lot of time for the children
while they were growing up.

And I think Graham actually missed

a really warm and supportive atmosphere.

Minneapolis, Minnesota,

Minnesota being the furthest north state
in America, probably the most middle.

So we're in the middle and at the top.

We lived in a little summer cottage
out in a place called Medicine Lake

that my dad had put insulation in
so we could get through these winters.

But it was some years before
we got an indoor toilet.

So I think the memory of my childhood
is one that is really odd,

because I can remember it, but I can't feel it,

was going out in the middle of winter
for a dump

in the biffy, as they were known.

And I don't know how we did that,
there was no heating, nothing,

you just sat there on a wooden plank
with a hole,

and did your business,
then you came back in.

It was a decent world there,

and I was part of that decent world,
with a decent family,

and we would go to church on Sunday,
and we would go to youth camps.

And, at least in school,
and particularly in high school,

the emphasis was on science and maths,

you know, we were engineering
for a new future in America.

I was in the Boy Scouts. I did all the things
that you were supposed to do.

My dad was born Reginald Francis Cheese,

his dad was John Edwin Cheese.

He stayed a Cheese until 1915,

when he joined the army
and he changed the name to Cleese.

I don't know why,
cos when I went to school,

I was always called Old Cheese,
it made no difference at all.

But anyway, he was the only Cleese.

I went to the Weston-super-Mare post office

and in the phone books,
there was no Cleese.

It's not a proper name of any kind.

And as a result of that, when he married
my mother, there were two Cleeses,

when I came along, there were three.

I'm tempted to change it back to Cheese,

cos I think it's a splendid name,
and my American friends call me Jack,

I could be Jack Cheese,
which is a great name for a comedian.

I think that I had, from what I can figure out,

rather than from what I can remember,

a very difficult early relationship
with my mother

that was compensated for,
more than compensated for,

by a very warm, very affectionate,
very loving relationship with my father.

But with both of them, there was
a good comedic connection.

My mother I could connect with

because she had a very black
sense of humour, believe it or not.

And I could make her laugh
with black humour.

And Dad was much more witty.

I remember watching a particularly inane
dance routine with him on television once,

and he said, "I don't think this
will ever replace entertainment, do you?"

I remember thinking, it's a beautiful phrase.

The interesting thing about the Pythons
is we didn't have TV

until we were teenagers, we were the last
generation to grow up with radio.

I was an avid listener to radio shows

like Take It From Here.

Before that, Jewel and Warriss, Hancock,

all sorts of radio shows,

and then later, when I was about 13, 14,
the Goon Show.

The Goons were very important as being,
not just their comedy,

but the fact that they were the first people
to really use radio.

The whole point of radio is that you can
conjure up anything you like.

It was that week that Nugent Dirt
was taken to court by his wife.

Silence in court! Silence!

The court will now stand
for Judge Schnorrer.

And if you'll stand for him,
you'll stand for anything.

The Goons can take you anywhere.

So can any... All form of radio is in
the imagination and creates all that.

I think that was significant for us.

Here came a show which was
not like any of the other shows.

It didn't have the same kind of rules,
or any rules.

It didn't even like the medium
that was putting it out.

It didn't like the BBC. Wonderful!

There was something that I could relate to.

This is the BBC Home Service.

Thank you.

I was introduced to the Goons
when I was about 1 1 , 12 years old.

And I just remember discovering this
strange, odd, weird and wonderful show

that was so different from anything
you could see on a film, or on television.

And I became almost obsessed with them.

I used to listen to the show,

and then, two nights later,
I would listen to the repeat,

because I wanted to catch everything,

and there was so much laughter,
you couldn't hear certain lines.

I used to lie on the bed with the radio there
and a pillow on my ear,

just to try and get the line
that I'd missed two days before.

The Phantom Head Shaver of Brighton,
Part Three.

By now, the position was serious.

All told, 300 men had been balded
by the Phantom.

I mean, listening to the Goon Show
on Sunday lunch time

was a ritual in our family.

Come out, Phantom Head Shaver,
you're surrounded! You hear?

We're all heavily armed.
If you don't come, we'll come to the door,

and so help me, we'll knock!

Yeah! That's telling him, yeah!

If you don't come out,
we'll come and we'll knock!

- Shut up!
- Shut up!

