When I created Monty Python's Flying Circus in 1964,
I conceived it primarily as a showcase for my talents.
But a couple of my friends, Eric Idle and Michael Palin,
wanted to join in,
so I said they could take on some of the roles
that I didn't think were, you know, really stretching me.
And then I bumped into John Cleese.
I think he was standing in the dole queue. Actually, he looked a bit desperate.
I don't think he'd worked since The Frost Report and
I don't think he could even afford a hair transplant.
So, I said he could come and make tea for the rest of us.
And Graham Chapman was standing in the queue behind him
and he claimed to be John's psychologist
and he said it wasn't safe for John to make tea on his own,
so Graham came along as well.
And in those days Terry Gilliam was hanging around rather a lot,
and, well, you know, I can spot talent when I see it.
So I said Terry could come and join the group as a cupboard.
And he was really useful.
I mean, we used to put things in him when we arrived at rehearsals.
You know, umbrellas and satchels,
large rock cakes and bits of industrial ceramic.
So that's really how Monty Python's Flying Circus came about.
Monty Python is, of course, an anagram of Terry Jones.
I've never mentioned that before.
So here's my master selection of the best of Monty Python.
Let's kick off with one of my favourite sketches.
It's one I wrote to show off my powers of mimicry
and my wide range of accents.
You know, Welsh, Scottish, Welsh, Irish,
English, Welsh... You name it.
It's a sketch that's world famous now, of course.
And it's probably one of your favourites, too.
It's the "Chicken in the Shed" sketch.
This man is Ernest Scribbler, writer of jokes.
In a few moments, he will have written the funniest joke in the world.
And, as a consequence, he will die laughing.
This morning, shortly after 11:00,
comedy struck this little house in Dibley Road.
Sudden, violent comedy.
Police have sealed off the area
and Scotland Yard's crack inspector is with me now.
I shall enter the house and attempt to remove the joke.
I shall be aided by the sound of sombre music
played on gramophone records,
and also by the chanting of laments by the men of Q Division.
Well, there goes a brave man.
Whether he comes out alive or not, this will surely be remembered
as one of the most courageous and gallant acts in police history.
It was not long before the Army became interested
in the military potential of the Killer Joke.
Under top security, the Joke was hurried to a meeting
of Allied Commanders at the Ministry of War.
Tests on Salisbury Plain confirmed the Jake's devastating effectiveness
at a range of up to 50 yards.
All through the winter of '43,
we had translators working in Joke-proof conditions
to try and produce a German version of the Joke.
They worked on one word each for greater safety.
One of them saw two words of the Joke and spent several weeks in hospital.
But apart from that things went pretty quickly.
And we soon had the Joke by January
in a form which our troops couldn't understand,
but which the Germans could.
So, on July 8, 1944,
the Joke was first told to the enemy in the Ardennes.
It was a fantastic success.
Over 60,000 times as powerful as Britain's great pre-war joke.
And one which Hitler just couldn't match.
German casualties were appalling.
I can only give you name, rank and "why did the chicken cross the road."
That's not funny!
I want to know the Joke.
All right.
How do you make a Nazi cross?
I don't know. How do you make a Nazi cross?
Tread on his corns.
That's not funny!
Now, if you don't tell me the Joke,
I shall hit you properly!
- I can stand physical pain, you know. - You're no fun.
All right, Otto!
Oh, no. No, anything but that, please.
Tickle him.
All right, I'll tell you.
Quick, Otto, the typewriter.
That's not funny!
In the autumn of '44,
the Germans were working on a joke of their own.
We'll let you know.
But by December their joke was ready
and Hitler gave the order for the German V-Joke to be broadcast in English.
There were drei peanuts walking down the Strasse
and one was assaulted
peanut.
In 1945, peace broke out.
It was the end of the Joke.
Joke warfare was banned
at a special session of the Geneva Convention.
And in 1950, the last remaining copy of the Joke
was laid to rest here in the Berkshire countryside,
never to be told again.
Isn't it Awfully Nice to Have a Penis, The Galaxy Song,
and of course, Always Look on the Bright Side of Life.
You know, these are some of the great numbers that I have penned.
But, you know, what I admire so much about my writing
is the way I can make one word follow another without
ever getting a word in the wrong place
or not making socks... Sense.
So here's another musical number of mine.
And I think it shows off my juggling rather well.
- Hello. Mr and Mrs Concrete? - Yes.
Well, well, well, well, well, well,
well, well, well, well, well,
how very nice.
Allow me to introduce myself.
I am Leslie Ames, the Chairman of the Test Selection Committee.
