Monty Python's Flying Circus tonight comes to you live
from the Grillomat Snack Bar, Paignton.
Hello to you live from the Grillomat Snack Bar, Paignton.
And so, without any more ado, let's have the titles.
It's...
Well, those were the titles.
And now for the first item this evening on the Menu - ha ha -
the team have chosen as a little hors d'oeuvres an item
and I think we can be sure it won't be an ordinary item
in fact the team told me just before the show that anything could happen, and probably would
so let's have ... the item.
Hello, good evening, and welcome to 'Blackmail'!
And to start tonight's programme, we go North to Preston in Lancashire,
and Mrs Betty Teal!
Hello, Mrs Teal!
Now this is for £15
and it's to stop us revealing the name of your lover in Bolton.
So Mrs Teal...if you send us £15 by return of post, please,
and your husband Trevor, and your lovely children, Diane, Janice and Juliet
need never know the name of your lover in Bolton.
And now...a letter... a hotel registration book...
and a series of photographs... which could add up to divorce,
premature retirement, and possible criminal proceedings
for a company director in Bromsgrove.
He's a freemason, and prospective Tory MP.
That's Mr S. of Bromsgrove... £3000...
... to stop us from revealing your name, the name of the three other people involved,
the youth organization to which they belong,
and the shop where you bought the equipment.
We'll be showing you more of that photograph later in the programme...
unless we hear from Charles or Michael.
And now it's time for our 'Stop the Film' spot!
The rules are very simple. We have taken a film which contains compromising scenes and unpleasant details,
which could wreck a man's career.
But, the victim may phone me at any point and stop the film.
But remember the money increases as the film goes on.
So the longer you leave it... the more you have to pay!
So now, with the clock at £300
this week 'Stop the Film' visited Thames Ditton...
He's being very brave here...
Hello, sir, hello, yes.
No sir, no, I'm sure you didn't.
No, it's all right, sir, we don't morally censure, we just want the money.
Yes, here's the address to send it to:
Not at all, sir...thank you.
Sorry chaps, it was my mother.
Gentlemen, pray silence
for the President of the Royal Society
for Putting Things on Top of Other Things.
I thank you, gentlemen.
The year has been a good one for the Society
(hear, hear)
This year our members have put more things on top of other things
than ever before.
But, I should warn you, this is no time for complacency.
No, there are still many things,
and I cannot emphasize this too strongly, not on top of other things.
I myself, on my way here this evening,
saw a thing that was not on top of another thing in any way.
(shame!)
Shame indeed but we must not allow ourselves to become too despondent.
For, we must never forget that if there was not one thing that was not on top of another thing
our society would be nothing more than a meaningless body
of men that had gathered together for no good purpose.
But we flourish.
This year our Australasian members
and the various organizations affiliated
to our Australasian branches
put no fewer than twenty-two things on top of other things.
Well done all of you.
But there is one cloud on the horizon.
In this last year our Staffordshire branch
has not succeeded in putting one thing on top of another!
(shame!)
Therefore I call upon our Staffordshire delegate
to explain this weird behaviour.
Er, Cutler, Staffordshire.
Um ... well, Mr Chairman, it's just that most of the members in Staffordshire
feel... the whole thing's a bit silly.
Silly! SILLY!!
Silly! I suppose it is, a bit.
What have we been doing wasting our lives with all this nonsense? Right, okay, meeting adjourned for ever.
Good Lord. I'm on film.
How did that happen?
It's film again. What's going on?
Gentlemen! I have bad news.
This room is surrounded by film.
We're trapped!
Don't panic, we'll get out of this. We'll tunnel our way out.
Good thinking, sir. I'll get the horse.
Okay Captain, you detail three men, start digging and load them up with cutlery,
and then we'll have a rota, we'll have two hours digging, two hours vaulting and then two hours sleeping, okay?
All right, Medwin, let's see you get over that horse. Pick your feet up, Medwin. Come on, boy!