There was nothing like these people
just being very ridiculous and silly

and strange voices,
and long pauses and, you know,

playing around with this whole
sort of form of radio show

in a way that felt genuinely
kind of subversive at the time.

- Bluebottle?
- I heard you call, my Captain.

I heard my little ragged Captain call me.

Enter Bluebottle.
Pauses for audience applause.

As usual, not a sausage.

At the same time, my parents were listening
to mainstream stuff,

like Much-Binding-in-the-Marsh,
and Take It From Here,

which were the sort of shows
which we all sat and listened to together,

that was what bound the family together.

So I'd be listening to those, whilst
at the same time, on whenever it was,

Tuesday night or something, having my own
fix of this new show, the Goons.

I don't know what my folks wanted me to be.

I can remember one day some man I'd met
insisting on walking me home

and telling my parents that I ought
to become a dentist.

Well, thank God, I never did.

I thought, "What a terrible idea."

Dad was very keen that I should join
Grace, Derbyshire and Todd,

a firm of chartered accountants
on Whiteladies Road,

and I remember he said to me,
"My boy, if you join them,

"by the time you're 21 , you will have
the initials ACA after your name,

"and the world will be your oyster."

In other words, he was, in a sense,
very petit bourgeois.

My father wanted me to get a good job
and make a lot of money,

so I wouldn't be dependent on him.

I don't think he had any idea
of what he wanted me to do.

He just had a lot of ideas of what
he didn't want me to do,

which was mainly, sort of, acting and
performing, writing, all that sort of stuff.

And he sent me away to public school,
Shrewsbury,

which had a good reputation,
I think he felt, "They'll sort him out there."

One of Michael's great talents,

which was perfectly easily arrived at,

was, sort of, taking off
the character of the masters.

Michael had a natural way of drawing
their character out,

their little mannerisms.

From quite early on,
I could entertain people, in a small way.

And I remember, in 1953,
when it was the time of the Coronation,

I would do an improvised little show
at milk break in the morning,

at 1 1 o'clock, for anyone that wanted
to come, in this tiny room,

and I'd play all the different characters,
and it was all very silly and low-level,

but it was things like, you know,
the Duke of Edinburgh being caught short,

during the actual Coronation,
looking round

and having to fish out a toilet roll.

Oh, it was funny when I was ten!

Growing up in Wolverhampton,
that's not something anybody did -

trying to escape is what you did.

It was a miserable fucking place,

but I was abandoned there
about the age of seven, in a playground,

and my mum left, thinking it would be nicer

if she just slipped away,
rather than say goodbye,

so I hadn't got it that I was going to stay,

I knew we'd taken the suitcase,
it had all my names on it,

on the underwear and six pairs of socks,

but I hadn't got the concept,

"Wait, wait, no, I'm ready to leave now."

Too late. So that was a bummer.

The Royal Wolverhampton School
is based on the fact

that you must have lost
one or other of your parents.

In Eric's case, his father,
who was in the RAF and was air crew,

went all through the war,
and then, I think,

within 12 months of taking a civilian job,

died in a road crash
on the way home from work.

There's hundreds of memories,
mainly nightmares.

I was there from seven.
I didn't escape till I was 19.

You escape into, you know, various things.

I was in a little skiffle group.
First of all, I played harmonica.

We identified with the black slave
movement in America,

because we felt like we were oppressed.

And I was once in a drama.

I played Second Fieldmouse
in Toad Of Toad Hall.

Which... I was offered the part
of First Fieldmouse,

but I realised that Second Fieldmouse
had more words,

so I held out for that part.

His headmaster at that time
was Owen Dickinson.

And Owen always said,
"Idle by name, idle by nature."

This idle bastard left that school

with ten O levels,
three A levels and two S levels, so...

and going to Cambridge on a scholarship,

so not quite so fuckin' idle!

High school, you know,
I did all the right things there.

I didn't actually know
I was doing the right things.

Most things come to me as surprises,
because I ended up...

by the end of it, I was student
body president, valedictorian,

head cheerleader, it was crazy,
I don't know how it happened,

because I never applied myself
for any of these things,

theyjust kind of happened around me.

There was a thing in the '50s,
you got inundated

with all this right-wing material.

But anti-communism seemed to go
hand-in-hand with racial discrimination,

so you'd get all these pictures
of black guys being lynched,

because they'd been seen
talking to a white girl.

This was the right thing, in America.

You had the Ku Klux Klan
and the anti-communists

inundating every
student body leader at the time.

