1 Douzilkree

Monty Python Show 5 Minute Argumentative Essays

Arthur: Old woman!
Dennis: Man!
Arthur: Man. Sorry. What knight lives in that castle over there?
Dennis: I'm thirty-seven.
Arthur: I-- what?
Dennis: I'm thirty-seven. I'm not old.
Arthur: Well, I can't just call you 'Man'.
Dennis: Well, you could say 'Dennis'.
Arthur: Well, I didn't know you were called 'Dennis'.
Dennis: Well, you didn't bother to find out, did you?
Arthur: I did say 'sorry' about the 'old woman', but from the behind you looked--
Dennis: What I object to is that you automatically treat me like an inferior!
Arthur: Well, I am King!
Dennis: Oh, King, eh, very nice. And how d'you get that, eh? By exploiting the workers! By 'anging on to outdated imperialist dogma which perpetuates the economic and social differences in our society. If there's ever going to be any progress with the--
Woman: Dennis, there's some lovely filth down here. Oh! How d'you do?
Arthur: How do you do, good lady? I am Arthur, King of the Britons. Who's castle is that?
Woman: King of the who?
Arthur: The Britons.
Woman: Who are the Britons?
Arthur: Well, we all are. We are all Britons, and I am your king.
Woman: I didn't know we had a king. I thought we were an autonomous collective.
Dennis: You're fooling yourself. We're living in a dictatorship: a self-perpetuating autocracy in which the working classes--
Woman: Oh, there you go bringing class into it again.
Dennis: That's what it's all about. If only people would hear of--
Arthur: Please! Please, good people. I am in haste. Who lives in that castle?
Woman: No one lives there.
Arthur: Then who is your lord?
Woman: We don't have a lord.
Arthur: What?
Dennis: I told you. We're an anarcho-syndicalist commune. We take it in turns to act as a sort of executive officer for the week,...
Arthur: Yes.
Dennis: ...but all the decisions of that officer have to be ratified at a special bi-weekly meeting...
Arthur: Yes, I see.
Dennis: ...by a simple majority in the case of purely internal affairs,...
Arthur: Be quiet!
Dennis: ...but by a two-thirds majority in the case of more major--
Arthur: Be quiet! I order you to be quiet!
Woman: Order, eh? Who does he think he is? Heh.
Arthur: I am your king!
Woman: Well, I didn't vote for you.
Arthur: You don't vote for kings.
Woman: Well, how did you become King, then?
Arthur: The Lady of the Lake,... [angels sing] ...her arm clad in the purest shimmering samite, held aloft Excalibur from the bosom of the water signifying by Divine Providence that I, Arthur, was to carry Excalibur. [singing stops] That is why I am your king!
Dennis: Listen. Strange women lying in ponds distributing swords is no basis for a system of government. Supreme executive power derives from a mandate from the masses, not from some farcical aquatic ceremony.
Arthur: Be quiet!
Dennis: Well, but you can't expect to wield supreme executive power just 'cause some watery tart threw a sword at you!
Arthur: Shut up!
Dennis: I mean, if I went 'round saying I was an emperor just because some moistened bint had lobbed a scimitar at me, they'd put me away!
Arthur: Shut up, will you? Shut up!
Dennis: Ah, now we see the violence inherent in the system.
Arthur: Shut up!
Dennis: Oh! Come and see the violence inherent in the system! Help! Help! I'm being repressed!
Arthur: Bloody peasant!
Dennis: Oh, what a give-away. Did you hear that? Did you hear that, eh? That's what I'm on about. Did you see him repressing me? You saw it, didn't you?

Hello, I would like to buy a fish license, please.
A what?
Praline: A license for my pet fish, Eric.
Man: How did you know my name was Eric?
Praline: No no no, my fish's name is Eric, Eric the fish. He's an halibut.
Man: What?
Praline: He is...an...halibut.
Man: You've got a pet halibut?
Praline: Yes. I chose him out of thousands. I didn't like the others, they were all too flat.
Man: You must be a looney.
Praline: I am not a looney! Why should I be attired with the epithet looney merely because I have a pet halibut? I've heard tell that Sir Gerald Nabardo has a pet prawn called Simon - you wouldn't call him a looney - furthermore, Dawn Pailthorpe, the lady show-jumper, had a clam, called Stafford, after the late Chancellor, Allan Bullock has two pikes, both called Chris, and Marcel Proust had an haddock! So, if you're calling the author of 'A la recherche du temps perdu' a looney, I shall have to ask you to step outside!
Man: Alright, alright, alright. A license.
Praline: Yes.
Man: For a fish.
Praline: Yes.
Man: You are a looney.
Praline: Look, it's a bleeding pet, isn't it? I've got a license for me pet dog Eric, and I've got a license for me pet cat Eric...
Man: You don't need a license for your cat.
Praline: I bleeding well do and I got one. He can't be called Eric without it--
Man: There's no such thing as a bloody cat license.
Praline: Yes there is!
Man: Isn't!
Praline: Is!
Man: Isn't!
Praline: I bleeding got one, look! What's that then?
Man: This is a dog license with the word 'dog' crossed out and 'cat' written in, in crayon.
Praline: The man didn't have the right form.
Man: What man?
Praline: The man from the cat detector van.
Man: The looney detector van, you mean.
Praline: Look, it's people like you what cause unrest.
Man: What cat detector van?
Praline: The cat detector van from the Ministry of Housinge.
Man: Housinge?
Praline: It was spelt like that on the van. I'm very observant! I never seen so many bleeding aerials. The man said that their equipment could pinpoint a purr at four hundred yards! And Eric, being such a happy cat, was a piece of cake.
Man: How much did you pay for this?
Praline: Sixty quid, and eight for the fruit-bat.
Man: What fruit-bat?
Praline: Eric the fruit-bat.
Man: Are all your pets called Eric?
Praline: There's nothing so odd about that: Kemal Ataturk had an entire menagerie called Abdul!
Man: No he didn't!
Praline: Did!
Man: Didn't!
Praline: Did, did, did, did, did and did!
Man: Oh, all right.
Praline: Spoken like a gentleman, sir. Now, are you going to give me a fish license?
Man: I promise you that there is no such thing: you don't need one.
Praline: In that case, give me a bee license.
Man: A license for your pet bee?
Praline: Correct.
Man: Called Eric? Eric the Bee?
Praline: No.
Man: No?
Praline: No, Eric the Half-Bee. He had an accident.
Man: You're off your chump.
Praline: Look, if you intend by that utilization of an obscure colloquiallism to imply that my sanity is not up to scratch, or indeed to deny the semi-existence of my little chum Eric the Half-Bee, I shall have to ask you to listen to this! Take it away, Eric the orchestra leader!.......

Orchestra Leader: A-one, two, a-one two three four

Leader: Half a bee, philisophically,
Must ipso facto half not be.
But half a bee has got to be
Vis a vis it's entity.
-d'you see?
But can a bee be said to be
Or not to be an entire bee,
When half the bee is not a bee,
Due to some ancient injury.

All sing: La di di, one two three,
Eric the Half-a-Bee.
A B C D E F G,
Eric the Half-a-Bee.

Leader: Is this wretched demi-bee,
Half asleep upon my knee,
Some freak from a menagerie?

All yell: No! It's Eric the Half-a-Bee.

All sing: Fiddle di dum, fiddle di dee,
Eric the Half-a-Bee.
Ho ho ho, tee hee hee,
Eric the Half-a-Bee.

Leader: I love this hive employ-ee-ee,
Bisected accidentally,
One summer's afternoon by me,
I love him carnally.

All sing: He loves him carnally...

Leader: Semi-carnally.
The End.

Voice: Cyril Connolly?

Leader: No, semi-carnally.

