Python

[Dark Cid]

Fresh Fruit Defence

Colonel: get some discipline into those chaps, Sergeant Major!
Sargeant: (Shouting throughout) Right sir! Good evening, class.

All: (mumbling) Good evening.

Sargeant: Where's all the others, then?

All: They're not here.

Sergeant: I can see that. What's the matter with them?

All: Dunno.

1st Man: Perhaps they've got 'flu.

Sergeant: Huh! 'Flu, eh? They should eat more fresh fruit. Ha. Right. Now, self-defence. Tonight I shall be carrying on from where we got to last week when I was showing you how to defend yourselves against anyone who attacks you with armed with a piece of fresh fruit.

(Grumbles from all)

2nd Man: Oh, you promised you wouldn't do fruit this week.

Sergeant: What do you mean?

3rd Man: We've done fruit the last nine weeks.

Sergeant: What's wrong with fruit? You think you know it all, eh?

2nd Man: Can't we do something else?

3rd Man: Like someone who attacks you with a pointed stick?

Sergeant: Pointed stick? Oh, oh, oh. We want to learn how to defend ourselves against pointed sticks, do we? Getting all high and mighty, eh? Fresh fruit not good enough for you eh? Well I'll tell you something my lad. When you're walking home tonight and some great homicidal maniac comes after you with a bunch of loganberries, don't come crying to me! Now, the passion fruit. When your assailant lunges at you with a passion fruit...



All: We done the passion fruit.

Sergeant: What?

1st Man: We done the passion fruit.

2nd Man: We done oranges, apples, grapefruit...

3rd Man: Whole and segments.

2nd Man: Pomegranates, greengages...

1st Man: Grapes, passion fruit...

2nd Man: Lemons...

3rd Man: Plums...

1st Man: Mangoes in syrup...

Sergeant: How about cherries?

All: We did them.

Sergeant: Red *and* black?

All: Yes!

Sergeant: All right, bananas.

(All sigh.)

Sergeant: We haven't done them, have we? Right. Bananas. How to defend yourself against a man armed with a banana. Now you, come at me with this banana. Catch! Now, it's quite simple to defend yourself against a man armed with a banana. First of all you force him to drop the banana; then, second, you eat the banana, thus disarming him. You have now rendered him 'elpless.

2nd Man: Suppose he's got a bunch.

Sergeant: Shut up.

4th Man: Suppose he's got a pointed stick.

Sergeant: Shut up. Right now you, Mr Apricot.

1st Man: 'Arrison.

Sergeant: Sorry, Mr. 'Arrison. Come at me with that banana. Hold it like that, that's it. Now attack me with it. Come on! Come on! Come at me! Come at me then! (Shoots him.)

1st Man: Aaagh! (dies.)

Sergeant: Now, I eat the banana. (Does so.)

2nd Man: You shot him!

3rd Man: He's dead!

4th Man: He's completely dead!

Sergeant: I have now eaten the banana. The deceased, Mr Apricot, is now 'elpless.

2nd Man: You shot him. You shot him dead.

Sergeant: Well, he was attacking me with a banana.

3rd Man: But you told him to.

Sergeant: Look, I'm only doing me job. I have to show you how to defend yourselves against fresh fruit.

4th Man: And pointed sticks.

Sergeant: Shut up.

2nd Man: Suppose I'm attacked by a man with a banana and I haven't got a gun?

Sergeant: Run for it.

3rd Man: You could stand and scream for help.

Sergeant: Yeah, you try that with a pineapple down your windpipe.

3rd Man: A pineapple?

Sergeant: Where? Where?

3rd Man: No I just said: a pineapple.

Sergeant: Oh. Phew. I thought my number was on that one.

3rd Man: What, on the pineapple?

Sergeant: Where? Where?

3rd Man: No, I was just repeating it.

Sergeant: Oh. Oh. I see. Right. Phew. Right that's bananas then. Now the raspberry. There we are. 'Armless looking thing, isn't it? Now you, Mr Tin Peach.

3rd Man: Thompson.

Sergeant: Thompson. Come at me with that raspberry. Come on. Be as vicious as you like with it.

3rd Man: No.

Sergeant: Why not?

3rd Man: You'll shoot me.

Sergeant: I won't.

3rd Man: You shot Mr. Harrison.

Sergeant: That was self-defence. Now come on. I promise I won't shoot you.

4th Man: You promised you'd tell us about pointed sticks.

Sergeant: Shut up. Come on, brandish that raspberry. Come at me with it. Give me Hell.

3rd Man: Throw the gun away.

Sergeant: I haven't got a gun.

3rd Man: You have.

Sergeant: Haven't.

3rd Man: You shot Mr 'Arrison with it.

Sergeant: Oh, that gun.

3rd Man: Throw it away.

Sergeant: Oh all right. How to defend yourself against a redcurrant -- without a gun.

3rd Man: You were going to shoot me!

Sergeant: I wasn't.

3rd Man: You were!

Sergeant: No, I wasn't, I wasn't. Come on then. Come at me. Come on you weed! You weed, do your worst! Come on, you puny little man. You weed...

(Sgt. pulls a lever in the wall--CRASH! a 16-ton weight falls on Jones)

3rd Man: Aaagh.

Sergeant: If anyone ever attacks you with a raspberry, just pull the lever and the 16-ton weight will fall on top of him.

2nd Man: Suppose there isn't a 16-ton weight?

Sergeant: Well that's planning, isn't it? Forethought.

2nd Man: Well how many 16-ton weights are there?

Sergeant: Look, look, look, Mr Knowall. The 16-ton weight is just _one way_ of dealing with a raspberry killer. There are millions of others!

4th Man: Like what?

Sergeant: Shootin' him?

2nd Man: Well what if you haven't got a gun or a 16-ton weight?

Sergeant: Look, look. All right, smarty-pants. You two, you two, come at me then with raspberries. Come on, both of you, whole basket each.

2nd Man: No guns.

Sergeant: No.

2nd Man: No 16-ton weights.

Sergeant: No.

4th Man: No pointed sticks.

Sergeant: Shut up.

2nd Man: No rocks up in the ceiling.

Sergeant: No.

2nd Man: And you won't kill us.

Sergeant: I won't.