I was just shocked by it,
I thought it was horrifying, awful stuff.

On one hand, you had drag racing,
and cool things like in American Graffiti,

on the other hand, you had
this undercurrent of the Klan

and the right-wingers.

We did feel in the early '60s

that life was changing
and that we'd never go back.

You felt that religion was
becoming a bit of a dodo

and that people were questioning
religious authority

as well as class authority,
as well as any kind of authority.

The most significant moment
in my life was when, 1962,

I was down in London
and we went to see Beyond The Fringe,

and we couldn't get tickets,
only standing tickets,

which I was so grateful for,
cos I just rolled around the wall,

I wouldn't have stayed in a seat.

They made me laugh so hard,

Peter Cook, Alan Bennett,
Jonathan Miller and Dudley Moore.

I didn't realise you could be that funny.

Isn't that fantastic?
Children under ten, twelve-and-six.

That's very cheap, you know?

I agree. It's very cheap.
I think they're probably imported.

- Probably frozen, I should think.
- Or foreign.

Foreign or frozen. You wouldn't get
local children at that price.

I wonder how they prepare them.

I shouldn't think they do.
I should think they spring it on them.

The influence of Peter could hardly,
hardly be exaggerated,

cos this was a guy who'd had, I think,
two separate West End revues running,

totally his material,
while he was still at Cambridge.

I mean, they were so brilliant,
and they attacked everything

that I'd just spent 19 years
being oppressed by.

Royalty, police, authorities, teachers,

every single authority figure was
completely pilloried and destroyed.

And that just... My life just changed.

Peter Cook playing Harold Macmillan
on the stage.

Macmillan came to the show one night,
and Peter goes right off the script

and starts talking, as Macmillan,
to Macmillan.

People said, "He's playing
the Prime Minister!"

It sounds quaint now,
because everybody does.

The government had been in power
13 years,

and the slogan was,
"You've never had it so good."

And so when Peter Cook
did Harold Macmillan on stage,

he completely made them a figure of fun
and redundant,

and not up-to-date, and it was no longer
possible to take them seriously.

And I think that satire, occasionally,
can do things like that.

We shall receive four minutes' warning
of any impending nuclear attack.

Some people said,
"My goodness me,

"four minutes, that's not a very long time."

I would remind those doubters that
some people in this great country of ours

can run a mile in four minutes.

And the government was thrown out
and then Harold Wilson came,

smoking his pipe,
and there were satire shows on telly,

and the whole loosening of...
the way of being of England was changed.

We went from this almost
1950s deferential society

to a society where, suddenly,
people were making jokes about the Queen

and the Prime Minister
and this kind of thing,

it was a completely different atmosphere,
an enormous release of energy.

College was a wonderful time,
it was Occidental College,

very classy little college.

Kids tended to be rich there,
or smart, like I was.

I was there on a scholarship,
a Presbyterian scholarship,

I went on a church scholarship

because at one point,
I was going to be a missionary,

and then I got smart.

At that time, in America,
there was a magazine called Help!

Harvey Kurtzman, who was the guy
that began Mad comics,

was the idol of all of us, of my generation,
the cartoonists, anyway.

I was doing this magazine and
I started emulating Help! with Fang.

He wanted to take over the magazine
and he had all these plans,

it was going to be four issues
instead of two

and it was going to be this, that...
I don't know if he had a budget.

Fang magazine lost money all the time,

and Terry said,
"We can make a change on that."

This is the very first edition.

That was one of his last-minute cartoons.

There wasn't time for him
to do it in pen and ink, so this is pencil,

so he was disappointed
that it didn't come out better than it did.

Before Terry took it over,
it was pretty boring.

It was poetry, and a few cartoons,

and essays and things like that.

Terry wanted to transform it
into something exciting

and really do something with it.

One thing we did,
which I suppose is the beginning

of what eventually became
either animation or film for me,

was we would do fumetti, which basically
is Italian for little puffs of smoke.

And Help! magazine was doing these
and we started doing them in our magazine.

We'd go out and you'd find locations,
you would cast the parts,

you'd get costumes and you'd go
and shoot these little photographs

that tell a story, and then put bubbles.

We just generally used the magazine
to cause mayhem wherever possible,

because one thing about the university was
it was quite a conservative place.

So ourjob was to dismantle all of that
as quickly as possible.