Voice: Oh.

All sing: (Quietly)
Cyril Connolly
(Ends with an elaborate whistle)

Finland, Finland, Finland.
The country where I want to be,
Pony trekking or camping,
Or just watching TV.
Finland, Finland, Finland,
It's the country for me.

You're so near to Russia,
So far from Japan.
Quite a long way from Cairo,
Lots of miles from Vietnam.

Finland, Finland, Finland.
The country where I want to be,
Eating breakfast or dinner,
Or snack lunch in the hall.
Finland, Finland, Finland,
Finland has it all.

You're so sadly neglected,
And often ignored,
A poor second to Belgium,
When going abroad.

Finland, Finland, Finland.
The country where I quite want to be,
Your mountains so lofty,
Your treetops so tall.
Finland, Finland, Finland,
Finland has it all.

Finland, Finland, Finland.
The country where I quite want to be,
Your mountains so lofty,
Your treetops so tall.
Finland, Finland, Finland,
Finland has it all.

Finland has it all...

If you've enjoyed hearing this song, and would like to know more about Finland, why not ring Mr. Griffith of Hammel Hampstead. He and his charming wife Edna will be glad to answer any of your questions, and who knows, may show you some of their unrivalled collection of Scandinavian credit cards.

Announcer: And now, here is a magnificent recording made in the Wide Valley, of an ordinary travel agents office. Note the huge-breasted typist in the background.
Smoketoomuch: Good morning.
Secretary: Oh, good morning. (sexily) Uhm, do you want to come upstairs?
Smoketoomuch: Beg your pardon?
Secretary: (sexily) Do you want to come upstairs? (brightly) Oh, or have you come to arrange a holiday?
Smoketoomuch: Uuh..to...to arrange a holiday.
Secretary: Oh, sorry.
Smoketoomuch: What's all this about coming upstairs?
Secretary: Oh, nothing, nothing. Now, where were you thinking of going?
Smoketoomuch: India.
Secretary: Ah, one of our adventure holidays.
Smoketoomuch: Yes.
Secretary: Well, you'd better see Mr. Bounder about that. Uh, Mr. Bounder, this gentleman is interested in the "India Overland".
Bounder: Morning, I'm Bounder of Adventure.
Smoketoomuch: Hello, I'm Smoketoomuch.
Bounder: Well, you'd better cut down a little then.
Smoketoomuch: I'm sorry?
Bounder: You'd better cut down a little then.
Smoketoomuch: Oh, I see! Smoke too much so I'd better cut down a little then!
Bounder: Yes, ha ha... I expect you get people making jokes about your name all the time, eh?
Smoketoomuch: No, I never noticed it before.
Bounder: So, you are interested in one of our adventure holidays, are you?
Smoketoomuch: Yes, I saw your advert in the bolour supplement.
Bounder: The what?
Smoketoomuch: The bolour supplement.
Bounder: The colour supplement.
Smoketoomuch: Yes, I'm sorry, I can't say the letter 'B'.
Bounder: C?
Smoketoomuch: Yes, that's right. It's all due to a trauma I suffered when I was a sboolboy. I was attacked by a bat.
Bounder: A cat?
Smoketoomuch: No, a bat.
Bounder: Oh...can you say the letter 'K'?
Smoketoomuch: Oh, yes. Khaki, kind, kettle, Kipling, kipper, Kuwait, Keble Bollege Oxford.
Bounder: Yes, yes but why don't you use the letter 'K' instead of the letter 'C'?
Smoketoomuch: What, spell bolour with a 'K'?
Bounder: Yes!
Smoketoomuch: Kolour!
Oh, thank you! I never thought of that. What a silly bunt.
Bounder: Anyway, about the holiday...
Smoketoomuch: Well, yes, I've been on package tours many times, so your advert really bought my eye.
Bounder: Ah good.
Smoketoomuch: Yes, you're quite right, I'm fed up with being treated like a sheep, I mean what's the point of going abroad if you're just another tourist carted round in buses, surrounded by sweaty mindless oafs from Kettering and Boventry...
Bounder: Absolutel..
Smoketoomuch: ...in their cloth caps and their cardigans and their transistor radios and their 'Sunday Mirrors', complaining about the tea, 'Oh they don't make it properly here do they not like at home' stopping at Majorcan bodegas, selling fish and chips and Watney's Red Barrel and calamares and two veg...
Bounder: Yes.
Smoketoomuch: ...and sitting in their cotton sun frocks squirting Timothy White's suncream all over their puffy raw swollen purulent flesh...
Bounder: Yes.
Smoketoomuch: ...cos they 'overdid it on the first day'! And being herded into endless Hotel Miramars and Bellevueses and Bontinentals...
Bounder: Yes, yes...
Smoketoomuch: ...with their modern international luxury roomettes and draft Red Barrel and swimmingpools...
Bounder: Yes.
Smoketoomuch: ...full of fat German businessmen pretending they're acrobats, forming pyramids and frightening the children and barging in the queues and if you're not at your table spot on seven you miss the bowl of Campbell's Cream of Mushroom soup,...
Bounder: Shut up.
Smoketoomuch: ...the first item on the menu of International Cuisine,...
Bounder: Shut up, please!
Smoketoomuch: ...and every Thursday night the hotel is a bloody cabaret in the bar featuring a tiny emaciated dago...
Bounder: Please, will you shut up.
Smoketoomuch: ...with nine-inch hips and some bloated fat tart with her hair Brylcreemed down and a big arse presenting Flamenco for Foreigners.
Bounder: Shut up!
Smoketoomuch: And adenoidal typists from Birmingham with flabby white legs and diarrhoea trying to pick up hairy...
Bounder: Please..
Smoketoomuch: ...bandy-legged wop waiters called Manuel,...
Bounder: ..shut up!
Smoketoomuch: ...and once a week there's an excursion to the local Roman ruins to buy cherryade and melted ice cream...
Bounder: I can't bear it!
Smoketoomuch: ...and bleedin' Watney's Red Barrel, and one evening you visit the so-called typical restaurant with local colour...
Bounder: Shaddap!
Smoketoomuch: ...and atmosphere and you sit next to a party of people from Rhyl who keeps singing 'Torremolinos, Torremolinos', and complaining about the food, 'It's so greasy here isn't it!' and you get cornered by some drunken greengrocer from Luton with an Instamatic and Dr Scholl sandals and Tuesday's 'Daily Express' and he drones on and on and on about how Mr Smith should be running this country and how many...
Bounder: Stop it, please.
Smoketoomuch: ...languages Enoch Powell can speak and then he throws up all over the Cuba Libres.
Bounder: Will you be quiet please.
Smoketoomuch: And sending tinted postcards of places they don't realise they haven't even visited, 'to all...
Bounder: Shut up
Smoketoomuch: ...at number 22, weather wonderful...
Smoketoomuch: ...our room is marked with an "X". Food very greasy but we found a charming...
Bounder: Take it off! TAKE IT OFF!
Smoketoomuch: ...little place hidden away in the back streets, where they serve Watney's Red Barrel and cheese and onion...
Bounder: For God's sake, take it off. TAKE IT OFF!!!
Smoketoomuch: ...crisps and the accordionist plays "Maybe its because I'm a Londoner"'...
(Sound of pick-up skating across record)