2nd Man: Promise.

Sergeant: I promise I won't kill you. Now. Are you going to attack me?

2nd & 4th Men: Oh, all right.

Sergeant: Right, now don't rush me this time. Stalk me. Do it properly. Stalk me. I'll turn me back. Stalk up behind me, close behind me, then in with the redcurrants! Right? O.K. start moving. Now the first thing to do when you're being stalked by an ugly mob with redcurrants is to -- release the tiger!

(He does so. Growls. Screams.)

Sergeant: The great advantage of the tiger in unarmed combat is that he eats not only the fruit-laden foe but also the redcurrants. Tigers however do not relish the peach. The peach assailant should be attacked with a crocodile. Right, now, the rest of you, where are you? I know you're hiding somewhere with your damsons and prunes. Well I'm ready for you. I've wired meself up to 200 tons of gelignite, and if any one of you so much as makes a move we'll all go up together! Right, right. I warned you. That's it...

(Explosion.)

 

[Globber]

The funniest python skit has to be the upper class twit of the year. Words won't do it jusctice as you just have to see it... it is laugh out loud hilarious.. go buy or rent the tape and u'll see what I mean.

 

[Simon Darkshade]

The Holy Hand Grenade of Antioch

ARTHUR:
Three. Three. And we'd better not risk another frontal assault. That rabbit's dynamite.
ROBIN:
Would it help to confuse it if we run away more?
ARTHUR:
Oh, shut up and go and change your armour.

GALAHAD:
Let us taunt it! It may become so cross that it will make a mistake.
ARTHUR:
Like what?
GALAHAD:
Well... ooh.
LAUNCELOT:
Have we got bows?
ARTHUR:
No.
LAUNCELOT:
We have the Holy Hand Grenade.
ARTHUR:
Yes, of course! The Holy Hand Grenade of Antioch! 'Tis one of the sacred relics Brother Maynard carries with him. Brother Maynard! Bring up the Holy Hand Grenade!
MONKS: [chanting]
Pie Iesu domine, dona eis requiem.
Pie Iesu domine, dona eis requiem. Pie Iesu domine, dona eis requiem. Pie Iesu domine, dona eis requiem.

ARTHUR:
How does it, um-- how does it work?
LAUNCELOT:
I know not, my liege.
ARTHUR:
Consult the Book of Armaments!
BROTHER MAYNARD:
Armaments, chapter two, verses nine to twenty-one.
SECOND BROTHER:
And Saint Attila raised the hand grenade up on high, saying, 'O Lord, bless this Thy hand grenade that, with it, Thou mayest blow Thine enemies to tiny bits in Thy mercy.'

And the Lord did grin, and the people did feast upon the lambs and sloths and carp and anchovies and orangutans and breakfast cereals and fruit bats and large chu--
MAYNARD:
Skip a bit, Brother.
SECOND BROTHER:
And the Lord spake, saying, 'First shalt thou take out the Holy Pin. Then, shalt thou count to three. No more. No less. Three shalt be the number thou shalt count, and the number of the counting shall be three. Four shalt thou not count, nor either count thou two, excepting that thou then proceed to three. Five is right out. Once the number three, being the third number, be reached, then, lobbest thou thy Holy Hand Grenade of Antioch towards thy foe, who, being naughty in My sight, shall snuff it.'
MAYNARD:
Amen.
KNIGHTS:
Amen.
ARTHUR:
Right!

One!... Two!... Five!
GALAHAD:
Three, sir!
ARTHUR:
Three!
[rabbit dies]

 

[Simon Darkshade]

The String Sketch

Adrian Wapcaplet: Aah, come in, come in, Mr....Simpson. Aaah, welcome toMousebat, 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?
S: No.
W: Aah. Now, I understand you want us to advertise your washing powder.
S: String.
W: String, washing powder, what's the difference. We can sell *anything*.
S: 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--
W: Of course! A national campaign. Useful stuff, string, no trouble there.
S: 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.
W: Well, that's our selling point!
"SIMPSON'S INDIVIDUAL STRINGETTES!"
S: What?
W: "THE NOW STRING! READY CUT, EASY TO HANDLE, SIMPSON'S INDIVIDUAL EMPEROR
STRINGETTES - JUST THE RIGHT LENGTH!"
S: For what?
W: "A MILLION HOUSEHOLD USES!"
S: Such as?
W: Uhmm...Tying up very small parcels, attatching notes to pigeons' legs, uh, destroying household pests...
S: Destroying household pests?! How?
W: 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!
S: Well *surely*!....
W: "DESTROY NINETY-NINE PERCENT OF KNOWN HOUSEHOLD PESTS WITH PRE-SLICED,RUSTPROOF, EASY-TO-HANDLE, LOW CALORIE SIMPSON'S INDIVIDUAL EMPEROR STRINGETTES, FREE FROM ARTIFICIAL COLORING, AS USED IN HOSPITALS!"
S: 'Ospitals!?!?!?!!?
W: Have you ever in a Hospital where they didn't have string?
S: No, but it's only *string*!
W: ONLY STRING?! It's everything! It's...it's waterproof!
S: No it isn't!
W: All right, it's water resistant then!
S: It isn't!
W: 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!"
S: You just said it was waterproof!
W: "AWAY WITH THE DULL DRUDGERY OF WORKADAY TIDAL WAVES! USE SIMPSON'S INDIVIDUAL FLOOD PREVENTERS!"
S: You're mad!
W: 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 this nude woman....

 

[Grisu]

uhh, it could be offending to some of you, but i find that sketch absolutely hilarious.

Knock. Door opens.

Landlady (Terry Jones): Hello, Mr and Mrs Johnson, isn't it?

Mr Johnson (Eric Idle): Yes, that's right. Yes.

Landlady: Oh, come on in. Excuse me not shaking hands, I've just been putting a bit of lard on the cat's boil. (Door closes)

Johnson: Very nice.

Landlady: Oh, you must be tired. It's a long drive from Coventry, isn't it?

Johnson: Yes, well, we usually reckon on five and a half hours and it took us six hours and 53 minutes, with a 25 minute wait at Frampton Cottrell to stretch our legs; only we had to wait half an hour to get onto the M5 at Droitwich.

Landlady: Really?