On graduation, the dean,
when handing me my diploma,

said, "Gilliam, you deserve
a good spanking."

I don't know what he really meant, really.

I first met Graham
when we came up as freshers

to Emmanuel College in 1959.

Graham was doing
an undergraduate course

in anatomy, physiology,
biochemistry and pathology,

prior to going to do three clinical years
in a London medical college.

I think, because it seemed the simplest
course for me at the time.

Writing essays and doing
anything artistic in school

for me, called for a little more effort.

Whereas anything to do with science
meant I had to learn things,

and I was reasonably good
at learning things.

I didn't have to create anything.
So it seemed simpler to do that.

I was a little afraid of creating.

I think it's a good training ground
for anything.

You meet all sorts of people,
naturally, in very strange predicaments.

And you do strange things to them
sometimes.

He was also eccentric and rather zany,

and he liked to entertain.

We always had the feeling that he liked
to entertain almost a bit...

He showed off, almost, a little bit.

But he was very amusing,
he would lie down in the road,

smoking his pipe, and refuse to get up
when the cars couldn't get by.

Things like that.

I first met John in 1961 .

He'd come up as a freshman
in 1960 from Clifton.

I supervised him in 1962, 1963.

Oh, John was an admirable,
excellent lawyer.

And I'm bound to say it's
a loss to the legal profession

that he didn't qualify as a lawyer.

I can just see him at the bar,
which he neverjoined,

and then one could equally see him
being elevated to judicial office,

which he never aspired to.

I didn't really enjoy Oxford that much.

I found it a bit daunting, I think.

I sort of liked saying hello to people.

You'd say hello to somebody
and they'd just brush past.

It was also daunting cos you thought,
"Oxford! Everybody's going to be so bright.

"They're going to be
so much cleverer than me."

And then you gradually
realise it's all an illusion,

nobody's cleverer
than anybody else.

When Michael got up to Oxford

I think he was very certain
that he wanted to act

and wanted to do revue.

And he teamed up with another
Brasenose chap called Robert Hewison

and they made a very good early team.

I first met Michael Palin
in the autumn of 1962

when I went up to Brasenose College,
Oxford.

And it just so happened that Michael Palin
was at the same college,

and he was reading the same subject,
which was history.

I was really bluffing my way
through university,

telling my parents I was studying,
and I was studying,

but I used to study in the evening,

and during the day, I was...we were writing,

we were doing cabaret shows,

putting together
30 minutes' worth of material.

Thanks to Robert.
I wouldn't have done this myself.

I didn't know what cabaret was, really.

I thought it was something rather naughty,
involving ladies...

and suspenders and stockings and all that.

But he said, "No, cabaret,
it's just performing.

"If we can put together half an hour's
worth ofjokes, we can make some money."

Robert drew me more
into this theatrical world.

And Terry was in a different college,
but he was doing theatre.

And I remember this dark, intense figure

with a cigarette, then, I think,

and a very old coat
which he wore all the time.

Terry, in those days,
wore this brown lumpy overcoat,

and rode a Vespa, you know, kind of
Lambretta type little motorcycle thing.

- Terry was very cool at the time.
- Really?

Yeah, he was very cool. He had that sort of
dark, kind of Surrey-Welsh look

of someone who clearly was
not sure where he fitted in.

It was kind of mysterious.

And it took me quite a long time
to realise that actually,

A, he was a very good actor,
very talented actor,

and B, he was actually
a very, very funny man.

Robert was very pushy
at getting us to do anything.

- Yeah.
- It was great.

Without him pushing along,

I don't think
I'd probably be doing what I'm doing now.

I suppose, from then on,
we were sort of aware

that all three of us liked
writing and performing,

but particularly writing
as well as the performing.

And I think that some of the first work
I did with Terry

was not acting with him
so much as writing with him.

There's a difference between Oxford
and Cambridge in creating comedy.

And that is that Cambridge, typically,
because it's, I think,

a slightly more scientific university,

had a pretty scientific way
of producing comedians,

this thing called the Footlights Club
which goes back to 1882.

Well, it was an exclusive little club,
really, at the time.

It only had about 25 student,
or undergraduate members,

as they're called in Cambridge.

And you had to be asked
by a member of the club,

a current member, to do an audition.

And then you did an audition
at what they called a smoking concert.

And on the basis of that,
if you got enough laughs,

you were asked to join.