And I'm very pleased to be able to tell you
that your flat has been chosen as the venue for the third test against the West Indies.
- Really? - No, it was just a little joke.
- Actually, I'm the Council rat catcher. - Oh, yes, we've been expecting you.
Oh, I gather you've got a little rodental problem.
Oh, blimey, yes,
they keep us awake all the night, scrabbling down by the wainscotting.
That's an interesting word, isn't it?
- What? - Wainscotting.
Wainscotting. Wainscotting.
Sounds like a little Dorset village.
We've been mentioned on telly.
Now, where is it worst?
Well, down here. You can usually hear them.
No, that's sheep you've got there.
- Bit of a puzzle, really. - Is it?
Yeah, well, I mean it's, A, not going to respond to a nice piece of cheese,
and, B, it isn't going to fit into a trap.
- What you gonna do? - Well, we'll have to look for the hole.
Oh, yeah.
- Oi! There's one here. - No, no, no, no, that's mice.
Oh! This is what we're after.
Excuse me, is the third test in here?
No, no, that was a joke! It was a joke.
Right. Well, I'm going in the wainscotting.
They said it again.
Lay down some sheep poison.
It's got a gun!
- Blimey. - Now, normally a sheep is a placid,
timid creature, but you've got a killer.
But soon, the killer sheep began to infect other animals with its startling intelligence.
Pussy cats began to arrange mortgages,
cooker spaniels began to design supermarkets.
And parrots started to announce television programs.
It's 8:00 and time for the news.
Good evening. Here is the news for parrots.
No parrots were involved in an accident on the M1 today
when a lorry carrying high-octane fuel was in collision with a bollard.
That is a bollard and not a parrot.
A spokesman for parrots said he was glad no parrots were involved.
The Minister of Technology today met the three Russian leaders
to discuss a £4 million airliner deal.
None of them went in the cage or swung on the little wooden trapeze
or ate any of the nice millet seed. Yum, yum.
That's the end of the news.
Now our programs for parrots continue with Part 3 of A Tale of Two Cities,
specially adapted for parrots by Joey Boy.
The story so far, Dr Manette is in England after 18 years in the Bastille.
His daughter, Lucie, awaits her lover, Charles Damay,
whom we have just learnt is in fact the nephew of the Marquis St Evremonde,
whose cruelty had placed Manette in the Bastille.
Darnay arrives to find Lucie tending her aged father.
Hello! Hello!
- Hello! Hello! Hello! - Who's a pretty boy, then?
Who's a pretty boy?
Hello! Hello!
Oh, Dad. Look who's come to see us. It's our Ken.
Aye, and about bloody time if you ask me.
Aren't you pleased to see me, Father?
Yes, of course he's pleased to see you, Ken.
All right, woman, all right, I've got a tonguein me head. I'll do the talking.
I like your fancy suit.
Is that what they're wearing up in Yorkshire now?
It's just an ordinary suit, Father.
It's all I've got apart from the overalls.
- How are you liking it down the mine, Ken? - Oh, it's not too bad, Mum.
We're using some new tungsten carbide drills
for the preliminary coal-face scouring operations.
- Oh, that sounds nice, dear. - Tungsten carbide drills!
What the bloody hell is tungsten carbide drills?
It's something they use in coal mining, Father.
"It's something they use in coal mining, Father."
Your bloody fancy talk since you left London.
- Not that again. - He's had a hard day, dear.
His new play opens at National Theatre tomorrow.
Oh, that's good.
Good? Good? What do you know about it?
What do you know about getting up at 5:00 in the morning to fly to Paris,
back at the Old Vic for drinks at 12:00,
sweating the day through, press interviews, television interviews,
then getting back here at 10:00 to wrestle
with the problem of an homosexual, nymphomaniac drug addict
involved in the ritual murder of a well-known Scottish footballer?
That's a full working day, lad, and don't you forget it!
Oh, don't shout at the boy, Father.
Hampstead wasn't good enough for you, was it?
You had to go poncing off to Barnsley.
You and your coal-mining friends.
Coal mining is a wonderful thing, Father.
But it's something you'll never understand. Just look at you!
Oh, Ken! Be careful! You know what he's like after a few novels.
Come on, lad. Come on. Out with it.
What's wrong with me? You tit!
I'll tell you what's wrong with you.
Your head's addled with novels and poems.
You come home every evening reeling of Château Latour.
- Oh, don't, don't. - And look what you've done to Mother!
She's worn out with meeting film stars,
attending premieres and giving gala luncheons.
There's nowt wrong with gala luncheons, lad!
I've had more gala luncheons than you've had hot dinners!