Johnson: Then there was a three mile queue just before Bridgewater on the A38. We usually come round on the B3339, you see, just before Bridgewater.

Landlady: Yeah. Really?

Johnson: We decided to risk it 'cause they always say they're going to widen it there. Yes, well just by the intersection there where the A372 joins up. There's plenty of room to widen it there, there's only grass verges. They could get another six feet, knock down that hospital. Then we took the coast road through Williton - we got all the Taunton traffic on the A358 from Crowcombe and Stogumber.

Landlady: Well you must be dying for a cup of tea.

Johnson: Well, wouldn't say no, long as it's warm and wet.

Landlady: Well come on in the lounge, I'm just about to serve afternoon tea.

Johnson: Very nice.

Landlady: Come on in, Mr and Mrs Johnson and meet Mr and Mrs Phillips.

Mr Phillips (Terry Gilliam): Good afternoon.

Johnson: Good afternoon.

Landlady: It's their third year with us; we can't keep you away, can we? And over here is Mr Hilter.

(In the corner are three German generals in full Nazi uniform, poring over a map.)

Hilter (Cleese with heavy German accent): Ach. Ha! Gut time, er, gut afternoon.

Landlady: Oho, planning a little excursion, eh, Mr Hilter?

Hilter: Ja, ja, ve haff a little... (to Palin) was ist Abweise bewegen?

Bimmler (Michael Palin, also with German accent): Hiking.

Hilter: Ah yes, ve make a little *hike* for Bideford.

Johnson: Ah yes. Well, you'll want the A39. Oh, no, you've got the wrong map there. This is Stalingrad. You want the Ilfracombe and Barnstaple section.

Hilter: Ah! Stalingrad! Ha ha ha, Heinri...Reginald, you have the wrong map here you silly old leg-before-vicket English person.

Bimmler: I'm sorry mein Fuhrer, mein (cough) mein Dickie old chum.

Landlady: Oh, lucky Mr Johnson pointed that out. You wouldn't have had much fun in Stalingrad, would you? Ha ha. (stony silence) I said, you wouldn't have had much fun in Stalingrad, would you?

Hilter: Not much fun in Stalingrad, no.

Landlady: Oh I'm sorry. I didn't introduce you. This is Ron. Ron Vibbentrop.

Johnson: Oh, not Von Ribbentrop, eh?

Vibbentrop (Graham Chapman, with German Accent): Nein! Nein! Oh. Ha ha. Different other chap. I in Somerset am being born. Von Ribbentrop is born Gotterdammerstrasse 46, Dusseldorf Vest 8.....so they say!

Landlady: And this is the quiet one, Mr Bimmler, Heinrich Bimmler.

Bimmler: How do you do there squire? I also am not of Minehead being born but I in your Peterborough Lincolnshire was given birth to. But am staying in Peterborough Lincolnshire house all time during vor, due to jolly old running sores, and vos unable to go in the streets or to go visit football matches or go to Nuremburg. Ha ha. Am retired vindow cleaner and pacifist, without doing war crimes. Oh...and am glad England vin Vorld Cup. Bobby Charlton. Martin Peters. And eating I am lots of chips and fish and hole in the toads and Dundee cakes on Piccadilly Line, don't you know old chap, vot! And I vos head of Gestapo for ten years. (Hilter elbows him in the ribs) Ah! Five years! (Hilter elbows him again, harder) Nein! No! Oh. Was NOT head of Gestapo AT ALL! I was not, I make joke! (laughs)

Landlady: Oh, Mr Bimmler. You do have us on! (Telephone rings) Oh excuse me. I must just go and answer that.

Johnson: How long are you down here for, Mr Hilter, just the fortnight?

Hilter: Vot you ask that for, are you a spy or something? Get on against the wall, Britischer Pig, you are going to die!

Bimmler: Take it easy, Dickie old chum!

Vibbentrop: I'm sorry Mr. Johnson, he's a bit on edge. He hasn't slept since 1945.

Hilter: Shut your cake-hole, you Nazi!

Vibbentrop: Cool it, Fuhrer cat!

Bimmler: Ha ha, the fun we have!

Johnson: Haven't I seen him on the television?

Hilter, Vibbentrop, Bimmler: (hastily) Nicht. Nein. No.

Johnson: Simon Dee show, or was it Frosty?

Hilter, Vibbentrop, Bimmler: Nein. No.

Landlady: Telephone, Mr Hilter. It's Mr McGoering from the Bell and Compasses. He says he's found a place where you can hire bombers by the hour...?

Hilter: If he opens his big mouth again, it's Lapschig time!

Bimmler: Shut up! Ha ha, hire bombers! He's a joker, that Scottish person.

Vibbentrop: Good old Norman!

Landlady (to Johnson): He's on the phone the whole time nowadays

Johnson: In business, is he?

Bimmler: Soon, baby!

Landlady: Of course it's his big day Thursday. They've been planning it for months.

Johnson: What's happening then?

Landlady: Well it's the North Minehead bye-election. Mr Hilter's standing as the National Bocialist candidate. He's got wonderful plans for Minehead!

Johnson: Like what?

Landlady: Well, for a start he wants to annex Poland.

Johnson: Oh, North Minehead's Conservative, isn't it?

Landlady: Well, yes, he gets a lot of people at his rallies.

Johnson: Rallies?

LandLady: Well, they're Bocialist meetings down at the Axis Cafe on Rosedale Road.

(Short scene cut: huge crowds outside going "Sieg Heil. Sieg Heil. Sieg Heil.")

Hilter: I am not a racialist, but...and dis is a big but...the National Bocialist party says that das (stream of German).

Bimmler: Mr Hitler (Hilter slaps him) ...Hilter says historically Taunton is a part of Minehead already!

Hilter: Und der Minehead ist nicht die letze (stream of German)...in die Welt!

Crowd: Sieg Heil.

(Cut to interviews on the street)

Yokel (Chapman): I don't like the sound of these 'ere Boncentration Bamps.

Woman (Idle): Well, I gave him my baby to kiss, and he bit it in the head!

Upper class (Cleese): Well, I think he'd do a lot of good to the Stock Exchange.

Woman (Cleese): No! No!

Himmler (in disguise): Oh yes Britisher pals, he is wunderbar-ful.