I auditioned for Bill Oddie
and Tim Brooke-Taylor.

And they had the good wit
and grace and talent to discover me,

and put me in a Pembroke smoking concert.

And the first piece of material I did
was written by John Cleese.

And Cleese couldn't be in the show,
cos he was in Fitzwilliam,

or one of those little gay universities,
I don't know what they're called.

So he couldn't be in it,
so the first time I met him,

I'd just performed a piece of his material,

which was a piece called BBC BC,

it was the BBC giving the news,
the Old Testament news,

and I did the weather.

There'll be a plague of locusts
coming in from the northeast,

followed by frogs
and death of all the first-born.

Sorry about that, Egypt.

The great thing about the Footlights
was that we had a club room.

The Oxford guys didn't.
If they wanted to put a show on,

they had to hire a hall and hire a stage

and make curtains work, and find lights.

We had all that.

We had our own bar. It was fantastic.

When everybody else had to go to bed
cos the pubs were closing at 10:30,

we went down the Footlights.

"What'll you have, sir?"
Two or three in the morning,

we could drink as long as we wanted to,
there was lunches catered for.

You could live entirely
through the Footlights.

Producing Oxford comedians
was a much more accidental,

casual, organic way of doing things.

There was a kind of loose organisation,

not nearly as organised as the Footlights,
but basically...for the same end,

which was to produce a revue
for the Edinburgh Festival.

I'd met Eric Idle in Edinburgh,
when he was doing...

I think they did a revue
called My Girl Herbert,

and I knew that John Cleese was around,

because I'd written a monologue
which I did in revue in 1964,

which was...turned out to be almost identical
to something that John had written.

And we'd never collaborated.

Graham and I met auditioning

for the Footlights revue
that would have been 1961 .

And we went out afterwards together
and sat down and had a coffee.

And the extraordinary thing is,
I thought, "I don't like this guy."

And then shortly after, we started
writing together on a regular basis.

I must have completely forgotten
this intuition that I didn't like him.

Isn't that strange?

The first time I ever saw John and Graham

was actually in their revue
at Wyndham's Theatre.

I went along to a matinée.

Graham didn't seem like a performer at all.

It was like he'd wandered on,
and was just sort of on stage

and was wondering why he was there.

"Well, I suppose I must be acting,
I suppose."

And then he'd wander off again.

We went to see our rivals,
the Oxford Revue,

and Terry Jones was in that.

And that was nice, and then
we met them and hooked up,

and, you know, the Oxford-Cambridge...

And a year later, I met Michael Palin,

also in Edinburgh, in Cambridge '64.

And he was really something
to watch on stage,

and clearly really special.

Was it love at first sight?

Or did we just fancy each other secretly,
and across a crowded room,

wait for another 14 or 1 7 years to pass?

It... You know...

It was... There's a recognition when
you see somebody doing something good.

Watching Terry Jones on stage,
it was clear that he was good.

And it was clear he was good in the revue,

and it was clear Michael was good.

Cleese, of course, was outstanding.

I mean, to see Cleese on stage in 1963,

everybody else was being funny.

Cleese was being serious,
and that was so funny.

I mean, he was the only one
who never broke character,

never indicated to you he was being funny,

and he was head and shoulders,
and that's not just height, above the rest.

It was when we were in Edinburgh,
doing that show,

in the hall that we'd hired from
the Parks and Burials Department

of Edinburgh Council,
that I suddenly realised,

"This is something I would really quite like
to do, after I leave university,

"there's a slim, slim possibility
I might do this as a career.

"I'm making people laugh,
we've got full houses every night,

"we've written the stuff,
we've performed it."

But the problem was my parents,
my father particularly,

I couldn't go back and say, "I've decided
to go on the stage and entertain."

He would have just had a fit.

Well, when I left Cambridge in '63
and was going to be a solicitor,

with Freshfields,
solicitors to the Bank of England,

I told them that I was going into
show business...

I didn't say that,
I said, "I'm joining the BBC."

And that was OK, because the BBC
was the same as the Civil Service.

It was respectable, you got a pension,

you had financial security, and that was fine.

Terry actually had a salaried job
at the Beeb, didn't you? In '66?

- Yeah. Yeah. I don't know...
- Script editor?

I don't know what I was doing.
It's one of those mysteries in life.

I'd just accepted a job,
I'd been down for about a year.