Announcer: Are you embarrassed easily? I am. But it's nothing to worry about. It's all part of growing up and being British. This course is designed to eliminate embarrassment, to enable you to talk freely about rude objects, to look at akward and embarrassing things, and to point at people's privates. The course has been designed by Dr. Karl Gruber of the Institute of Going A Bit Red in Helsinki. Here, he himself introduces the course.
Dr. Karl Gruber: Hello, my name is Karl Gruber. Thank you for inviting me into your home. My method is the result of six years work here at the institute, in which subjects were exposed to simulated embarrassment predicaments, over a prolonged fart - period! time! (fart) ...Sorry. Lesson 1: Words. Do any of these words embarass you?
Voice over: Shoe. Megaphone. Grunties.
Dr. Karl Gruber: Now let's go on to something ruder:
Voice over: Wankel rotary engine.
Dr. Karl Gruber: Now lesson 2: Noises. Noises are a major embarrassment source. Even words like "tits", "winkle" and "vibraphone" can not rival the embarrassment potential of sound. Listen to this, if you can:
(embarrassing sound)
How do you rate your embarrassment response?
A) High.
B) Hello!
C) Good evening!
If C, you are loosening up, and will soon be ready for this:
(more embarrassing sounds)
Well! How did you rate?
A) Embarrassed.
B) Hello!
C) Good evening!
Now lesson 3, in which these rude and dirty sounds are combined with smutty visual suggestions into a embarrassment simulation situation. You are the waiter at this table:
Lady: Charles, I've got something to show you... (zipper, thud, thud)
Dr. Karl Gruber Score 5 for no embarrassment, score 3 for slight embarrassment, and 1 for...

Good evening! For the first time, on record, a 29 part adoptation of King Solomon's Mines -- Wines, sorry, wines -- King Solomon's Wines.

A lot of people in this country pooh-pooh Australian table wines. This is a pity, as many fine Australian wines appeal not only to the Australian palette, but also to the cognoscenti of Great Britain.

"Black Stump Bordeaux" is rightly praised as a peppermint flavoured Burgundy, whilst a good "Sydney Syrup" can rank with any of the world's best sugary wines.

"Chateau Bleu", too, has won many prizes; not least for its taste, and its lingering afterburn.

"Old Smokey, 1968" has been compared favourably to a Welsh claret, whilst the Australian wino society thouroughly recommends a 1970 "Coq du Rod Laver", which, believe me, has a kick on it like a mule: 8 bottles of this, and you're really finished -- at the opening of the Sydney Bridge Club, they were fishing them out of the main sewers every half an hour.

Of the sparkling wines, the most famous is "Perth Pink". This is a bottle with a message in, and the message is BEWARE!. This is not a wine for drinking -- this is a wine for laying down and avoiding.

Another good fighting wine is "Melbourne Old-and-Yellow", which is particularly heavy, and should be used only for hand-to-hand combat.

Quite the reverse is true of "Chateau Chunder", which is an Appelachian controle, specially grown for those keen on regurgitation -- a fine wine which really opens up the sluices at both ends.

Real emetic fans will also go for a "Hobart Muddy", and a prize winning "Cuiver Reserve Chateau Bottled Nuit San Wogga Wogga", which has a bouquet like an aborigine in his armpit.

Man: Eh, I'd like to have an argument, please.
Receptionist: Certainly, sir. Have you been here before?
Man: No, I haven't, this is my first time.
Receptionist: I see. Well, do you want to have just one argument, or were you thinking of taking a course?
Man: Well, what is the cost?
Receptionist: Well, it's one pound for a five-minute argument, but only eight pounds for a course of ten.
Man: Well, I think it would be best if I perhaps started of with just the one, and then see how it goes.
Receptionist: Fine. Well, I'll see who's free at the moment. Mr. Du-Bakey's free, but he's a little bit concilliatory. Ah, yes, try Mr. Barnard, room 12.
Man: Thank you.
  He enters room 12.
Man: Well, I was told outside that...
Man: What?
Man: Look, I came here for an argument! I'm not just going to stand here...
Mr. Barnard: OH! Oh! I'm sorry! This is abuse!
Man: Oh I see! Well, that explains it...
Mr. Barnard: Aha! No, you want room 12A, just along the corridor.
Man: Oh...Thank you very much...Sorry...
Mr. Barnard: Not at all!
Man: Thank you. (Leaves)
Mr. Barnard: (under his breath) Stupid git.
  The man knocks at the door to room 12A.
Mr. Vibrating: Come in.
Man: Is this the right room for an argument?
Mr. Vibrating: I've told you once.
Man: No you haven't!
Mr. Vibrating: Yes I have.
Man: When?
Mr. Vibrating: Just now.
Man: No you didn't!
Mr. Vibrating: I did!
Man: Didn't!
Mr. Vibrating: Did!
Man: Didn't!
Mr. Vibrating: I'm telling you, I did!
Man: You did not!
Mr. Vibrating: Oh I'm sorry, just one moment. Is this a five minute argument, or the full half hour?
Man: Ah! Just the five minutes.
Mr. Vibrating: Ah, thank you.
Anyway, I did.
Man: You most certainly did not!
Mr. Vibrating: Look, let's get this thing clear: I quite definitely told you!
Man: No you did not!
Mr. Vibrating: Yes I did!
Man: No you didn't!
Mr. Vibrating: Yes I did!
Man: No you didn't!
Mr. Vibrating: Yes I did!
Man: No you didn't!
Mr. Vibrating: Yes I did!
Man: You didn't!
Mr. Vibrating: Did!
Man: Oh look, this isn't an argument!
Mr. Vibrating: Yes it is!
Man: No it isn't! It's just contradiction!
Mr. Vibrating: No it isn't!
Man: It IS!
Mr. Vibrating: It is NOT!
Man: Look, you just contradicted me!
Mr. Vibrating: I did not!
Man: Oh, you DID!
Mr. Vibrating: No no no!
Man: You did just then!
Mr. Vibrating: Nonsense!
Man: (exasperated) Oh, this is futile!!
Mr. Vibrating: No it isn't!
Man: I came here for a good argument!
Mr. Vibrating: No you didn't, no, you came here for an argument!
Man: An argument isn't just contradiction.
Mr. Vibrating: CAN be!
Man: No it can't! An argument is a connected series of statements intended to establish a proposition.
Mr. Vibrating: No it isn't!
Man: Yes it is! 'tisn't just contradiction.
Mr. Vibrating: Look, if I argue with you, I must take up a contrary position!
Man: Yes but that's not just saying "no it isn't".
Mr. Vibrating: Yes it is!
Man: No it isn't! Argument is an intellectual process. Contradiction is just the automatic gainsaying of any statement the other person makes.
Mr. Vibrating: No it isn't.
Man: Yes it is!
Mr. Vibrating: Not at all!
Man: Now look...
Mr. Vibrating: (Hits a bell on his desk) [DING] Good morning!
Man: (stunned) What?
Mr. Vibrating: That's it. Good morning.
Man: But I was just getting interested!
Mr. Vibrating: I'm sorry, the five minutes is up.
Man: That was never five minutes!!
Mr. Vibrating: I'm afraid it was.
Man: It wasn't...
Mr. Vibrating: I'm sorry, but I'm not allowed to argue any more.
Man: WHAT??
Mr. Vibrating: If you want me to go on arguing, you'll have to pay for another five minutes.
Man: Yes, but that was never five minutes just now! Oh Come on!
Mr. Vibrating: (Hums to himself.)
Man: Look this is ridiculous!
Mr. Vibrating: I'm sorry, but I'm not allowed to argue unless you've paid!
Man: Oh all right. (Pays.)
Mr. Vibrating: Thank you.
Man: Well...
Mr. Vibrating: Well WHAT?
Man: That wasn't really five minutes just now.
Mr. Vibrating: I told you, I'm not allowed to argue unless you've paid!
Man: Well I just paid!
Mr. Vibrating: No you didn't!
Man: I DID!!!
Mr. Vibrating: No you didn't!
Man: Look, I don't want to argue about that!
Mr. Vibrating: Well, you didn't pay!
Man: Ah HAH!! If I didn't pay, why are you arguing??? I've got you.
Mr. Vibrating: No you haven't!
Man: Yes I have! If you're arguing, I must have paid.
Mr. Vibrating: Not necessarily. I could be arguing in my spare time.
Man: Oh, I have had enough of this.
Mr. Vibrating: No, you haven't.
Man: Oh, shut up!
  (He leaves and sees a door marked complaints; he goes in)
Man: I want to complain.
Man in Charge: YOU want to complain...look at these shoes...I've only had them three weeks and the heels are worn right through.
Man: No, I want to complain about...
Man in Charge: If you complain nothing happens...you might as well not bother. My back hurts and the middel of such a fine day and I'm sick and tired of this office...
  (The man exits, walks down the corridor and enters a room)
Man: Hello, I want to (smack) OHHH!
Spreaders: No, no, no, hold your head like this, then go 'waaagh'! Try it again.
Man: Woogh!
Spreaders: Better. Better. But 'waaaaagh'! 'Waaaagh'! Put your hand there...
Man: No!
Spreaders: Now. (Hits him)
Man: Waagh!
Spreaders: Good, good, that's it!
Man: Stop hitting me.
Spreaders: What?
Man: Stop hitting me.
Spreaders: Stop hitting you?
Man: Yes.
Spreaders: Why do you come in here, then?
Man: I wanted to complain.
Spreaders: Oh, no, that's next door. It's being hit on the head lessons in here.
Man: What a stupid concept.