Pepperpot (Jones):

Gumby (Jones): I think he's got beautiful legs.

Conservative (Chapman): (droning) Well... speaking as the Conservative candidate I just drone on and on and on and on without letting anyone else get a word in edgeways, until I start foaming at the mouth and falling over backwards. Ooo-aaahhh. (THUD)

(Cut back to 'Spectrum' host)

Host (Michael Palin): Foam at the mouth and fall over backwards. Is he foaming at the mouth to fall over backwards or falling over backwards to foam at the mouth? Tonight's 'Spectrum' examines the whole question of frothing and falling, coughing and calling, screaming and bawling, walling and stalling, brawling and mauling, falling and hauling, trawling and squalling, and zalling. Zalling. It isn't even a word zalling. If it is what does it mean? If it isn't what does it mean? Perhaps both, maybe neither. What do I mean by the word 'mean'? What do I mean by the word 'word'? What do I mean by 'what do I mean'? What do I mean by 'do' and what do I do by 'mean'? And what do I do by do by do and what do I mean by wasting your time like this? Good night.

 

[Simon Darkshade]

Elephantoplasty

Announcer (John Cleese): Tonight on Who Cares? we examine the frontiers of surgery. With us is the international financier and surgeon Reg LeCrisp and his most successful patient to date, the elephant Mr. George Humphries.

(Elephant trumpets.) Mr. LeCrisp, the surgery on Mr. Humpries is truly
remarkable, but--why an elephant?

LeCrisp (Terry Jones): Well, that was just a stroke of luck, really. An
elephant's trunk became available after a road accident, and Mr. Humphries happened to be walking past the hospital at the time.

A: And what was Mr. Humphries' reaction to the transplant of the elephant's organs?

L (interspersed with trumpeting): Surprise at first, then later shock, and
deep anger and resentment. But his family were marvelous, they helped pull him through--

A: How long was he in hospital?

L: Well, he spent the first three weeks in our intensive care unit, and then eight weeks in the zoo.

A: I see... Is Mr. Humphries now able to lead a fairly normal life?
L: No. Oh, no, no. No--he still has to wash himself in a rather special way, he can only eat buns, and he's not allowed on public transport. But I feel these are very minor problems--

A: Mm hmmm.

L: --when you consider the very sophisticated surgery which Mr. Humphries has undergone. I mean, each of those feet he's got now weighs more than his whole body did before the... elephantoplasty, and the tusks alone--

A: Er, some years ago you were the center of, er, controversy both from your own medical colleagues and from the Church when you grafted a pederast onto an Anglican bishop.

L: Well, that's ignorance of the press, if I may say so. We've done thousands of similar operations, it's just that this time there was a bishop involved. I wish I could have more bishops, I--

A: Is lack of donors a problem?

L: There just aren't enough accidents. It's unethical and time-consuming to go out and *cause* them, so we're having to rely on whatever comes to hand--chairs, tables, floor-cleaning equipment, drying-out racks, pieces of pottery... and these do pose almost insurmountable surgical problems. What I'm sitting on, in fact, is one of our more successful attempts. This is Mrs. Dudley. She had little hope of survival, she'd lost interest in life, but along came this very attractive mahogany frame, and now she's a jolly comfortable Chesterfield.

A: Mm hmm. I see.
(Sound of car crash--sirens blaring)

L: Oh--excuse me... (Rushes out.)

The Election Sketch

Cleese (talking very fast, as do all the commentators): 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 throughany 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 inmy left ear. Urgh, argh! (removes insect and stamps on it). And now
let's go straight over to Leicester.

Palin: 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.

Idle: (clears throat) Here is the result for Leicester. Arthur J. Smith...

Cleese: (Sensible Party)

Idle: ...30,612. (applause)

Jethro Q. Bunn Whackett Buzzard Stubble and Boot Walrust!tty...

Cleese: (Silly Party)

Idle: ...33,108. (applause)

Cleese: Well there we have the first result of the election and the Silly
party has held Leicester. Norman.

Palin: 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.

Chapman: Well there's a big swing here to the Silly Party, but how big a swing, I'm not going to tell you.

Palin: 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.

Cleese: Well I can't add anything to that. Colin?

Idle: Can I just say that this is the first time I've been on television?

Cleese: No I'm sorry, there isn't time, we're just going straight over to
Luton.

Chapman: Well here at Luton it's a three-cornered contest between, from left to right, Alan Jones (Sensible Party), Tarquin Fintimlinbinwhinbimlim Bus Stop Poontang Poontang Ole Biscuit-Barrel (Silly Party), and Kevin Phillips Bong, who is running on the Slightly Silly ticket.
And here's the result.

Woman: Alan Jones...

Cleese: (Sensible)

Woman: ...9,112.

Kevin Phillips Bong...

Cleese: (Slightly Silly)

Woman: Nought.

Tarquin Fintimlinbinwhinbimlim Bus Stop Poontang Poontang Ole Biscuit-Barrel...

Cleese: (Silly)

Woman: 12,441. (applause)

Cleese: Well there you have it, the first result of the election as the Silly Party take Luton. Norman.

Palin: 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.

Cleese: And we've just heard that James Gilbert has with him the winning Silly candidate at Luton.

Idle: Tarquin, are you pleased with this result?

Tarquin (Palin): Ho yus, me old beauty, I should say so. (Silly noises
including a goat bleating).

Cleese: And do we have the swing at Luton?

Chapman: Er... no.

Cleese: (pause) Right, well I can't add anything to that. Colin?

Idle: Can I just say that this is the second time I've been on television?

Cleese: No, I'm sorry there isn't time, we're just about to get another
result.

Palin: 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.

Jones: Mrs Elsie Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzz...

Cleese: (Silly)

Jones: 26,317 (applause).
Jeanette Walker...

Cleese: (Sensible)

Jones: 26,318...

Cleese: Very close!

Jones: 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" (****oo ****oo) Naaoooo... Smith...

Cleese: (Very Silly)

Jones: ...two.

Cleese: Well there you have it, a Sensible gain at Harpenden with the Silly vote being split.

Palin: And we've just heard from Luton that Tony Stratton-Smith has with him there the unsuccessful Slightly Silly candidate, Kevin Phillips Bong.