Ze stupid English. Zey are prisoners and all they do is the sport.
- One thing worries me, Fritz. - Ja?
Where's the traditional cheeky and lovable Cockney sergeant?
Cheer up, Fritz, it may never happen.
Good. Everything seems to be in order.
- Colonel! I've found another exit, sir. - Okay, quickly, run this way.
If we could run that way... Sorry.
Oh, I'm terribly sorry, excuse me.
Ah, hello. Well they certainly seem to be in a tight spot,
and I spot... our next item
so let's get straight on with the fun and go over to the next item
or dish! Ha ha!
Hello. 'Ow are you?
I'm fine.
Welcome to a new half-hour chat show
in which me, viz the man what's talking to you now, and Brooky - to wit my flat mate -
and nothing else, I'd like to emphasize that, discuss current affairs issues of burning import.
- Have you heard the one about the 3 nuns in the nudist colony? - Shut up. Tonight, the population explosion.
- Apparently there were these 3 nuns... - Shut up.
Come the year 1991, given the present rate of increase in the world's population,
the Chinese will be three deep. Another thing...
Sorry, loves, sorry, the show is too long this week and this scene's been cut.
Lord Hill's at the bottom of this.
But if you can find a piano stool you can appear later on in the show on film.
- 'Ow much? - Oh, about ten bob each?
- I wouldn't wipe me nose on it. - 'Ave you 'eard the one about these 3 nuns...
Shh. I can hear something.
'Ang about, we may still get in this show as a link.
- That's clever. How do they do that? - Colour separation, you cotton head.
No, that's not right.
Oh, what's this?
- 'lo British pig, we meet again! - What?
That bitch! He spilled the entire bottle of Chateau la Tour.
- Everything? - It's a disaster!
- Over here, Sir William. - Sir William, over here.
Now, stay there!
How do we get out of this?
No idea.
- Don't jump! - What?
- Don't jump! - The firemen are coming!
- What? - The firemen, don't jump!
- What? - Don't jump!
My god, he's coming back!
Well, they seem to be in another tight spot.
Could you...could you, could you keep it down a little, please?
Thank you so much.
Could you keep it down please...
Thank you.
Well and now we move on to our, main course. Prawn salad...
Prawn salad?
Well, if you'll just wait in here, sir,
I'm sure Mr Thompson won't keep you waiting long.
Fine. Thanks very much.
The mirror fell off the wall.
Sir?
The mirror fell off... off the wall... it fell.
I see. You'd better wait here.
I'll get a cloth.
- Ah, it ... it came off the wall. - Yes, sir?
- It just came right off the wall. - Really, sir.
Yes, I ... I didn't touch it.
Of course not. It just fell off the wall.
Yes. It just fell off the wall.
Don't move. I'll get help.
Yes - er, fell off the wall.
Oh my God, what a mess.
- 'Ere, did you do this? - No, no. I didn't do all this. It... it did it all.
Oh? Well...
'ere, hold this. I'll get started.
Oh, it's jolly nice. What is it?
It's a Brazilian dagger. Ooops!
Er, she just fell on... on to the dagger.
- Yes, of course she did, sir. - Yes,
just gave me the dagger and tripped, and went, 'Oops'.
- Yes sir, I understand. - I mean, I didn't er...
Oh no, no, of course not, sir, I understand.
- I mean she ... she just, er... - Fell?
I'm terribly sorry.
- That's him. - Right, sir.
Hello, officer. There seems to have been an accident.
Well, several accidents actually.
That's right, sir. Would you come this way, please.
Ahh! It's me ... me heart, sir.
You swine. I'll get you for that.
Er, I won't wait.
I'll phone.
Sorry.
I think we're really out this time. Yes. Jolly good.
Now where's the school hall?
- I think it's over there. - Come on. Sorry. Jolly good.
'Oh, Mr Belpit.
Your legs are so swollen.'
Excuse me, is that the school hall?
Um, I'm sorry, I don't know.