Henry Kissinger
How I'm missing yer,
You're the doctor of my dreams.
With your crinkly hair
And your glassy stare
And your Machiavellian schemes
I know they say that you are very vain
And short and fat and pushy
But at leats you're not insane.
Henry Kissinger
How I'm missing yer
And wishing you were here.

Henry Kissinger
How I'm missing yer
You're so chubby and so neat
With your funny clothes
And your squishy nose
You're like a German Par-o-quet.
All right so people say that you don't care
But you've got nicer legs than Hitler
And bigger tits that Cher
Henry Kissinger
How I'm missing yer
And wishing you were here.

I wish to register a complaint.
'Ello, Miss?
What do you mean "miss"?
Praline: (pause) I'm sorry, I have a cold. I wish to make a complaint!
Shopkeeper: Sorry, we're closin' for lunch.
Praline: Never mind that, my lad. I wish to complain about this parrot what I purchased not half an hour ago from this very boutique.
Shopkeeper: Oh yes, the, uh, the Norwegian Blue...What's,uh...What's wrong with it?
Praline: I'll tell you what's wrong with it, my lad. 'E's dead, that's what's wrong with it!
Shopkeeper: No, no, 'e's uh,...he's resting.
Praline: Look, matey, I know a dead parrot when I see one, and I'm looking at one right now.
Shopkeeper: No no he's eh he's not dead, he's, he's restin', y'know! Remarkable bird, the Norwegian Blue, idn'it, ay? Beautiful plumage!
Praline: The plumage don't enter into it. 'E's stone dead.
Shopkeeper: No, no! He's... he's resting!
Praline: All right then, if he's restin', I'll wake him up! (shouting at the cage) 'Ello, Mister Polly Parrot! I've got a nice fresh banana for you if you...(shopkeeper hits the cage)
Shopkeeper: There, he moved!
Praline: No, he didn't, you hit the cage!
Shopkeeper: I never!!
Praline: Yes, you did!
Shopkeeper: I never, never did anything...
Praline: (yelling and hitting the cage repeatedly)
'ELLO POLLY!!!!! Wakey! Wakey! This is your nine o'clock alarm call!
(Takes parrot out of the cage and thumps its head on the counter. Throws it up in the air and watches it plummet to the floor.)
Now that's what I call a dead parrot.
Shopkeeper: No, no.....'E's stunned!
Praline: STUNNED?!?
Shopkeeper: Yeah! You stunned him, just as he was wakin' up! Norwegian Blues stun easily.
Praline: Now look! Don't play the slippery eel with me. That parrot is definitely deceased, and when I purchased it not 'alf an hour ago, you assured me that its total lack of movement was due to it bein' tired and shagged out after a long squawk.
Shopkeeper: Well, he's..ah....he's probably pining for the fjords.
Praline: PININ' for the FJORDS?!?!?!? What kind of talk is that?, look, why did he fall flat on his back the moment I got 'im home?
Shopkeeper: The Norwegian Blue prefers kipping on it's back! Remarkable bird, id'nit, eh, major? Beautiful plumage!
Praline: Look, Tosh, I took the liberty of examining that bird when I got it home, and I discovered the only reason that it had been sitting on its perch in the first place was that it had been NAILED there.
Shopkeeper: Well, o'course it was nailed there! Listen, if I hadn't nailed that bird down, it would have muscled those bars, bent 'em apart with its little pecker, and VOOM!
Praline: "VOOM"?!?
Shopkeeper: Voom!
Praline: Mate, this parrot wouldn't "voom" if you put four million volts through it! 'E's bleedin' demised!
Shopkeeper: No no! 'E's pining!
Praline: 'E's not pinin'! 'E's passed on! This parrot is no more! He has ceased to be! 'E's expired and gone to meet 'is maker! 'E's a stiff! Bereft of life, 'e rests in peace, if you hadn't nailed 'im to the perch 'e'd be pushing up the daisies! 'E's of the twig. 'E's curled up his tootsies, 'e's shuffled off this mortal coil. 'E's run down the curtain and joined the bleedin' choir invisibile!! 'E fucking snuffed it! Vis-a-vis the metabolic processes, 'e's had 'is lot! All statements to the effect of this parrot is still a going concern, are from now on inoperative. THIS IS AN EX-PARROT!!
Shopkeeper: Well.
Well, I'd better replace it, then. (he takes a quick peek behind the counter)
Praline: [mumbling profanities]
What's the news?
Shopkeeper: I've had a look 'round the back of the shop, and uh, we're right out of parrots.
Praline: I see. I see. I get the picture.
Shopkeeper: (pause) I got a slug.
Praline: Does it talk?
Shopkeeper: Yep.
Praline: Well, I'll have that one then.

Sit on my face and tell me that you love me,
I'll sit on your face and tell you I love you, too.
I love to hear you o-ra-lise
When I'm between your thighs,
You blow me awaaay.

Sit on my face and let my lips embrace you,
I'll sit on your face and then I'll love you truly.
Life can be fine if we both sixty-nine,
If we sit on our faces in all sorts of places and play
'Till we're blown awaaaaaaaay.

Man: Um, excuse me, is this the undertaker's?
Undertaker: Yup, that's right, what can I do for you, squire?
Man: Um, well, I wonder if you can help me. My mother has just died and I'm not quite sure what I should do.
Undertaker: Ah, well, we can 'elp you. We deal with stiffs.
Man: Stiffs?
Undertaker: Yea. Now there's three things we can do with your mum. We can bury her, burn her, or dump her.
Man: Dump her?
Undertaker: Dump her in the Thames.
Man: What?
Undertaker: Oh, did you like her?
Man: Yes!
Undertaker: Oh well, we won't dump her, then. Well, what do you think: a burner, or a burier?
Man: Um, well, um, which would you recommend?
Undertaker: Well they're both nasty. If we burn her, she gets stuffed in the flames, crackle, crackle, crackle, which is a bit of a shock if she's not quite dead. But quick. And then you get a box of ashes, which you can pretend are hers.
Man: Oh.
Undertaker: Or, if you don't wanna fry her, you can bury her. And then she'll get eaten up by maggots and weevils, nibble, nibble, nibble, which isn't so hot if, as I said, she's not quite dead.
Man: I see. Um. Well, I.. I.. I.. I'm not very sure. She's definitely dead.
Undertaker: Where is she?
Man: In the sack.
Undertaker: Let's 'ave a look.
Umm, she looks quite young.
Man: Yes, she was.
Undertaker: (over his shoulder) FRED!
Fred: (offstage) Yea!
Fred: (offstage) I'll get the oven on!
Man: Um, er...excuse me, um, are you... are you suggesting we should eat my mother?
Undertaker: Yeah. Not raw, not raw. We cook her. She'd be delicious with a few french fries, a bit of broccoli and stuffing. Delicious! (smacks his lips)
Man: What!
Well, actually, I do feel a bit peckish - NO! No, I can't!
Undertaker: Look, we'll eat your mum. Then, if you feel a bit guilty about it afterwards, we can dig a grave and you can throw up into it.
Man: All right.