Idle: Kevin Phillips Bong. You polled no votes at all. Not a sausage.
Bugger all. Are you at all disappointed with this performance?

Bong (Neil Innes): Not at all. As I always say:
Climb every mountain
Ford every stream,
Follow every by-way,
Till you find your dream.
(Sings) 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...

Cleese: A very brave Kevin Phillips Bong there. Norman.

Palin: And I've just heard from Luton that my aunt is ill. Possibly
gastro-enteritis, possibly just catarrh. Gerald.

Cleese: Right. Er, Colin?

Idle: Can I just say that I'll never appear on television again?

Cleese: 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 piece of gossip. Sir
Alec Douglas Home 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 not -- have all gone "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!

Palin: He's right you know, it is a bloody waste of time.

Chapman: Absolute waste of time.

Palin: I wanted to be a gynaecologist...

 

[Marlos]

Omigosh, you guys have too much time on your hands! (but I'm not complaining)

I have the Cheeseshop Sketch somewhere, I'll have to find it!

 

[MrPresident]

The following sketch is even funnier to me than it probably is to you, for obvious reasons (see left - under location). It was never performed on the tv show so some of you may not have seen it. So let me enlight you. Sit back and enjoy the " Four Yorkshiremen ".

Eric Idle: Very passable, isn't it? Very passable.

All: Right, all right.

Graham Chapman: Good glass of Chateau de Chasselet, ain't just that, sire?

Terry Jones: Oh, you're right there, Obadiah.

Graham Chapman: Right.

Eric Idle: Who would have thought, thirty years ago, we'd all be sitting here drinking Chateau de Chaselet, eh?

All: Aye, aye.

Michael Palin: Them days we were glad to have the price of a cup of tea.

Graham Chapman: Right! A cup of cold tea!

Michael Palin: Right!

Eric Idle: Without milk or sugar!

Terry Jones: Or tea!

Michael Palin: In a cracked cup and all.

Eric Idle: Oh, we never used to have a cup! We used to have to drink out of a rolled-up newspaper!

Graham Chapman: The best we could manage was to suck on a piece of damp cloth.

Terry Jones: But you know, we were happy in those days, although we were poor.

Michael Palin: Because we were poor!

Terry Jones: Right!

Michael Palin: My old dad used to say to me: "Money doesn't bring you happiness, son!"

Eric Idle: He was right!

Michael Palin: Right!

Eric Idle: I was happier then and I had nothing! We used to live in this tiny old tumbled-down house with great big holes in the roof.

Graham Chapman: House! You were lucky to live in a house! We used to live in one room, all twenty-six of us, no furniture, half the floor was missing, we were all huddled together in one corner for fear of falling.

Terry Jones: You were lucky to have a room! We used to have to live in the corridor!

Michael Palin: Oh, we used to dream of living in a corridor! Would have been a palace to us! We used to live in an old watertank on a rubbish tip. We'd all woke up every morning by having a load of rotten fish dumped all over us! House, huh!

Eric Idle: Well, when I say a house, it was just a hole in the ground, covered by a sheet of tarpaulin, but it was a house to us!

Graham Chapman: We were evicted from our hole in the ground. We had to go and live in a lake!

Terry Jones: You were lucky to have a lake! There were 150 of us living in a shoebox in the middle of the road!

Michael Palin: A cardboard box?

Terry Jones: Aye!

Michael Palin: You were lucky! We lived for three months in a rolled-up newspaper in a septic tank! We used to have to get up every morning, at six o'clock and clean the newspaper, go to work down the mill, fourteen hours a day, week in, week out, for six pence a week, and when we got home, our dad would thrash us to sleep with his belt!

Graham Chapman: Luxury! We used to have to get up out of the lake at three o'clock in the morning, clean the lake, eat a handful of hot gravel, work twenty hours a day at mill, for two pence a month, come home, and dad would beat us around the head and neck with a broken bottle, if we were lucky!

Terry Jones: Well, of course, we had it tough! We used to have to get up out of the shoebox in the middle of the night, and lick the road clean with our tongues! We had to eat half a handful of freezing cold gravel, work twenty-four hours a day at mill for four pence every six years, and when we got home, our dad would slice us in two with a breadknife!

Eric Idle: Right! I had to get up in the morning, at ten o'clock at night, half an hour before I went to bed, eat a lump of cold poison, work twenty-nine hours a day down mill and pay millowner for permission to come to work, and when we got home, our dad would kill us and dance about on our graves, singing Hallelujah!

Michael Palin: Aah. And you trying to tell the young people of today that, and they won't believe you!

All: No, no they won't!

 

[scorch]

 

[Simon Darkshade]