Oh, please! Please.
- Oh, no! - What is it?
Oh, it's his writer's cramp.
- You never told me about this. - No, we didn't like to, Kenny.
I'm all right. I'm all right, woman. Just get him out of here.
- Oh, Ken, you'd better go. - All right. I'm going.
After all we've done for him.
One day you'll realise there's more to life than culture.
- There's dirt and smoke... - Get out!
- ...and good honest sweat! - Get out! Get out, you labourer!
Hey, you know, Mother, I think there's a play there.
- Get Agent on the phone. - Aye, I think you're right, Frank,
it could express... It could express a vital theme of our age.
Aye.
Oh, shut up! Shut up!
Oh, that's better.
This new housing development in Bristol
is one of the most interesting in the country.
It's the first major housing project in Britain to be built entirely by characters
from 19th century English literature.
Here, Little Nell, from Dickens' Old Curiosity Shop,
fits new nylon siphons into the asbestos-lined ceilings.
But it's the electrical system which has attracted the most attention.
Because, sir, it is self-generating.
Because we have harnessed here, in this box,
the very forces of life itself.
The very forces that will send Helen running back to beg forgiveness.
But even more modern building techniques are being used
on an expanding new town site near Peterborough.
Here, the Amazing Mystico and Janet can put up a block of flats
by hypnosis in under a minute.
The local Council here have over 50 hypnosis-induced 25-storey blocks
put up by El Mystico and Janet.
I asked Mr Ken Very Big Liar
the advantages of hypnosis compared to other building methods.
There is a considerable financial advantage
in using the services of El Mystico.
A block, like Mystico Point here,
would normally cost in the region of £1.5 million pounds.
This was put up for £5 and 30 bob for Janet.
But the obvious question is, are they safe?
Of course they're safe. There's absolutely no doubt about that.
They're as strong, solid and as safe
as any other building method in this country,
provided, of course, people believe in them.
We received a note from the Council
saying that if we ceased to believe in this building, it would fall down.
You don't mind living in a figment of another man's imagination?
No, it's much better than where we used to live.
Where did you used to live?
We had an 18-room villa overlooking Nice.
- Really? That sounds much better. - Oh, yeah, you're right.
Oh, no, no, no, of course not.
Phew. That was close.
Here, as with so many great men of history, the answer lies in a woman.
As Antony has his Cleopatra,
as Napoleon has his Josephine,
so Mystico has his Janet.
Yes, Janet. A quiet, shy girl,
an honours graduate from Harvard University,
American junior sprint record holder,
ex-world skating champion,
Nobel Prize winner, architect, novelist and surgeon.
The girl who helped crack the Oppenheimer spy ring in 1947.
She gave vital evidence to the Senate Narcotics Commission in 1958.
And in 1967, she became suspicious of the man at the garage.
And it was her dogged perseverance and relentless enquiries
that, two years later, finally secured his conviction
for not having a license for his car radio.
He was hanged at Leeds a year later
despite the abolition of capital punishment and the public outcry.
We admit there have been outbreaks of hanging recently,
but the police are trying to keep the situation under control.
You must remember the courts are very busy at the moment
and the odd death sentence is bound to slip through.
Electrocutions are another big worry.
But we hope that guillotining
has been eradicated from the urban areas,
and garroting is confined almost entirely to Luton.
So, if you have a friend in prison
or under the sentence of death, be sure to let us know at this address.
This man is no ordinary man.
This is Mr F.G. Superman.
To all appearances, no different from any other law abiding citizen.
But Mr F.G. Superman has a secret identity.
When trouble strikes at anytime, at any place,
he is ready to become Bicycle Repair Man.
Hey, there's a bicycle broken. Up the road.
This,
this sounds like a job for Bicycle Repair Man.
But how to change without revealing my secret identity?
- If only Bicycle Repair Man were here. - Oh, yeah.
Wait!
I think I know where I can find him. Look!
- Bicycle Repair Man! But how? - Bicycle Repair Man! But how?
Oh, look!
Is it a stockbroker?
- Is it a quantity surveyor? - Is it a church warden?
- No! It's Bicycle Repair Man! - No! It's Bicycle Repair Man!
Why, Bicycle Repair Man!
Thank goodness you've come. Look.
Why, he's mending it with his own hands!
See how he uses a spanner to tighten that nut.
Bicycle Repair Man, how can I ever repay you?
Oh, you don't need to, guv. It's all right.
It's all in a day's work for Bicycle Repair Man.
- Our hero! - Our hero!
Yes, wherever bicycles are broken or menaced by international communism,
Bicycle Repair Man is ready.