I'm not in this one, I'm in next week's, I think.
Oh, come on.
'Oh, Mr Belpit! ...'
Oh, here we are.
Ah well, they seem to have linked that themselves,
so there's no need for me to interrupt at all.
So, ah, back to the school hall.
'Seven Brides for Seven Brothers'.
'Tis time the seven Smith brothers had brides.
Fetch me Smith Major.
Sir.
'Tis time you and your six brothers were married.
Thank you, Headmaster.
Fetch me your six brothers, that the seven brothers may be together.
Behold, the seven brothers.
Right, I'll see Watson, Wilkins, and Spratt
in my study afterwards.
But...
where shall we find seven brides for seven brothers?
The Sabine School for Girls.
Yes, and it's the Annual Dance.
Fetch hither the seven brides for seven brothers.
Behold the seven brides.
Fetch hither the padre that the seven brides
may marry the seven brothers.
Fetch hither the master on duty that the seven brides
may marry the seven brothers.
Sorry, I'm late, Headmaster - I've been wrestling with Plato.
What you do in your own time, Padre, is written on the wall in the vestry.
Right, do you 4 boys...
take these 2 girls to be your 7 brides?
- Yes, sir. - Right, go and do your prep.
- I say, Teddy. - You said something, Neddy?
- That's right, I did, Teddy. - Well what is it, Neddy?
Piggybanks, Teddy.
Piggybanks, Neddy?
Yes, I want to hunt piggybanks, Teddy.
- You want to hunt piggybanks, Neddy? - That's right, Teddy.
- I got him, Teddy. - Time to bring home the bacon, Neddy.
That's not bacon, that's sirloin, Teddy.
Can't be sirloin! Not from a piggy, Neddy.
- But that's sirloin, Teddy. - No it isn't, Neddy.
- Is, Teddy. - Isn't, Neddy.
- Is, Teddy. - Hmm... Looks like I've been playing the fool, Neddy.
- That's all right, Teddy. - Thanks, Neddy.
Doesn't matter at all...
Good morning, I'd care to purchase a chicken, please.
Don't come here with that posh talk you nasty, stuck-up twit.
- I beg your pardon? - A chicken, sir. Certainly.
Thank you. And how much does that work out to per pound, my good fellow?
Per pound, you slimy trollop, what kind of a ponce are you?
- I'm sorry? - 4/6 a pound, sir, nice and ready for roasting.
I see, and I'd care to purchase some stuffing in addition, please.
Use your own, you great poofy poonagger!
- What? - Ah, certainly sir, some stuffing.
- Oh, thank you. - 'Oh, thank you' says the great queen
like a la-di-dah poofta.
- I beg your pardon? - That's all right, sir, call again.
- Excuse me. - What is it now, you great pillock?
Well, I can't help noticing that you insult me and then you're polite to me alternately.
I'm terribly sorry to hear that, sir.
- That's all right. It doesn't really matter. - Tough titty if it did, you nasty spotted prancer.
Sorry, I asked for tea.
Thank you very much.
Well we've had the dessert and then,
and so the first item,
the last item on our menu of fun is the coffee.
- Now I did ask for tea. - But you just said coffee.
No, no, that was just my announcement, just a metaphor.
We come... look would you mind keeping it down, please...
we come as - as I said just now, to the coffee.
- Here, he said it again! - Shut up!
This is Ken Clean-Air Systems, the great white hope of the British boxing world.
After three fights, and only two convictions,
his manager believes that Ken is now ready to face the giant American, Satellite Five.
The great thing about Ken is that he's almost totally stupid.
Every morning, he jogs the 47 miles from his 2-bedroomed, 8-bathroom, 6-up-2-down, 3-to-go-house in Reigate,
to the Government's Pesticide Research Centre at Shoreham.
Nobody knows why.
Basically Ken is a very gentle, home-loving person.
I remember when one of his stick insects had a knee infection.
He stayed up all night rubbing it with germoline and banging its head on the table.