The Bruces/Philosophers Song

Bruce: G'day, Bruce!
Bruce: Oh, Hello Bruce!
Bruce: How are you Bruce?
Bruce: A bit crooked, Bruce.
Bruce: Where's Bruce?
Bruce: He's not 'ere, Bruce.
Bruce: Blimey, it's hot in here, Bruce.
Bruce: Hot enough to boil a monkey's bum!
Bruce: That's a strange expression, Bruce.
Bruce: Well Bruce, I heard the Prime Minister use it. "It's hot enough to boil a monkey's bum in here, your Majesty," he said and she smiled quietly to herself.
Bruce: She's a good Sheila Bruce, and not at all stuck up.
Bruce: Here! Here's the boss-fellow now!
Bruce: 'Ow are you, Bruce?
Bruce: G'day Bruce!
Bruce: Bruce.
Bruce: Hello Bruce.
Bruce: Bruce.
Bruce: How are you, Bruce?
Bruce: G'day Bruce.
Bruce: Gentleman, I'd like to introduce man from Pommeyland who is joinin' us this year in the philosophy department at the University of
Wooloomooloo.
Everybruce: G'day!
Michael Baldwin: Hello.
Bruce: Michael Baldwin, Bruce. Michael Baldwin, Bruce. Michael Baldwin, Bruce.
Bruce: Is your name not Bruce?
Michael: No, it's Michael.
Bruce: That's going to cause a little confusion.
Bruce: Mind if we call you "Bruce" to keep it clear?
Bruce: Gentlemen, I think we better start the faculty meeting. Before we start, though, I'd like to ask the padre for a prayer.
Bruce: Oh Lord, we beseech Thee, Amen!!
Everybruce: Amen!
Bruce: Crack tube! (Bottles opening)
Bruce: Now I call upon Bruce to officially welcome Mr. Baldwin to the
philosophy faculty.
Bruce: I'd like to welcome the pommy bastard to God's own Earth, and remind him that we don't like stuck-up sticky-bates here.
Everybruce: Hear, hear! Well spoken, Bruce!
Bruce: Bruce here teaches classical philosophy, Bruce there teaches Hegelian philosophy, and Bruce here teaches logical positivism. And is also in charge of the sheep dip.
Bruce: What's New-Bruce going to teach?
Bruce: New-Bruce will be teaching political science, Machiavelli, Benton,
Lockholm, Sackly, Millbo, Hasset, and Bernerd.
Bruce: Those are all cricketers!
Bruce: Aww, spit!
Bruce: Hails of derisive laughter, Bruce!
Everybruce: Australia, Australia, Australia, Australia, we love you amen!
Bruce: Another two! (Bottles opening)
Bruce: Any questions?
Bruce: New-Bruce, are you a Poofter?
Bruce: Are you a Poofter?
New-Bruce: No!
Bruce: No. Right, I just want to remind you of the faculty rules:
Rule One! (Everybruce) No Poofters!
Rule Two, no member of the faculty is to maltreat the Abbos in anyway at all -- if there's anybody watching.
Rule Three? (Everybruce) No Poofters!!
Rule Four, now this term, I don't want to catch anybody not drinking.
Rule Five, (Everybruce) No Poofters!
Rule Six, there is NO ... Rule Six.
Rule Seven, (Everybruce) No Poofters!!
Right, that concludes the readin' of the rules, Bruce.
Bruce: This here's the wattle, the emblem of our land. You can stick it in
a bottle, you can hold it in your hand.
Everybruce: Amen!

<And now all four Bruces launch into the Philosopher's song>

Immanuel Kant was a real p1ss-ant who was very rarely stable.
Heidegger, Heidegger was a boozy beggar who could
think you under the table.
David Hume could out-consume Schopenhauer and Hegel.
And Wittgenstein was a beery swine who was just as sloshed as Schlegel.
There's nothing Nietzsche couldn't teach 'ya 'bout the raising of the wrist.
Socrates, himself, was permanently p!ssed.
John Stuart Mill, of his own free will, after half a pint of shandy was
particularly ill.
Plato, they say, could stick it away, 'alf a crate of whiskey every day!
Aristotle, Aristotle was a bugger for the bottle,
And Hobbes was fond of his Dram.
And Rene Descartes was a drunken fart:
"I drink, therefore I am."
Yes, Socrates himself is particularly missed;
A lovely little thinker, but a bugger when he's p!ssed.

NEWS FOR PARROTS

Good evening. Here is the news for Parrots:

No parrots were involved in an accident on the M-1 today when a Lorry carrying High-octane fuel was in collison with a bollard. That's 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 discusa a 4 million pound airliner deal....None of them entered the cage, or swung on the little wooden trapeze or ate any of the nice millet seed. Yum, Yum.

And while thats going on, here's a parliamentary report for Humans:
In the debate, a spokesman accused the goverment of being silly and doing not at all good things. The member accepted this in the spirit of healthy criticism, but denied that he had ever been naughty with a choir boy. Angry shouts of 'What about the Watermelon then' were ordered then by the speaker to be stricken from the record and put into a brown paper bag in the lavvy. Any further interruptions would be cut up and distributed amongst the poor. For the Government, a front-bench spokesman said the Agricultural Tariff WOULD have to be raised. And he fancied a bit. Whats more he argued, this would give a large boost to farmers, him, his friends, and Miss Moist of Knightsbridge. From the back benches there were opposition shouts of 'Postcards for sale' and a healthy cry of 'Who likes a sailor then' from the minister without portfolio. Replying, the Shadow Minister said he could no longer deny the rumors, but he and the Dachsund were very happy. And in any case he argued Rhubarb was cheap, and what was the harm in a sauna bath?

We're not involved.

The Minister of Technology met the three Russian leaders to discuss a 4 million pound airliner deal....none of them were indigenous to Australia, carried their young in pouches, or ate any of those yummy Eucalyptus leaves..Yum Yum. Thats
the news for wombats...now Attila the Hun.

 

[Simon Darkshade]

Scene: A large posh office. Two clients, well-dressed city gents, sit facing a large table at which stands Mr. Tid, the account manager of the architectural firm.



Mr. Tid (Graham Chapman): Well, gentlemen, we have two architectural designs for this new residential block of yours and I thought it best if the architects themselves explained the particular advantages of their designs.

There is a knock at the door.

Mr. Tid: Ah! That's probably the first architect now. Come in.

Mr. Wiggin enters.

Mr. Wiggin (John Cleese): Good morning, gentlemen
Clients: Good morning.
Mr. Wiggin: This is a 12-storey block combining classical neo-Georgian features with the efficiency of modern techniques. The tenants arrive here and are carried along the corridor on a conveyor belt in extreme
comfort, past murals depicting Mediterranean scenes, towards the
rotating knives. The last twenty feet of the corridor are heavily
soundproofed. The blood pours down these chutes and the mangled
flesh slurps into these....
Client 1: Excuse me.
Mr. Wiggin: Yes?
Client 1: Did you say 'knives'?
Mr. Wiggin: Rotating knives, yes.
Client 2: Do I take it that you are proposing to slaughter our tenants?
Mr. Wiggin: ...Does that not fit in with your plans?
Client 1: Not really. We asked for a simple block of flats.
Mr. Wiggin: Oh. I hadn't fully divined your attitude towards the tenants. You see, I mainly design slaughter houses.
Clients: Ah.
Mr. Wiggin: Pity.
Clients: Yes.
Mr. Wiggin: (indicating points of the model) Mind you, this is a real beaut. None of your blood caked on the walls and flesh flying out of the windows incommoding the passers-by with this one. (confidentially) My life has been leading up to this.
Client 2: Yes, and well done, but we wanted an apartment block
Mr. Wiggin: May I ask you to reconsider.
Clients: Well....
Mr. Wiggin: You wouldn't regret this. Think of the tourist trade.
Client 1: I'm sorry. We want a block of flats, not an abattoir
Mr. Wiggin: ...I see. Well, of course, this is just the sort of blinkered
philistine ignorance I've come to expect from you non-creative garbage. You sit there on your loathsome spotty behinds squeezing
blackheads, not caring a tinker's cuss for the struggling artist.
You excrement, you whining hypocritical toadies with your colour TV
sets and your Tony Jacklin golf clubs and your bleeding masonic
secret handshakes. You wouldn't let me join, would you, you
blackballing bastards. Well I wouldn't become a Freemason if you went
down on your stinking knees and begged me.
Client 2: We're sorry you feel that way but we did want a block of flats, nice though the abattoir is.
Mr. Wiggin: Oh sod the abattoir, that's not important. (He dashes forward and kneels in front of them.)
But if any of you could put in a word for me I'd love to be a mason!
Masonry opens doors. I'd be very quiet, I was a bit on edge just now but if I were a mason I'd sit at the back and not get in anyone's way.
Client 1: (politely) Thank you.
Mr. Wiggin: ...I've got a second-hand apron.
Client 2: Thank you.