Ready to smash the communists, wipe the map,
and shove them off the face of the earth.
Mash that dirty red scum!
Kick them in the teeth where it hurts!
Kill! Kill! Kill!
Filthy bastard commies! I hate them! I hate them!
Norman! Tea's ready.
Coming, dear.
Hello. Good afternoon and welcome to the second leg of the Olympic final
of the men's Hide and Seek here in the heart of Britain's London.
We'll be starting in just a couple of moments from now.
And there you can see the two competitors, Francisco Huron, the Paraguayan,
who in this leg is the seeker, and there's the man he'll be looking for,
our own Don Roberts from Hinckley in Leicestershire,
who, his trainer tells me, is at the height of his self-secreting form.
Well, if you remember now in the first leg, which ended on Wednesday,
Don succeeded in finding the Paraguayan
in the new world record time
of 11 years, two months, 26 days, nine hours,
three minutes, 27.4 seconds, in a sweetshop in Kilmarnock.
And now they're under starter's orders.
On your marks! Get set!
Well, Don's off to a really great start there.
Remember the Paraguayan has got 11 years, two months, 26 days,
nine hours three minutes, 27.4 seconds to beat.
Coming!
Well, we'll be taking you back there as soon as there are any developments.
Well, we've just heard that something is happening in the Hide and Seek final,
so let's go straight over there.
Hello again, and welcome to Madagascar,
where Francisco Huron is seeking Don Roberts.
And I've just been told that he has been unofficially described as "cold."
Wait a minute.
I've just been told that Huron has requested a plane ticket to Budapest,
so he's definitely getting warmer.
So we'll be back again in just a few years.
Really beginning to hot up now.
Here we are on the very last day of this fantastic final.
Huron now has less than 12 hours left to find British ace Don Roberts.
Early this morning, he finished combing the outskirts of Lisbon
and now he seems to have staked everything
on one final desperate seek here in the Tagus Valley.
But Roberts is over 1,500 miles away,
and it's beginning to look all over, bar the shouting.
The sands of time are running out for this delving dago,
this saviour of seek, this perspicacious Paraguayan.
He's still desperately cold
and it's beginning to look like another gold for Britain.
All right.
The official result of the World Hide and Seek,
Mr Don Roberts from Hinckley, Leicestershire,
11 years, two months, 26 days,
nine hours, three minutes, 27 seconds.
Mr Francisco Huron, Paraguay,
11 years, two months, 26 days,
nine hours, three minutes, 27 seconds.
The result, a tie.
A tie! What a fantastic result!
Well, the replay will start tomorrow at 7:30 a.m.
Oh, yes, he's such a clever little boy, just like his father.
- Do you think so, Mrs Nigger-Baiter? - Oh, yes, spitting image.
Afternoon, Mother. Afternoon, Mrs Nigger-Baiter.
He's walking already.
Yes, he's such a clever little boy, aren't you? Cauchy-coo.
Hello, cushy-coo. Hello, cushy-coo.
- Look at him laughing, eh? - Yeah.
He's a chirpy little fellow, isn't he? Isn't he a chirpy little fellow, eh?
Does he talk? Does he talk, eh?
Of course I can talk, I'm Minister for Overseas Development.
He's a clever little boy. He's a clever little boy.
Do you like your rattle, eh? Do you like your rattle?
Look at his little eyes following it, eh?
Look at his iggy piggy piggy little eyeballs.
Oh, he's got a tubby tum-tum. Oh, he's got a tubby tum-tum.
Mother, could I have a quick cup of tea, please?
I have an important statement on Rhodesia to make in the Commons at 6:00.
Oh, Mrs Nigger-Baker's exploded.
- Good thing, too. - She was my best friend.
Oh, Mother, don't be so sentimental. Things explode every day.
Yes, I suppose so. Anyway, I didn't really like her that much.
I take as my text for today...
The text, Vic! Don't say the text!
Leviticus 3:14.
We was too late. The Reverend Grundy bit the ceiling.
Hello? What? We'll be right over!
And it is for this reason that the Christian Church lays upon you...
Don't say the kid's name, Vic!
...Francesco Luigi...
We was too late. The Reverend Neuk saw the light.
The ring, Vic! Don't touch the ring!
Hey, Vic!
Dearly departed, dust to dust, ashes to ashes.
Okay, Devious, don't move!
The Bishop!
- This is where we came in. - Yeah.
Oh, it's nice to be home.
- Builders haven't been, then? - No.
These two old people are typical
of the housing problem facing Britain's aged.
Here! Don't you start doing a documentary on us, young man.