Anouncer: And now it's time for Novel Writing, which today come from the west country on Dorset.
Commentator: Hello, and welcome to Dorchester, where a very good crowd has turned out to watch local boy Thomas Hardy write his new novel "The Return Of The Native", on this very pleasant July morning. This will be his eleventh novel and the fifth of the very popular Wessex novels, and here he comes! Here comes Hardy, walking out towards his desk. He looks confident, he looks relaxed, very much the man in form, as he acknowledges this very good natured bank holliday crowd. And the crowd goes quiet now, as Hardy settles himself down at the desk, body straight, shoulders relaxed, pen held lightly but firmly in the right hand. He dips the pen...in the ink, and he's off! It's the first word, but it's not a word - oh, no! - it's a doodle. Way up on the top of the lefthand margin is a piece of meaningless scribble - and he's signed his name underneath it! Oh dear, what a disapointing start. But his off again - and here he goes - the first word of Thomas Hardy's new novel, at ten thirtyfive on this very lovely morning, it's three letters, it's the definite article, and it's "The". Dennis.
Dennis: Well, this is true to form, no surprises there. He started five of his eleven novels to date with the definite article. We had two of them with "It", there's been one "But", two "At"s, one "On" and a "Dolores", but that of course was never published.
Commentator: I'm sorry to interrupt you there, Dennis, but he's crossed it out. Thomas Hardy, here on the first day of his new novel, has crossed out the only word he has written so far, and he's gazing off into space. Oh, ohh, there he signed his name again.
Dennis: It looks like "Tess of the D'Urbervilles" all over again.
Commentator: But he's...no, he's down again and writting, Dennis, he's written "B" again, he's crossed it out again, and he has written "A" - and there is a second word coming up straight away, and it's "Sat" - "A Sat" - doesn't make sense - "A Satur" - "A Saturday" - it's "A Saturday", and the crowd are loving it, they are really enjoying this novel. And it's "afternoon", it's "Saturday afternoon", a comfortable beginning, and he's straight on to the next word - it's "in" - "A Saturday afternoon in" - "in" - "in" "in Nov" - "November" - November is spelled wrong, he's left out the second "E", but he's not going back, it looks like he's going for the sentence, and it's the first verb coming up - it's the first verb of the novel, and it's "was", and the crowd are going wild! "A Saturday afternoon in November was", and a long word here - "appro" - "appro" - is it a "approving"? - no, it's "approaching" - "approaching" - "A Saturday afternoon in November was approaching" - and he's done the definite article "but" again. And he's writing fluently, easily with flurring strokes of the pen, as he comes up to the middle of this first sentence. And with this eleventh novel well underway, and the prospects of a good days writing ahead, back to the studio.

This record has been skillfully crafted by British comedians using ancient, wellworn, classical, handtooled jokes. It has been specially designed to sit at the back of your record collection, amongst the old Frank Sinatra albums, to be brought out and split up, when you get divorced. Any complaints about the humourous quality of this album, should be addressed to: British Airways, Ingrams Drive, Reddich.

Wapcaplet: Aah, come in, come in, Mr....Simpson. Aaah, welcome to Mousebat, Follicle, Goosecreature, Ampersand, Spong, Wapcaplet, Looseliver, Vendetta and Prang!
Mr. Simpson: Thank you.
Wapcaplet: Do sit down--my name's Wapcaplet, Adrian Wapcaplet...
Mr. Simpson: how'd'y'do.
Wapcaplet: Now, Mr. Simpson... Simpson, Simpson... French, is it?
Mr. Simpson: No.
Wapcaplet: Aah. Now, I understand you want us to advertise your washing powder.
Mr. Simpson: String.
Wapcaplet: String, washing powder, what's the difference. We can sell anything.
Mr. Simpson: Good. Well I have this large quantity of string, a hundred and twenty-two thousand miles of it to be exact, which I inherited, and I thought if I advertised it--
Wapcaplet: Of course! A national campaign. Useful stuff, string, no trouble there.
Mr. Simpson: Ah, but there's a snag, you see. Due to bad planning, the hundred and twenty-two thousand miles is in three inch lengths. So it's not very useful.
Wapcaplet: Well, that's our selling point! "SIMPSON'S INDIVIDUAL STRINGETTES!"
Mr. Simpson: What?
Mr. Simpson: For what?
Wapcaplet: Uhmm... "A MILLION HOUSEHOLD USES!"
Mr. Simpson: Such as?
Wapcaplet: Uhmm...Tying up very small parcels, attatching notes to pigeons' legs, uh, destroying household pests...
Mr. Simpson: Destroying household pests?! How?
Wapcaplet: Well, if they're bigger than a mouse, you can strangle them with it, and if they're smaller than, you flog them to death with it!
Mr. Simpson: Well surely!....
Mr. Simpson: 'Ospitals!?!
Wapcaplet: Have you ever in a Hospital where they didn't have string?
Mr. Simpson: No, but it's only string!
Wapcaplet: ONLY STRING?! It's everything! It's...it's waterproof!
Mr. Simpson: No it isn't!
Wapcaplet: All right, it's water resistant then!
Mr. Simpson: It isn't!
Wapcaplet: All right, it's water absorbent! It's...Super Absorbent String! "ABSORB WATER TODAY WITH SIMPSON'S INDIVIDUAL WATER ABSORB-A-TEX STRINGETTES! AWAY WITH FLOODS!"
Mr. Simpson: You just said it was waterproof!
Mr. Simpson: You're mad!
Wapcaplet: Shut up, shut up, shut up! Sex, sex sex, must get sex into it. Wait, I see a television commercial- There's this nude woman in a bath holding a bit of your string. That's great, great, but we need a doctor, got to have a medical opinion. There's a nude woman in a bath with a doctor--that's too sexy. Put an archbishop there watching them, that'll take the curse off it. Now, we need children and animals. There's two kids admiring the string, and a dog admiring the archbishop who's blessing the string. Uhh...international flavor's missing...make the archbishop Greek Orthodox. Why not Archbishop Macarios? No, no, he's dead... nevermind, we'll get his brother, it'll be cheaper... So, there's Archbishop Macarios....

Man: I wish those bloody bells would stop.
Wife: Oh, it's quite nice dear, it's Sunday, it's the church.
Man: What about us atheists? Why should we 'ave to listen to that sectarian turmoil?
Wife: You're a lapsed atheist, dear.
Man: The principle's the same. Bleeding C-of-E. The Mohmedans don't come 'round here wavin' bells at us! We don't get Buddhists playing bagpipes in our bathroom! Or Hindus harmonizing in the hall! The Shintuists don't come here shattering sheet glass in the shithouse, shouting slogans...
Wife: All right, don't practice your alliteration on me.
Man: Anyway, when I get my membership card and blazer badge back from the League of Agnostics, I shall urge the executive to lodge a protest against that religious racket! Pass the butter knife!
Wife: WHAT??
  (Sound: Window closing, bells get faint, but are still there)
Man: If only we had some kind of missile, we could take the steam out of those bells.
Wife: Well, you could always use the number 14-St. Joseph-the-somewhat- divine-on-the-hill ballistic missile. It's in the attic.
Man: What ballistic missile would this be, then?
  (Sound: Bells begin to get increasingly louder)
Wife: I made it for you, it's your birthday present!
Man: Just what I wanted, 'ow nice of you to remember, my pet. 'EAR!
Wife: WHAT?
Wife: WHAT?
Man: WHAT?
  (Sound: Missle launch, explosion, bells diminish)
Man: Did I 'it it?
Wife: Yes, right up the aisle.
Man: Well I've always said, There's nothing an agnostic can't do if he really doesn't know whether he believes in anything or not.