(Mr. Wiggin hurries to the door but stops...)
Mr. Wiggin: I nearly got in at Hendon.
Client 1: Thank you.

Mr. Wiggin exits. Mr Tid rises.

Mr. Tid: I'm sorry about that. Now the second architect is Mr. Wymer of Wymer and Dibble.

(Mr. Wymer enters, carrying his model with great care. He places it on the table.)

Mr. Wymer: Good morning gentlemen. This is a scale model of the block, 28 stories high, with 280 apartments. It has three main lifts and two service lifts. Access would be from Dibbingley Road.

(The model falls over. Mr Wymer quickly places it upright again.)

The structure is built on a central pillar system with...

(The model falls over again. Mr Wymer tries to make it stand up, but it won't, so he has to hold it upright.)

...with cantilevered floors in pre-stressed steel and concrete.
The dividing walls on each floor section are fixed by recessed magnalium-flanged grooves.

(The bottom ten floors of the model give way and it partly collapses.)
By avoiding wood and timber derivatives and all other inflammables
we have almost totally removed the risk of....

(The model is smoking. The odd flame can be seen. Wymer looks at the city gents.)

Frankly, I think the central pillar may need strengthening.
Client 2: Is that going to put the cost up?
Mr. Wymer: I'm afraid so.
Client 2: I don't know we need to worry too much about strengthening that. After all, these are not meant to be luxury flats.
Client 1: Absolutely. If we make sure the tenants are of light build and relatively sedentary and if the weather's on our side, I think we have a winner here.
Mr. Wymer: Thank you.
(The model explodes.)

Client 2: I quite agree.
Mr. Wymer: Well, thank you both very much.
(They all shake hands, giving the secret Mason's handshake.)

Cut to Mr. Wiggin watching at the window.
Mr. Wiggin (turning to camera): It opens doors, I'm telling you.

 

[MrPresident]

(As the sketch open Voices can be heard singing Vocational guidance counsellor ... vocational guidance counsellor ... vocational guidance counsellor ... etc. Office set. Man sitting at desk. Mr Anchovy is standing waiting. The counsellor looks at his watch then starts the sketch.)

Counsellor: (John Cleese) Ah Mr Anchovy. Do sit down.

Anchovy: (Michael Palin) Thank you. Take the weight off the feet, eh?

Counsellor: Yes, yes.

Anchovy: Lovely weather for the time of year, I must say.

Counsellor: Enough of this gay banter. And now Mr Anchovy, you asked us to advise you which job in life you were best suited for.

Anchovy: That is correct, yes.

Counsellor: Well I now have the results here of the interviews and the aptitude tests that you took last week, and from them we've built up a pretty clear picture of the sort of person that you are. And I think I can say, without fear of contradiction, that the ideal job for you is chartered accountancy.

Anchovy: But I am a chartered accountant.

Counsellor: Jolly good. Well back to the office with you then.

Anchovy: No! No! No! You don't understand. I've been a chartered accountant for the last twenty years. I want a new job. Something exciting that will let me live.

Counsellor: Well chartered accountancy is rather exciting isn't it?

Anchovy: Exciting? No it's not. It's dull. Dull. Dull. My God it's dull, it's so desperately dull and tedious and stuffy and boring and des-per-ate-ly DULL.

Counsellor: Well, er, yes Mr Anchovy, but you see your report here says that you are an extremely dull person. You see, our experts describe you as an appallingly dull fellow, unimaginative, timid, lacking in initiative, spineless, easily dominated, no sense of humour, tedious company and irrepressibly drab and awful. And whereas in most professions these would be considerable drawbacks, in chartered accountancy they are a positive boon.

Anchovy: But don't you see, I came here to find a new job, a new life, a new meaning to my existence. Can't you help me?

Counsellor: Well, do you have any idea of what you want to do?

Anchovy: Yes, yes I have.

Counsellor: What?

Anchovy: (boldly) Lion taming.

Counsellor: Well yes. Yes. Of course, it's a bit of a jump isn't it? I mean, er, chartered accountancy to lion taming in one go. You don't think it might be better if you worked your way towards lion taming, say, via banking?

Anchovy: No, no, no, no. No. I don't want to wait. At nine o'clock tomorrow I want to be in there, taming.

Counsellor: Fine, fine. But do you, do you have any qualifications?

Anchovy: Yes, I've got a hat.

Counsellor: A hat?

Anchovy: Yes, a hat. A lion taming hat. A hat with 'lion tamer' on it. I got it at Harrods. And it lights up saying 'lion tamer' in great big neon letters, so that you can tame them after dark when they're less stroppy.

Counsellor: I see, I see.

Anchovy: And you can switch it off during the day time, and claim reasonable wear and tear as allowable professional expenses under paragraph 335C...

Counsellor: Yes, yes, yes, I do follow, Mr Anchovy, but you see the snag is... if I now call Mr Chipperfield and say to him, 'look here, I've got a forty-five-year-old chartered accountant with me who wants to become a lion tamer', his first question is not going to be 'does he have his own hat?' He's going to ask what sort of experience you've had with lions.