- Oh, please. - No, leave us alone!
Just a little one about the appalling conditions under which you live?
No! Get out of our house! Go on!
Why don't you do a documentary about the drug problem round in Walton Street?
Oh, I'll go and have a bath.
Here, there's Alfred Lord Tennyson in the bathroom.
Well, at least the poet's been installed, then.
We in the East Midlands Poet Board
hope to have a poet in every home by the end of next year.
Poets are both clean and warm
And most are far above the norm
Whether here or on the roam
Have a poet in every home
"I wandered lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o'er vales"
Morning, madam, I've come to read your poet.
Oh, yes, it's in the cupboard under the stairs.
- What is it, a Swinburne, Shelley? - No, it's a Wordsworth.
Oh, bloody daffodils.
"Beneath the trees
"Fluttering and dancing in the breeze
- "Continuous as the stars that shine" - All right, thank you, madam.
Oh, not at all. Thank you.
It's a nice day, isn't it?
Yes, yes, the weather situation is generally favourable.
There's a ridge of high pressure centred over Ireland,
which is moving steadily eastwards, bringing cloudy weather
to parts of the West Country, Wales, and areas west of the Pennines.
On tomorrow's chart, the situation is much the same
with this occluded front bringing drier, warmer weather.
Temperatures about average for the time of year.
That's three degrees centigrade, 44 degrees Fahrenheit,
so don't forget to wrap up well.
That's all from me. Good night.
Now on BBC television, a choice of viewing.
On BBC 2, a discussion on censorship
between Derek Hart, the Bishop of Woolwich and a nude man.
And on BBC 1, me telling you this.
I always do my own stunts, of course.
I'm sure you're familiar with the one where I jump from the airplane
and land on a chocolát éclair and squirt cream
all over the Prime Minister of Iceland's dog.
Or you may remember the stunt in which I'm wrestling a Bengal tiger
on the top of an out of control double-decker bus,
and it plunges off the precipice,
and I just manage to grab hold of an overhanging branch
and I'm dangling there over this 1,000-foot drop,
with the tiger still clinging to me, and then I swing and jump
and just manage to land on the tiger's mother,
and she wakes up and I read them all a story
and the tiger goes to sleep and I marry its mother.
Well, the stunt you're going to see next
is one in which I'm doing a rather good impression of Michael Palin,
but it is me.
And just watch how I taunt John Cleese, that was the dangerous bit,
and then dive head first 10 feet into the canal.
What a strange turn this cycling tour has taken.
Mr Gulliver appears to have lost his memory
and far from being interested in safer food
is now convinced that he is Clodagh Rogers, the young girl singer.
I am taking him for medical attention.
- Is this the Casualty Department? - Yes, that's right.
And what can I do for you?
I am at present on a cycling tour of the North Cornwall area taking in Bude...
- Yes. Could I have your name, please? - My name is Pither.
- What? - P-|-T-H-E-R,
as in "brotherhood," except for the P-I instead of the B-R-O and no "hood."
Yes, I see.
I had just visited Taunton...
- I was cycling north towards the... - Yes, where were you injured?
Just where the A237 Ilfracombe Road...
On your body.
Oh, no, no, it was not I who was injured, it's my friend.
- Name? - Pither, P-I...
No, no, no, no. Your friend's name.
Oh, Clodagh Rogers.
Clodagh Rogers!
- Well, only since about 4:30. - Yes. I think you'd better talk to Dr Wu.
- Doctor! - What?
What's the trouble?
I am on a cycling tour of North Cornwall taking in...
He thinks he's had an accident.
I have a friend who as a result of his injuries thinks he is Clodagh Rogers.
- He what? - Well, what happened was...
There's no time to lose. We must make it to Moscow tonight.
This is Uncle Ted in front of the house.
This is Uncle Ted at the back of the house.
And this is Uncle Ted at the side of the house.
This is Uncle Ted back again at the front of the house,
but you can see the side of the house.
And this is Uncle Ted even nearer the side of the house,
but you can still see the front.
This is the back of the house,
with Uncle Ted coming round the side to the front.
And this is the Spanish Inquisition hiding behind the coal shed.
Oh! I didn't expect the Spanish Inquisition.
Nobody expects the Spanish Inquisition!
Now, old woman!
You are accused of heresy on three counts.
Heresy by thought, heresy by word, heresy by deed and heresy by action.
Four counts.
- Do you confess? - I don't understand what I'm accused of.
Then we shall make you understand.
Biggles! Fetch!
Fetch the cushions!
Here they are, Lord.
Now, old lady, you have one last chance.