I like traffic lights,
I like traffic lights,
I like traffic lights,
No matter where they've been.

I like traffic lights,
I like traffic lights,
I like traffic lights,
I like traffic lights,
I like traffic lights,
But only when they're green.

He likes traffic lights,
He likes traffic lights,
He likes traffic lights,
No matter where they've been.

He likes traffic lights,
He likes traffic lights,
He likes traffic lights,
But only when they're green.

I like traffic lights,
I like traffic lights,
I like traffic lights,
That is what I said.

I like traffic lights,
I like traffic lights,
I like traffic lights,
But not when they are red.

He likes traffic lights,
He likes traffic lights,
That is what he said.

He likes traffic lights,
He likes traffic lights,
He likes traffic lights,
He likes traffic lights,
He likes traffic lights,
But not when they are red.

I like traffic lights,
I like traffic lights,
I like traffic lights,
Although my name's not Bamber.

I like traffic lights,
I like traffic lights,
I like traffic lights,
I...Oh God!

John: ...except for a half sister, who was obsessed with Vanadium. Rigged the market, made a cool forty million, paid off the Lord Mayor, and put the lot into diesel powered nuns.
Terry J: Which is where it went wrong, eh...
Michael: Exactly!
Terry J: Pass the beernuts.
John: Oh he hasn't killed himself yet.
Terry J: He hasn't?
John: Oh no, waiting to April the 5th.
Michael: Some sort of tax dodge.
Graham: Good evening, sir.
John: Evening, Tom.
Terry J: Evening, Harry.
Michael: Evening, Maurice.
Graham: Well, what's it to be, sir?
John: A mark.
Terry J: Oh, one of your specials please, Harry.
John: One special please, sir.
Graham: One special coming up.
John: So see what's in page eight. Nixon's had an arsehole transplant.
Michael: Well, have you've...eh...you've seen the stop press though? The arsehole's rejected him.
Graham: Ehm...would you like a twist of lemming, sir?
Terry J: Uh, yes please, Harry.
  (squeak, squeak, squeak)
Graham: Bit more, sir?
Terry J: Oh, just a squeeze.
Graham: There you are, sir
Terry J: Thank you.
John: Alex, what'll you have?
Michael: Oh, aaaaaah, Mallard Fizz for me, please, Maurice.
Graham: Ok, sir, one Mallard Fizz coming up.
Michael: Jolly good.
Terry J: How about old Cohen Barkley?
John: Eh?
Terry J: [???? ???? ????. ??? ??? ?????? switched the wood preservertives into vinaigre. Sold the bottles right next to [???].
Terry J: Smart fellow's always gonna do well. Nice bloke, said I [?????????]
Michael: Funny looking chap, you know. Buttocks bent the wrong way. [??????????] every time he sat down he fell over. Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha. Ha, ha, ha. Don't make me laugh.
Terry J: Well, cheers then.
Graham: Cheers, sir
John: Eh, for me...ehm...a Harlem Stinger, please, Tom.
Graham: Okay, sir. Rastus!
Rastus: Here, boss.
Graham: One Harlem Stinger.
Rastus: One stinger coming raaaahhhhht up.
(Gurgling, retching)
Michael: Cheers, old boy.
Everyone: Cheers, all the best.
  (Running to the lavatory)
John: Eh, how much is that then, Tom?
Graham: One pound and forty p, sir.
John: Would you care to join us?
Graham: Oh, no, thank you, sir.
John: There we are, keep the change.
Graham: Thank you, sir.
John: Good health.
Graham: Cheers.
  (Drinking. Running to the lavatory, regurgitating)
Terry J: Same again, please, Harry.
Go easy on the lemming, Harry.
Graham: Okay, sir. There you are, sir. Eh...same again for you, sir?
Michael: Just a small one, Maurice.
Graham: Okay, sir.
Michael: Maurice?
Graham: Yes, sir?
Michael: You haven't got something a little less...eh...ducky, have you?
Graham: What do you mean, something without the mallard, sir? How about a Dog Turd and Tonic?
Michael: Uurgh!

Michael: Ahh.. Very passable, this, very passable.
Graham: Nothing like a good glass of Chateau de Chassilier, eh Josiah?
Terry J: You're right there Obediah.
Eric: Who'd a thought thirty years ago we'd all be sittin' here drinking Chateau de Chassilier?
Michael: Aye. In them days, we'd a' been glad to have the price of a cup o' tea.
Graham: A cup o' COLD tea.
Eric: Without milk or sugar.
Terry J: OR tea!
Michael: In a cracked cup, and all.
Eric: We never had a cup. We used to have to drink out of a rolled up newspaper.
Graham: The best WE could manage was to suck on a piece of damp cloth.
Terry J: But you know, we were happy in those days, though we were poor.
Michael: Aye. BECAUSE we were poor. My old Dad used to say to me, "Money doesn't buy you happiness."
Eric: 'E was right. I was happier then and I had NOTHIN'. We used to live in this tiny old house, with greaaaaat big holes in the roof.
Graham: House? You were lucky to have a HOUSE! We used to live in one room, all twenty-six of us, no furniture. Half the floor was missing and we were all huddled together in one corner for fear of FALLING!
Terry J: You were lucky to have a ROOM! We used to have to live in a corridor!
Michael: Ohhhh we used to DREAM of livin' in a corridor! Woulda' been a palace to us. We used to live in an old water tank on a rubbish tip. We got woken up every morning by having a load of rotting fish dumped all over us! House!? Hmph.
Eric: Well when I say "house" it was only a hole in the ground covered by a sheet of tarpolin, it was a house to US.
Graham: We were evicted from our hole in the ground; we had to go and live in a lake!
Terry J: You were lucky to have a LAKE! There were a hundred and fifty of us living in a shoebox in the middle of the road.
Michael: Cardboard box?
Terry J: Aye.
Michael: You were lucky. We lived for three months in a paper bag in a septic tank. We used to have to get up at six in the morning, clean the paper bag, eat a crust of stale bread, go to work down the mill for fourteen hours a day week in week out, for sixpence a week. When we got home, out Dad would thrash us to sleep with his belt!
Graham: Luxury! We used to have to get out of the lake at six o'clock in the morning, clean the lake, eat a handful of hot gravel, work twenty hour a day at the mill for tuppence a month, come home, and Dad would thrash us to sleep with a broken bottle, if we were LUCKY!
Terry J: Well of course, we had it tough. We used to have to get up out of the shoebox at twelve o'clock at night, and LICK the road clean with our tongues. We had half two bits of cold gravel, worked twenty-four hours a day at the mill for sixpence every four years, and when we got home, our Dad would slice us in two with a bread knife.
Eric: Right. I had to get up in the morning at ten o'clock at night, half an hour before I went to bed, drink a cup of sulphuric acid, work twenty-nine hours a day down mill, and pay mill owner for permission to come to work, and when we got home, our Dad and our Mother would kill us, and dance about on our graves singing "Hallelujah."
Michael: And you try and tell the young people today that... and they won't believe ya'.
All: They won't..