Suddenly, Frank Muir's office rang up.

So I went along to Frank Muir's office
in the BBC,

and he said, "We'll give you a job,
for £20 a week,"

which was a huge amount of money,
it seemed like.

And so I had this job,
but I didn't know what it was.

He said, "Well, you can just have
a look around, see what's happening."

And I had two tables, two typewriters,

four telephones, and no idea
what I was meant to be doing.

- So you were doing that.
- Then you...

I was doing a pop show.

I was hosting a pop show on TWW,

in Bristol, actually, where we're going.

I have to thank that programme,
now, for keeping me going,

and for me, being able to tell my parents,
my father particularly,

that I was working in Bristol.

"Oh, who's that for?"
"Television."

"Ah, BBC. Jolly good."

"Well, no, not the BBC.

"It's one of the many
local independent companies."

If he'd actually seen what was going on,
he might have been a bit upset.

But it gave me the chance,
the cover, as it were,

to develop a lot of other interests and ideas.

So I was able, during that time,

thanks to the money
from this one show called Now,

to start writing with Terry Jones at the BBC.

Graham telephoned me one evening,

and said he wanted a chat.

The reason he wanted
to see me was because

he had qualified in medicine,
but he had to make a choice.

The choice was whether or not
to do a houseman's year,

an intern year in hospital, and become
registered with the General Medical Council,

or whether Graham would go to Ibiza
and write sketches with John Cleese.

He chose to go to Ibiza,

and I'm sure, for him,
that was the right choice.

Terry decided that, after he graduated,

that he wanted us to keep doing
what we were doing,

we could make some money selling stuff
to Harvey Kurtzman's magazine.

So he decided he was going
to go to New York

and find Harvey Kurtzman,
who was our idol.

So I came to New York and managed
to have a meeting with him,

I walked in, it was the Algonquin Hotel.

He wasn't there, but it was full
of all my favourite cartoonists,

all the people that had worked for Mad
and were now working for Harvey.

These were my gods,
and they were all in the room,

and Harvey turns up a little bit later,

and Chuck Alverson, who was the
assistant editor at that time, was quitting,

and they needed somebody to take his job
and that was me.

I just walked into the job out of nowhere.

And that was when he came back,
at the beginning of my senior year,

and sat down in the dorm
and told us that he had gotten a job,

working for Harvey Kurtzman.

You know, which to me
was just like, you know,

ascending Mount Olympus

and getting a job working for Zeus,
or something like that!

It was, like, unthinkable that people like us
could be doing things like that,

but Terryjust saw, "Yeah, we can do that."

Help! magazine, in that sense,
was the beginning of my connection

with what would become Python,
because we had written a story

about a man who falls in love
with his daughter's Barbie doll.

About that time, Terry and I
went to Greenwich Village

to see this show that had opened
called Cambridge Circus.

It was playing in Greenwich Village,
it was comedy from England,

and it was supposed to be really funny,
so we went, and it was hilarious.

And there was this guy in the show
named John Cleese.

Terry met me and he said, basically,
"I like the faces you pull."

Which is very, very complimentary.
People used to say it to Laurence Olivier.

"You know, Sir Larry,
love the faces you pull."

John, of course, stood out
in every possible way from the crowd,

and I got him to appear in this,
and that was the beginning of a friendship.

And so when Terry, later on,
wound up in England,

many years later,
he hooked up with John again,

and the rest is history.

I think that the show
that really focused us all on television

was That Was The Week That Was,

because it was an extraordinary event,

people now can't realise
how epoch-shattering it was

in that very deferential culture
that still existed in England.

One you may have missed this week

in the Radio Times, in Woman's Hour,

What I've Been Doing, by Cecilia Bevan,
mother of 13 children.

David Frost has always been
extremely good to me,

I have to tell you,

and I suppose I had enough talent,
but he saved me so much time.

And he used to phone me
every couple of months.

We'd stayed not exactly friends but
acquaintances, professional friends.

And he'd set up the satire boom,
in That Was The Week That Was,

and he's doing
this smart Cambridge satire.

I'd written two or three things
for That Was The Week That Was,

which was great excitement.

And he used to ring me up,
always from the airport,

and I remember him calling
and, "Oh, hello, David," I said.

He said, "Hello, how are you?"
I said, "Fine, how are you?"

He said, "Super, super, super, super."

"Oh," he said, "would you like
to be in a television series?"