Confess the heinous sin of heresy, reject the works of the...
Two last chances. And you shall be free.
Three last chances. You have three last chances,
the nature of which I have divulged in my previous utterance.
- I don't know what you're talking about. - Right!
If that's the way you want it.
Cardinal!
Poke her with the soft cushions!
Confess! Confess! Confess!
They don't seem to be hurting her, Lord.
- Have you got all the stuffing up one end? - Why, yes, Lord.
She's made of harder stuff.
Cardinal Fang,
fetch the Comfy Chair!
The Comfy Chair?
So, you think you are strong because you can survive the soft cushions.
Well, we shall see.
Biggles, put her in the Comfy Chair.
Now, you will stay in the Comfy Chair until lunchtime,
with only a cup of coffee at 11:00.
- Is that really all it is? - Why, yes, Lord.
I see. I suppose we make it worse by shouting a lot, do we?
Confess, woman. Confess!
Confess! Confess! Confess!
- I confess! - Not you!
- There, I've finished. - I beg your pardon?
I've finished cutting, cutting, cutting, cutting your hair. It's all done.
- You haven't started cutting it. - I have. I did it very quickly, your honour.
Sir, sir, sir.
Look here, old fellow, I know when a chap's cut my hair and when he hasn't.
So will you please stop fooling around and get on with it.
Yes, yes, I will, sir.
I'm going to cut your hair, sir.
I'm going to start cutting your hair, sir.
Start cutting, now!
Nice day, sir.
Yes, flowers could do with a drop of rain though.
- Did you see the match last night, sir? - Good game, I thought.
- I thought Hurst played well, sir. - I beg your pardon?
I thought Hurst played well, sir.
Oh, yes, the only one who did though.
- Can you put your head down a little, sir? - Oh, sorry, sorry.
I prefer to watch Palace nowadays though.
Oh! Sorry! Was that your ear?
No, no, I didn't feel a thing. Hey, what's going on?
- Look, I came here for a haircut! - Yes, it is a nice spot, isn't it?
It looks very nice, sir.
It's exactly the same as when I first came in.
Right, that's the lot then.
All right, all right, I confess I haven't cut your hair.
I didn't want to be a barber anyway.
I wanted to be a lumberjack.
Leaping from tree to tree as they float down the mighty rivers of British Columbia.
The giant redwood, the larch, the fir,
the mighty Scots pine.
The smell of fresh-cut timber. The crash of mighty trees.
With my best girlie by my side.
We'd sing, sing, sing...
I'm a lumberjack and I'm okay
I sleep all night I work all day
He's a lumberjack and he's okay
He sleeps all night And he works all day
I cut down trees I eat my lunch
I go to the lavatory
on Wednesdays I go shopping
And have buttered scones for tea
He cuts down trees He eats his lunch
He goes to the lavatory
on Wednesdays he goes shopping
And has buttered scones for tea
He's a lumberjack and he's okay
He sleeps all night And he works all day
I cut down trees I skip and jump
I like to press wild flowers
I put on women's clothing
And hang around in bars
He cuts down trees He skips and jumps
He likes to press wild flowers
He puts on women's clothing And hangs around in bars?
He's a lumberjack And he's okay
He sleeps all night And he works all day
I cut down trees I wear high heels
Suspenders and a bra
I wish I'd been a girlie
Just like my dear Mama
He cuts down trees He wears high heels
Suspenders and a bra?
I wish I'd been a girlie
Just like my dear Mama
Oh, Bevis! And I thought you were so rugged.
Really funny stuff, eh? Really good.
Well, it's getting a bit late now and I need to get to bed.
So here's just a few more sketches which show,
you know, some of the wonderful stuff I did for Monty Python.
Well, go on, look at them.
Taking life as it comes,
sharing the good things and the bad things,
finding laughter and fun wherever they go.
It's with these two happy-go-lucky rogues
that our story begins.
For it is they who were run over by Alex Diamond,
international crime fighter and playboy. Fast-moving, tough-talking.
And just one of the many hundreds of famous people who suffer from lumbago,
the endemic disease about which no one knows more than this man,
Dr Emile Koning,
doctor, surgeon, proctologist
and selfless fighter against human suffering,
whose doorbell was the one above the hero of our story tonight,
Rear Admiral Humphrey De Vere.
Yes. This is the story of Rear Admiral Humphrey De Vere
or rather the story of his daughter.
For it was her courage, foresight and understanding that enabled us to probe
beneath the sophisticated veneer of the Royal Arsenal Women's College, Bagshot,
and learn the true history of this man, Len Hanky.