Linkman: Hello, good evening and welcome to Election Night Special. There's tremendous excitement here at the moment and we should be getting the first results through any moment now. We're not sure where it will be from, it might be Leicester or from West Byfleet, the polling's been quite heavy in both areas. Ah, I'm just getting... I'm just getting... a buzzing noise in my left ear. Urgh, argh! (removes insect and stamps on it). And now let's go straight over to Leicester.
Norman: And it's a straight fight here at Leicester and we're expecting the result any moment now. There with the Returning Officer is Arthur Smith the sensible candidate and next to him is Jethro Q. Walrustitty the silly candidate with his agent and his silly wife.
Officer: Here is the result for Leicester. Arthur J. Smith...
Linkman: (Sensible Party)
Officer: ...30,612. (applause)
Jethro Q. Bunn Whackett Buzzard Stubble and Boot Walrustitty...
Linkman: (Silly Party)
Officer: ...33,108. (applause)
Linkman: Well there we have the first result of the election and the Silly party has held Leicester. Norman.
Norman: Well pretty much as I predicted, except that the Silly party won. Er, I think this is largely due to the number of votes cast. Gerald.
Gerald: Well there's a big swing here to the Silly Party, but how big a swing I'm not going to tell you.
Norman: I think one should point out that in this constituency since the last election a lot of very silly people have moved into new housing estates with the result that a lot of sensible voters have moved further down the road the other side of number er, 29.
Linkman: Well I can't add anything to that. Colin?
Colin: Can I just say that this is the first time I've been on television?
Linkman: No I'm sorry, there isn't time, we're just going straight over to Luton.
Gerald: Well here at Luton it's a three-cornered contest between, from left to right, Alan Jones (Sensible Party), Tarquin Fin-tim-lin-bin-lim-bim-bim-bim-bim-bus-stop-F'tang-F'tang-Ol�-Biscuitbarrel (Silly Party), and Kevin Phillips-Bong, who is running on the Slightly Silly ticket. And here's the result.
Woman: Alan Jones...
Linkman: (Sensible)
Woman: ...9,112.
Kevin Phillips-Bong...
Linkman: (Slightly Silly)
Woman: Nought.
Tarquin Fin-tim-lin-bin-whin-bim-lin-bim-bus-stop-F'tang-F'tang-Ol�-Biscuitbarrel...
Linkman: (Silly)
Woman: 12,441. (applause)
Linkman: Well there you have it, the first result of the election as the Silly Party take Luton. Norman.
Norman: Well this is a very significant result. Luton, normally a very sensible constituency with a high proportion of people who aren't a bit silly, has gone completely ga-ga.
Linkman: And we've just heard that James Gilbert has with him the winning Silly candidate at Luton.
James: Tarquin, are you pleased with this result?
Tarquin: Ho yus, me old beauty, I should say so. (Silly noises including a goat bleating).
Linkman: And do we have the swing at Luton?
Gerald: Er... no.
Linkman: Right, well I can't add anything to that. Colin?
Colin: Can I just say that this is the second time I've been on television?
Linkman: No, I'm sorry there isn't time, we're just about to get another result.
Norman: And this one is from Harpenden Southeast. A very interesting constituency this: in addition to the official Silly candidate there is an unofficial Very Silly candidate, in the slab of concrete, and he could well split the silly vote here at Harpenden Southeast.
Voice over: Mrs Elsie Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzz...
Linkman: (Silly)
Voice over: 26,317 (applause).
Jeanette Walker...
Linkman: (Sensible)
Voice over: 26,318...
Linkman: That was very close!
Voice over: Malcolm Peter Brian Telescope Adrian Blackpool Rock Stoatgobbler John Raw Vegetable Brrroooo Norman Michael (rings bell) (blows whistle) Edward (sounds car horn) (does train impersonation) (sounds buzzer) Thomas Moo... (sings) "We'll keep a welcome in the..." (fires gun) William (makes silly noise) "Raindrops keep falling on my" (weird noise) "Don't sleep in the subway" (cuckoo cuckoo) Naaoooo... Smith...
Linkman: (Very Silly)
Voice over: ...two.
Linkman: Well there you have it, a Sensible gain at Harpenden with the Silly vote being split.
Norman: And we've just heard from Luton that Tony Stratton-Smith has with him there the unsuccessful Slightly Silly candidate, Kevin Phillips-Bong.
Tony: Kevin Phillips-Bong. You polled no votes at all. Not a sausage. Bugger all. Are you at all disappointed with this performance?
Phillips-Bong: Not at all. As I always say:
Climb every mountain
Ford every stream,
Follow every by-way,
Till you find your dream.
A dream that will last
All the love you can give
Every day of your life
For as long as you live.
All together now!
Climb every mountain
Ford every stream...
Linkman: A very brave Kevin Phillips-Bong there. Norman.
Norman: And I've just heard from Luton that my aunt is ill. Possibly gastro-enteritis, possibly just catarrh. Gerald.
Linkman: Right. Er, Colin?
Colin: Can I just say that I'll never appear on television again?
Linkman: No I'm sorry, there isn't time, we have to pick up a few results you may have missed. A little pink pussy-cat has taken Barrow-in-Furness -- that's a gain from the Liberals there. Rastus Odinga Odinga has taken Wolverhampton Southwest, that's Enoch Powell's old constituency -- an important gain there for Darkie Power. Arthur Negus has held Bristols -- that's not a result, that's just a bit of gossip. Sir Alec Douglas Hume has taken Oldham for the Stone Dead party. A small piece of putty about that big, a cheese mechanic from Dunbar and two frogs -- one called Kipper the other one not -- have all gone "Ni ni ni ni ni ni ni!" in Blackpool Central. And so it's beginning to look like a Silly landslide, and with the prospect of five more years' Silly government facing us we... Oh I don't want to do this any more, I'm bored!
Norman: He's right you know, it is a bloody waste of time.
Gerald: Absolute waste of time.
Norman: I wanted to be a gynaecologist...

Oh, I'm a lumberjack and I'm okay,
I sleep all night and I work all day.

Chorus: 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.

Mounties: He cuts down trees, he eats his lunch,
He goes to the lavatory.
On Wednesdays he goes shopping
And has buttered scones for tea.

Chorus: 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.

Mounties: 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?

Chorus: 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 pappa.

Mounties: He cuts down trees, he wears high heels?
Suspendies...and a bra?

...he's a lumberjack and he's okay,
He sleeps all night and he works all day.

...he's a lumberjack and he's OKAAAAAAAAAAYYY.
He sleeps all night and he works all day.

The world today seems absolutely crackers.
With nuclear bombs to blow us all sky high.
There are fools and idiots sitting on the trigger.
It's depressing, and it's senseless, and that's why...

I like Chinese,
I like Chinese,
They only come up to your knees,
Yet they're always friendly and they're ready to please.

I like Chinese,
I like Chinese,
There's nine hundred million of them in the world today,
You'd better learn to like them, that's what I say.

I like Chinese,
I like Chinese,
They come from a long way overseas,
But they're cute and they're cuddly, and they're ready to please.

I like chinese food,
The waiters never are rude,
Think of the many things they've done to impress,
There's Maoism, Taoism, I Ching and chess.

So I like Chinese,
I like Chinese,
I like their tiny little trees,
Their Zen, their ping-pong, their
yin and yang-ese.

I like Chinese thought,
The wisdom that Confucious taught,
If Darwin is anything to shout about,
The Chinese will survive us all without any doubt.

So I like Chinese,
I like Chinese,
They only come up to your knees,
Yet they're wise and they're witty, and they're ready to please.