Oh he was such a pretty baby,
always so kind and gentle. He was really considerate to his mother,
and not at all the kind of person
you'd expect to pulverize their opponent
into a bloody mass of flesh and raw bone, spitting teeth and fragments of gum
into a ring which had become one man's hell and Ken's glory.
Every morning at his little 3-room semi near Reading, Ken gets up at three o'dock
and goes back to bed again because it's far too early.
At seven o'clock Ken gets up, he has a quick shower, a rub-down,
gets into his track-suit, and goes back to bed again.
At 7.50 every morning Ken's trainer
runs the 13,000 miles from his 2-room lean-to in Bangkok
and gets him up.
I used to wake Ken up with a crowbar on the back of the head.
But I recently found that this was too far from his brain
and I wasn't getting through to him anymore.
So I now wake him up with a steel peg driven into his skull with a mallet.
For breakfast every day,
Ken places a plate of liver and bacon under his chair,
and locks himself in the cupboard.
Well, he's having a lot of mental difficulties with his breakfasts,
but this is temperament,
caused by a small particle of brain in his skull,
and once we've removed that he'll be perfectly all right.
At 8.30 the real training begins.
Ken goes back to bed and his trainer gets him up.
At 10.30 every morning Ken arrives at what he thinks is the gym.
Sometimes it's a sweetshop, sometimes it's a private house. Today it's a hospital.
Urn, straight down there.
Straight down there.
For lunch, Ken crouches down beside the road
and rubs gravel into his hair.
But lunch doesn't take long.
Ken's soon up on his feet and back to bed.
And his trainer has to run the 49,000 miles from his 2-bedroom, 6-living-room tree-house
in Kyoto to wake him up.
Hello. When Ken is in a really deep sleep like this one,
the only way to wake him up is to saw his head off.
What is he like in the ring, this human dynamo,
this 18-stone bantam weight battering-ram?
We asked his sparring partner and one-time childhood sweetheart,
Maureen Spencer.
Well, I think that if Ken keeps his right up,
gets in with the left jab and takes the fight to his man,
well, he should go for a cut eye in the 3rd and put Wilcox on the canvas by 6th.
Ken's opponent in Tuesday's fight is Petula Wilcox,
the Birmingham girl who was a shorthand typist before turning pro in 1968.
She's keen on knitting and likes Cliff Richard records.
How does she rate her chances against Ken?
Well, I'm a southpaw and I think this will confuse him,
particularly with his brain problem.
My lords, ladies and gedderbong!
On my right, from the town of Reigate
in the county of Kent, the heavyweight...
Mr Ken Clean-Air Systems!...
and on my left, Miss Petula Wilcox.
I think boxing's a splendid sport - teaches you self-defense.
Obviously boxing must have its limits,
but providing they're both perfectly fit I can see nothing wrong with one healthy man
beating the living daylights out of a little schoolgirl; it's quick and it's fun.
Oh, no, he's gone. But he left a message.
Jack! Where's that note that fellow left?
Oh, here you are.
It says...
'Sorry, had to catch the last bus.
Am on the 49b to Babbacombe.'
Oh, er, there you are. Hello.
You got the note, jolly good.
Well, um, that's all the items that we have for you this week
and er, what a jolly nice lot of items too, eh?
Um...well, the same team will be back with you again next week with another menu full of items.
Um...I don't know if I shall be introducing the show next week
as I understand that my bits in this show
have not been received quite as well as they might
but er, never mind, the damage is done
- no use in crying over spilt milk.
I've had my chance and I've muffed it.
Anyway, there we are.
I'm not really awfully good with words. You see, I'm more of a visual performer.
I have a very funny - though I say so myself - very funny funny walk.
I wish I'd been in that show. I'd have done rather well.
But anyway, there we are - the show's over.
And...we'll all be - they'll all be back with you again next week...
Sorry.
I do beg your pardon.
I don't like these... displays of emotion.
... I wish it would say the end.