Chiropodist, voyeur, hen-teaser.
The man of whom the chairman of Fiat once said...
Yes, tonight we examine the career of Gino Agnelli,
the man who started from nothing to build up one of the greatest firms in Europe
and whose telescope was bought from the shop part-owned by a man
who, at the age of eight, stole a penknife from the son of this man's
brother's housekeeper's dental hygienist's uncle,
the Reverend Charlie "Drooper" Hyper-Squawk Smith,
the cleft-palated RAF chaplain
who single-handed shot down over 500 German chaplains.
This is the story of the men who flew with him.
It really is.
- Morning, Squadron Leader. - What-ho, Squiffy.
- How was it? - Top-hole.
Bally Jerry pranged his kite right in the how's-your-father.
Hairy blighter dicky-birdied, feathered back on his Sammy,
took a waspy, flipped over on his Betty Harper's
and caught his can in the Bertie.
I'm afraid I don't quite follow you, Squadron Leader.
It's perfectly ordinary banter, Squiffy.
Bally Jerry pranged his kite right in the how's-your-father.
Hairy blighter dicky-birdied, feathered back on his Sammy,
took a waspy, flipped over on his Betty Harper's
and caught his can in the Bertie.
Give us it slower.
Banter's not the same if you say it slower, Squiffy.
- Hold on then. Wingco! - Yes!
Bend an ear to the Squadron Leader's banter for a sec, would you?
- Can do. - Jolly good.
Fire away.
Bally Jerry pranged his kite right in the how's-your-father.
Hairy blighter dicky-birdied, feathered back on his Sammy,
took a waspy, flipped over on his Betty Harper's
and caught his can in the Bertie.
No, I don't understand that banter at all.
Something up with my banter, chaps?
Bunch of monkeys on the ceiling, sir!
Grab your egg and fours and let's get the bacon delivered!
- Do you understand that? - No, didn't get a word of it.
Sorry, old man, we don't understand your banter.
You know, bally ten-penny ones dropping in the custard.
- Charlie Choppers chucking a handful. - Say it a bit slower, old chap.
- Slower banter, sir? - Rather.
Sausage squad up the blue end.
No, still don't get it.
Cabbage crates coming over the briny?
- No. - No.
But by then, it was too late.
The first cabbage crates hit London on July 7.
Five shillings a dozen? That's ordinary cabbages, is it?
And what about the bombs?
Good Lord, they are expensive.
- Sir! - Yes, what is it?
- News from the Western Front, sir. - Yes?
- Big enemy attack at dawn, sir. - Yes?
Well,
the enemy were all wearing little silver halos, sir,
and they had fairy wands with big stars on the end and...
They what?
And they had spiders in matchboxes, sir.
Good God! How did our chaps react?
Well, they were jolly interested, sir.
Some of them,
I think it was the 4th armoured Brigade, sir, they...
Yes?
Well, they went and had a look at the spiders, sir.
- Oh, my God! Well, thank you, Shirley. - Sir!
- Get me the Prime Minister. - Sir!
- Not that quickly! - Sir!
Gentlemen, it's now quite apparent
that the enemy are not only fighting this war on the cheap,
but they're also not taking it seriously.
Bastards.
First they drop cabbages instead of decent bombs.
The crates were probably quite expensive, sir.
Quiet, critic!
And now they're doing very silly things in one of the most vital areas of the war!
What are we going to do, Shirley?
Well, we've got to act fast before it saps morale.
- We're going to show these Chinese... - Germans.
These Germans. We're going to show them
that no British soldier will descend to their level.
Anyone found trivialising this war
will face the supreme penalty
that military law can provide.
- That was all right. - Seemed to go quite well.
Very nice.
Sapper Walters, you stand before this court accused of carrying on the war
by other than warlike means.
To wit, that you did on April 16, 1942,
dressed up as a bag of dainties, flick wet towels at the enemy
during the important offensive.
- Well, sir... - Shut up!
Colonel Fawcett for the prosecution.
- Sir, we all know... - Shut up!
- I'm sorry? - Carry on.
Sir, we all know the facts of the case, that Sapper Walters,
being in possession of expensive military equipment,
to wit, one Lee Enfield .303 rifle
and 72 rounds of ammunition,
valued at a £140 three shillings and sixpence,
chose instead to use wet towels
to take an enemy command post in the area of Basingstoke.
Basingstoke?
- Basingstoke in Hampshire? - No, no, no, sir, no.
Oh, I see, carry on.
The result of his action was that the enemy received...
- Basingstoke where? - Basingstoke in Westphalia, sir.
Oh, I see. Carry on.