(Verse in Chinese)

I like Chinese,
I like Chinese,
Their food is guaranteed to please,
A fourteen, a seven, a nine and lychees.

I like Chinese,
I like Chinese,
I like their tiny little trees,
Their Zen, their ping-pong, their yin and yang-ese.

I like Chinese,
I like Chinese,
They only come up to your knees,
Yet they're wise and they're witty, and they're ready to please.(Fade)

Linkman: Jarrow - New Year's Eve 1911
Trouble at mill.
Lady Mountback:
Oh no - what kind of trouble?
Reg: I don't know - Mr Wentworth told me to come and say that there was trouble at the mill, that's all - I didn't expect a kind of Spanish Inquisition.
(The door flies open and Cardinal Ximinez of Spain enters, flanked by two junior cardinals. Cardinal Biggles has goggles pushed over his forehead. Cardinal Fang is just Cardinal Fang)
NOBODY expects the Spanish Inquisition! Our weapon is suprise...surprise and fear...fear and surprise.... Our two weapons are fear and surprise...and ruthless efficiency.... Our three weapons are fear, and surprise, and the ruthless efficiency...and an almost fanatical devotion to the Pope.... Amongst our weapons...are fear, surprise, ruth... Amongst our weaponry...are such elements as fear... I'll come in again.
  (Exit and exeunt)
Reg: I didn't expect a kind of Spanish Inquisition.
(The cardinals burst in)
Ximinez: NOOOBODY expects the Spanish Inquisition! Amongst our weaponry are such diverse elements as: fear, surprise, ruthless efficiency, and an almost fanatical devotion to the Pope, and a night out with the neighbour - Oh erh! It's no good, I'm sorry. Cardinal Biggles - you'll have to say it.
(Terry J)
Ximinez: You'll have to say the bit about 'Our chief weapons are ...'
Biggles: I couldn't say that...
  (Ximinez bundles the cardinals outside again)
Reg: I didn't expect a kind of Spanish Inquisition.
(The cardinals enter)
Biggles: Er.... Nobody...um....
Ximinez: Expects...
Biggles: Expects... Nobody expects the...um...Spanish...um...
Ximinez: Inquisition.
Biggles: Nobody expects the Spanish Inquisition. In fact, those who do expect -
Ximinez: Our chief weapons is...
Biggles: Our chief weapons is...um...er...
Ximinez: Surprise...
Biggles: Surprise and --
Ximinez: Stop. Stop. Stop there - All right! All right! ...our chief weapon is surprise...blah blah blah blah blah. Now, Cardinal Fang, read the charges.
(Terry G)
One pound for a full sketch, 24 p for a quickie.
Ximinez: What will you have?
Lady Mountback: Sketch, please.

Good Morning.
Good morning, sir. Welcome to the National Cheese Emporium!
Mousebender: Ah, thank you, my good man.
Wensleydale: What can I do for you, sir?
Mousebender: Well, I was, uh, sitting in the public library on Thurmon Street just now, skimming through "Rogue Herrys" by Hugh Walpole, and I suddenly came over all peckish.
Wensleydale: Peckish, sir?
Mousebender: Esuriant.
Wensleydale: Eh?
Mousebender: 'Ee, Ah wor 'ungry-loike!
Wensleydale: Ah, hungry!
Mousebender: In a nutshell. And I thought to myself, "a little fermented curd will do the trick," so, I curtailed my Walpoling activites, sallied forth, and infiltrated your place of purveyance to negotiate the vending of some cheesy comestibles!
Wensleydale: Come again?
Mousebender: I want to buy some cheese.
Wensleydale: Oh, I thought you were complaining about the bazouki player!
Mousebender: Oh, heaven forbid: I am one who delights in all manifestations of the Terpsichorean muse!
Wensleydale: Sorry?
Mousebender: 'Ooo, Ah lahk a nice tuune, 'yer forced too!
Wensleydale: So he can go on playing, can he?
Mousebender: Most certainly! Now then, some cheese please, my good man.
Wensleydale: (lustily) Certainly, sir. What would you like?
Mousebender: Well, eh, how about a little Red Leicester.

A look back at five memorable sketches following the announcement that John Cleese, Eric Idle, Michael Palin, Terry Gilliam and Terry Jones will perform a reunion show in London next summer.

The five remaining members of the U.K. comedy troupe Monty Python convened at the London Playhouse on Thursday to announce a reunion show, set to take place in July at London's O2 Arena.

The group will perform an assortment of sketches, drawing from some of their most memorable works and incorporating new material with "a modern, topical, Pythonesque twist." At the press conference, Python John Cleese insisted, "We won't do the same thing."

STORY: Monty Python Team Outlines Reunion Plans

And while the late Python Graham Chapman may not be physically present at the event, the Pythons will incorporate him into their performance. Terry Jones noted: "If there is a God, [Graham] will be there."

In anticipation of the reunion, The Hollywood Reporter pays homage to the group with five of their funniest sketches:

"Pet Shop Sketch"

The "Dead Parrot Sketch," originally known as the "Pet Shop Sketch," is considered by many to be the most popular sketch to come from the Flying Circus television show. First appearing on air in episode eight of the first season, the sketch centers on the dispute between a pet shopkeeper (Michael Palin) and a peeved customer, Mr. Praline (Cleese). In a prolonged effort to bring the death of a particular Norwegian Blue parrot to the proprietor's attention, Praline employs a variety of euphemisms -- "Bereft of life, it rests in peace!" -- to no avail. The sketch was so popular that even MargaretThatcher alluded to it at the Conservative Party Conference of 1990, closing "and now for something completely different."


"The Black Knight"

The iconic Black Knight (Cleese) appeared in a scene from the troupe's classic movie Monty Python and the Holy Grail. After observing the character defeat the Green Knight, King Arthur (Chapman) offers the Black Knight a position at his court on the Round Table. The unresponsive fighter challenges King Arthur's right to cross the bridge, which is really just a short, wood plank, prompting a duel that leaves the Black Knight limbless, yet undeterred. "I'm invincible!" Cleese exclaims. "You're a loony!" Chapman rightly contends.


"Ministry of Silly Walks"

In the 14th episode of Monty Python's Flying Circus, the comedy troupe's riotous television show, Cleese plays a civil servant of the British government sector in charge of developing Silly Walks via grants. A prospective client, Mr. Putey (Palin), pitches his own Silly Walk but fails to impress the staunch adviser, who contends that the walk is short of silliness. The sketch first aired in 1970 but has been re-enacted in various circuits, including a shortened version at the Hollywood Bowl.


"The Funniest Joke in the World"

Leave it to Monty Python to come up with the world's funniest joke -- so funny, in fact, that anyone who reads or hears it dies laughing. That's the gist of the sketch aptly titled "The Funniest Joke in the World," which first aired on Oct. 5, 1969, in the "Whither Canada" episode of Flying Circus. Featuring Ernest Scribbler (Palin), a British manufacturer of jokes who created the lethal pun, the sketch is set during World War II. Scribbler jots the joke on a piece of paper, then dies laughing, initiating a hilarious series of laugh-related deaths. The joke is translated into nonsensical German, but is never disclosed to the audience, presumably out of fear that they too would perish from the hilarity. 


"Argument Clinic"

In a play on English grammar and logical fallacies, the "Argument Clinic" sketch from Monty Python’s Flying Circus serves as a prime example of the type of verbal comedy that made the troupe remarkable. Palin enters an office and offers to pay the receptionist (RitaDavies) for a five-minute argument. Directed to Chapman's room, Palin is confronted by a series of abuses and moves to the adjacent room of Cleese. Cleese engages in the tedious argument -- dialogue inspired by the The Goons and other musical hall comedy -- and becomes absorbed in confounding negations that leave audiences both confused and laughing.  

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