And I said, "What?" He said,
"Well, I'm doing a new television series,

"it's going to be super,
with Ronnie Barker and Ronnie Corbett.

"You won't know them yet,
but it will be great fun.

"We're going to start in the spring.
Would you like to be in it?"

And I said, "Yes, please!"

And he said, "Super! Super! Oh, I have
to go now, they've called my flight."

And I said, "I think you... Did that happen?"

Whilst the pop show in Bristol
was keeping me in funds,

it was actually The Frost Report
which gave me,

really, the important breakthrough
as a writer.

So we all wrote for that.
He came to us as a pool of talent.

And the next thing I knew,
I was rehearsing with the Ronnies.

The entire Python team
were writing The Frost Report.

And that's really where I knew them all

and what made Ron and I
feel part of their outfit.

Does it hurt you if I do this?

- Of course it does, I mean...
- You see, it hurts.

- Still...
- Quite. But it's not...

No, it isn't, is it?

What was so good about David is,
if he trusted you, he trusted you.

He just let you get on with it.

And you would be writing a show
that was going out live that night.

I know what adrenaline looks like.

I remember being in the pub,
the Sun In Splendour, on Portobello Road,

writing a joke, putting it in the taxi,

going back and there it is on television.

And I thought, "Whoa! That was kinda cool."

It was a very good experience.

Mike and Terry wrote, usually, the piece

that was the film insert of the week,
sort of three-minute piece,

and Eric often wrote solos
for Ronnie Barker,

and Gray and I usually wrote
one of the big sketches of the week

which probably all three of us, the
Two Ronnies and I, performed together.

What exactly were you doing
on the night of the 14th of October?

We pulled some birds,
slapped 'em back to the drum,

bit of a giggle, all down to larking,
all that carry-on.

Now, look here.

I can't understand a word you're saying.

The great thing about The Frost Report,
anybody who had any good input

could come in and work, which is why
the roller caption was so long

and went spinning through
at an enormous rate,

so my parents could never see my name.

Barry Cryer, bless him,
used to refer to the writers' credits

going through at the end of the Frost
programme as the Dead of World War 2.

Well, it did hold on "David Frost"
for rather a long time.

There was no danger of David Frost's
parents being unable to see his name,

put it that way.

Jimmy Gilbert, who was directing
and producing the show, had pity on us,

and started us actually performing,
we did these little film inserts.

And he got us...

That was a way of getting us
a bit more money.

We got paid more for performing.

- 50 quid a...
- Well, 20 quid, I think.

- I don't know.
- ..a day, was it? I got 50.

I think there was a sort of little hiatus
between David and the Python boys.

I think they sort of resented
his entrepreneurial touch.

We gradually began to realise that,
along with Michael Palin and Terry Jones

and Eric Idle, we were actually writing
about 90% of the programme.

Then they went and did
At Last The 1948 Show,

which was the Python team, really,
with Tim Brooke-Taylor.

It was actually David Frost,
to give him his due,

who suggested the show, I think to me.

He didn't want John in it
because he was doing The Frost Report,

but for me, it was essential that John did it.

- Name?
- Gibbon-Posture.

"Possible loony".

Tim was terrific, and terribly, terribly funny
when he was frightened.

Right, well, what are the problems, then?

Well, it's rather embarrassing to say, really.

I don't like to tell people cos I'm frightened
of them laughing at me.

Sometimes I wanted John to react more.

Somebody told him he was a good actor,
the last thing you should tell a comedian.

I want you to feel absolutely
at your ease.

Of course, anything you say to me
will be in the strictest confidence.

I must tell you about the bloke
who was in this morning!

I said to Marty, "He's playing it so subtly."

He said, "Halfway through,
just stamp on his foot."

What's the matter? You come in here...

Well, I did do that, and he got so angry,

but he had to keep going,
because the cameras were going,

and he was absolutely brilliant.

I wouldn't dare do it again.
He's bigger than me.

So will you please tell me,
once and for all,

in God's name, what's the matter with you?

I think I'm a rabbit.

"I think I'm a rabbit!"

It's one of the funniest moments
I've ever seen.

We must have been writing
for The Frost Report,

and Humphrey Barclay said to me,
"I want to do a kids' show.

"I've got this group, the Bonzo Dog Band,
I want you to write it."

And I said, "Well, I want to write it with Mike,
Michael Palin and Terry Jones,

"cos I think we'd be great."