The result of Sapper Walters' action was that the enemy received
wet patches upon their trousers
and in some cases small, red strawberry marks upon their thighs...
I didn't know there was a Basingstoke in Westphalia.
- It's on the map, sir. - What map?
The map of Westphalia as used by the Army, sir.
Well, I've certainly never heard of Basingstoke in Westphalia.
It's a municipal borough, sir, 27 miles north-northeast of Southampton.
- Its chief manufactures... - What? Southampton in Westphalia?
Yes, sir.
Bricks, clothing. Nearby are the remains of Basing House,
- burnt down by Cromwell's cavalry... - And who compiled this map?
Cole Porter, sir.
- Cole Porter, who wrote Kiss Me, Kate? - No, alas not, sir.
This was the Cole Porter who wrote Anything Goes, sir.
- I shall seek to prove that the man... - it's the same one!
In olden days a glimpse of stocking
I beg your pardon, sir?
In olden days a glimpse of stocking
Was looked on as something shocking
Now heaven knows anything goes
No, this one's different, sir.
- How does it go? - What, sir?
How does your Anything Goes go?
- Can I go home now? - Shut up!
- Come on! - Sir, really, I think this is...
Come on, how does your Anything Goes go?
Anything goes in
Anything goes out
Fish bananas Old pyjamas
Mutton, beef and trout!
Anything goes in
No, that's not it. Carry on.
With respect, sir, I shall seek to prove that the man before you in the dock
being in possession of the following: one pair of army boots,
value £3, 7 and 6,
one pair of serge trousers, value £2, 3 and 6,
one pair of gaiters, value £68, 10 shillings. One...
- £68, 10 shillings for a pair of gaiters? - They were special gaiters, sir.
- Special gaiters? - Yes, sir, they were made in France, sir.
- One beret costing 14 shillings... - What was special about them?
They were made of a special fabric, sir.
The buckles were made of empire silver instead of brass.
The total value of the uniform was...
Why was the accused wearing special gaiters?
They were a presentation pair, sir, from the regiment.
The total value of the uniform therefore...
Why did they present him with a special pair of gaiters?
Sir, it seems to me totally irrelevant to the case
whether the gaiters were presented to him or not, sir.
I think the court will be able to judge that for themselves.
I want to know why the regiment presented the accused with a special pair of gaiters.
He used to do things for them, sir.
- The total value of the uniform... - What things?
He used to oblige them, sir. The total value of...
- Oblige them? - Yes, sir.
- The total value of the uniform was... - How did he oblige them?
- What, sir? - How did he oblige them?
He...
He used to make them happy in little ways, sir.
The total value of the uniform cannot have been...
- Did he touch them at all? - Sir!
I submit that this is totally irrelevant.
I want to know how he made them happy.
- He used to ram things up their... - All right! All right! All right!
No need to spell it out!
What has the accused got to say?
- What, me? - Yes, yes. What have you got to say?
Well, what can I say, sir?
I mean, how can I encapsulate in mere words
my scorn for any military solution?
The futility of modern warfare, and the hypocrisy by which
contemporary government applies one standard to violence within the community
and another to violence perpetrated by one community upon another?
I'm sorry, but my client has become pretentious.
I will say in his defence though...
Sir! We haven't finished the prosecution!
Shut up! I'm in charge of this court.
Stand up! Sit down! Go "moo"!
See?
Right, now, on with the pixie hats!
And order in the skating vicar.
And...
Anything goes in
Anything goes out
Fish bananas Old pyjamas
Mutton, beef and trout!
Anything goes in
Anything goes out
Fish bananas Old pyjamas
Mutton, beef and trout!
Being a creative genius is a pretty exhausting business,
as you can probably imagine.
I mean, most of us need 13 or 14 hours of sleep a day.
More, if we can get it.
Some creative geniuses I know,
they simply never get out of bed in the morning.
In fact, the greatest creative geniuses of all,
once they've achieved full greatness,
they simply never regain consciousness.
They just lie in a comatose state for years and years.
I think I'm just about to achieve that state now, yes.
I can feel a burst of real creative genius
about to overtake me.
Sorry, I can't keep my eyes open.
I have to put the lights off. Night-night.
Oh, that's better.
Wasn't I wonderful though?
Oh, yes, there's my credit now.
Oh, yes. Oh, it's got the others as well.
Bit surprising, giving them credits.
Oh, and there are some of the other people, yes.
I don't know why they bother crediting them at all.
Oh, there's mine again.
Oh, yes.
Let it go.
We can't all be creative geniuses.
Was it all right for you? Yeah, fine.