And he said, "OK, then."
So we were a little group of writers.

City editor?

- I've got a great story for you.
- Oh, yes?

- A great story.
- Let's hear it.

Once upon a time,
in the Land of the Wobbly Dum-Dum Tree,

Ricky the Gobbly Pixie
sat beneath the magic oak tree...

That's enough! I'm not interested in
fairy stories! This is a newspaper.

- Miss Perkins, show this lunatic out.
- But I haven't finished.

Come away, ere break of day, to Fairyland!

To the golden shores of Fairyland,
I will lead you, my...

It was kind of a fun show,
because we got to write it,

it was only 23 minutes,
cos it was an ITV half-hour.

The Bonzo Dogs were on every week,

they were the most bizarre
group of people you've ever seen.

There were 14 of them the first week,

then they pruned themselves down
to seven or eight.

You're wanted in the Twilight Zone now, sir.

Thank you, Rigor.

They said, "Go and make
some children's television."

We didn't think about that, we just thought
about making silly television.

And what a lot of fun it was.

They play, you know,
they play the washboard

and they play the hoover.

And they would do really weird and bizarre
situationist songs.

It was Dada, really.
The Doo Dah Band was a Dada band.

And that, I think, influenced us enormously.

I think their influence on Python is huge,

because we were doing
little tight little sketches from Cambridge,

but they were doing weird,
it was situationally weird.

I was still working on magazines

and illustrating and art-directing,

and I said, "Come on.
I gotta get out of magazine work.

"Introduce me to somebody in television."

And that person, ultimately,
was Humphrey Barclay,

who was producing Do Not Adjust Your Set,

which Mike, Terry and Eric were doing.

And we were on our second series,
and this weird guy came in,

with this big...long hair, hairy Afghan coat,

and had been sent by Cleese.

Everybody keeps talking about the legendary
moment when I walked in with my coat.

A man and a coat.
And Eric loved that coat.

I fell in love at first sight.
I just loved that Afghan coat.

And he also had a very cute girlfriend

and there was something about him.

And Michael and Terry went,
"We don't fucking need..."

Like two little rodents
hunched in the corner, all...

You know, their little bit of territory
was threatened

by this man in the coat.

And I don't know why,
I knew there was something about him,

and we brought him into our group.

He hadn't done any experience,
hadn't written sketches,

he'd got a few sketches he'd written
which weren't very funny,

but for some wonderful,
weird, instinctive reason,

I said, "He has to be with us."

And that was really how it all began,

and then the next series
of Do Not Adjust Your Set,

I started doing some animation on that.
We were all stuck together by then.

As far as I was concerned,
we've all got different versions, of course,

Graham and I were writing,
for about 18 months, we just wrote,

cos I'd just married Connie Booth,
she was American,

I did not want to be spending
a lot of time in a studio

when she was a stranger in London.

So I deliberately worked from home
for a year and a half,

and Gray and I wrote a number of scripts.

Our treat for the week
was always to turn on,

I think it was Thursday afternoon,
about 4:30,

Do Not Adjust Your Set, which,
for us, was the funniest thing on television.

It's time for Party Games.

Here are some exciting games
you can play this Christmas.

First, from Terry, here's the A and B game.

Well, all the teams are divided -
guests, I should say -

are divided into two teams, A and B.

And B are the winners.

Well, you can make it
more complicated if you want to.

We'd done two series
of Do Not Adjust Your Set.

There was discussion
about doing another series.

I didn't want to do it, cos I was fed up
with the way it was being directed.

Eventually, because we knew them
from The Frost Report,

we rang them up and said, "Well,
why don't we do something together?"

And they were a bit snotty,

cos they'd just had an offer from
Philip Jones at Thames Television.

They said, "You've been so good,
done two seasons,

"adults are coming home at 5:25 to see
your show, you're getting huge ratings,

"we want to give you a grown-up show.

"The only trouble is,
we have no studio for two years."

So when John suggested doing something
together, we said, "Yes, please!"

And, "Can we bring Eric along?
And Terry Gilliam?"

John wanted to work with Mike.

And it's as simple as that.
Everybody wanted to work with Mike.

And that was the beginning,
and we tagged along.

And I think it's really happenstance
that that group came together.

I don't think it was hand-picked
or selected in any way.

It sort of fell onto the table and it worked.

It's...