Anchovy: Well I... I've seen them at the zoo.

Counsellor: Good, good, good.

Anchovy: Lively brown furry things with short stumpy legs and great long noses. I don't know what all the fuss is about, I could tame one of those. They look pretty tame to start with.

Counsellor: And these, er, these lions, how high are they?

Anchovy: (indicating a height of one foot) Well they're about so high, you know. They don't frighten me at all.

Counsellor: Really. And do these lions eat ants?

Anchovy: Yes, that's right.

Counsellor: Er, well, Mr Anchovy, I'm afraid what you've got hold of there is an anteater.

Anchovy: A what?

Counsellor: An anteater. Not a lion. You see a lion is a huge savage beast, about five feet high, ten feet long, weighing about four hundred pounds, running forty miles per hour, with masses of sharp pointed teeth and nasty long razor-sharp claws that can rip your belly open before you can say 'Eric Robinson', and they look like this.

(The counsellor produces large picture of a lion and shows to Mr Anchovy who screams and passes out.)

Counsellor: Time enough I think for a piece of wood.

(CAPTION: 'THE LARCH')

Voice Over: (Terry Jones) The larch.

(Cut back to office: Mr Anchovy sits up with a start.)

Counsellor: Now, shall I call Mr Chipperfield?

Anchovy: Er, no, no, no. I think your idea of making the transition to lion taming via easy stages, say via insurance...

Counsellor: Or banking.

Anchovy: Or banking, yes, yes, banking that's a man's life, isn't it? Banking, travel, excitement, adventure, thrills, decisions affecting people's lives.

Counsellor: Jolly good, well, er, shall I put you in touch with a bank?

Anchovy: Yes.

Counsellor: Fine.

Anchovy: No, no, no. Look, er, it's a big decision, I'd like a couple of weeks to think about it... er... you know, don't want to jump into it too quickly. Maybe three weeks. I could let you know definitely then, I just don't want to make this definite decision. I'm er... (continues muttering nervously to himself)

Counsellor: (turning to camera) Well this is just one of the all too many cases on our books of chartered accountancy. The only way that we can fight this terrible debilitating social disease, is by informing the general public of its consequences, by showing young people that it's just not worth it. So, so please... give generously... to this address:
The League for Fighting Chartered Accountancy,

55 Lincoln House, Basil Street,
London, SW3.

 

[Simon Darkshade]

Inspector: 'ELLO!
Mr. Hilton: 'Ello.
Inspector: Mr. 'ilton?
Hilton: A-yes?
I: You are the sole proprietor and owner of the Whizzo Chocolate Company?
H: I am, yes.
I: Constable Clitoris and I are from the 'ygiene squad, and we'd like to have a word with you about your box of chocolates entitled the "Whizzo Quality Assortment".
H: Oh, yes.
I: If I may begin at the beginning. First there is the Cherry Fondue.
Now this is extremely nasty. (pause) But we can't prosecute you for that.
H: Ah, agreed.
I: Then we have number four. Number four: Crunchy Frog.
H: Yes.
I: Am I right in thinking there's a real frog in 'ere?
H: Yes, a little one.
I: What sort of frog?
H: A...a *dead* frog.
I: Is it cooked?
H: No.
I: What, a RAW frog?!?
H: Oh, we use only the finest baby frogs, dew-picked and flown from Iraq, cleansed in the finest quality spring water, lightly killed, and sealed in a succulent, Swiss, quintuple-smooth, treble-milk chocolate envelope, and lovingly frosted with glucose.
I: That's as may be, but it's still a frog!
H: What else?
I: Well, don't you even take the bones out?
H: If we took the bones out, it wouldn't be crunchy, would it?
I: Constable Clitoris et one of those!! We have to protect the public!
C: Uh, would you excuse me a moment, Sir? (exits)
I: We have to protect the public! People aren't going to think there's a real frog in chocolate! Constable Clitoris thought it was an almond whirl!
They're bound to expect some sort of mock frog!
H: (outraged) MOCK frog!?! We use NO artificial additives or preservatives of ANY kind!
I: Nevertheless, I advise you in future to replace the words "Crunchy Frog" with the legend, "Crunchy, Raw, Unboned Real Dead Frog" if you wish to avoid prosecution!
H: What about our sales?
I: F*CK your sales! We've got to protect the public! Now what about this one, number five, it was number five, wasn't it? Number five: Ram's
Bladder Cup. (beat) Now, what sort of confectionery is that?!?
H: Oh, we use only the finest juicy chunks of fresh Cornish Ram's bladder, emptied, steamed, flavoured with sesame seeds, whipped into a fondue, and garnished with lark's vomit.
I: LARK'S VOMIT?!?!?
H: Correct.
I: It doesn't say anything here about lark's vomit!
H: Ah, it does, at the bottom of the label, after "monosodium glutamate".
I: I hardly think that's good enough! I think it's be more appropriate if the box bore a great red label: "WARNING: LARK'S VOMIT!!!"
H: Our sales would plummet!
I: (screaming) Well why don't you move into more conventional areas of
confectionary??!!
(the constable returns)
I: Like Praline, or, or Lime Creme, a very popular flavor, I'm lead to
understand. Or Raspberry Lite. I mean, what's this one, what's
this one? 'Ere we are: Cockroach Cluster! Anthrax Ripple!

C: MMMMWWWAAAAAGGGGGHHHH!!

(For those of you watching this transcript on your terminal, the young
constable has just thrown up into his helmet. This is the longest
continuous vomit seen on Broadway since John Barrymore puked over Laertes in the second act of Hamlet in 1941.)

I: (continuing) And what is this one: Spring Surprise?
H: Ah, that's one of our specialities. Covered in dark, velvety chocolate,
when you pop it into your mouth, stainless steel bolts spring out and plunge straight through both cheeks.
I: (stunned) Well where's the pleasure in THAT?!? If people pop a nice little chockie into their mouth, they don't expect to get their cheeks pierced!!! In any case, it is an inadequate description of the sweetmeat. I shall have to ask you to accompany me to the station.
H: (shrugging) It's a fair cop.
I: And DON'T talk to the audience.

 

[napoleon526]

Eric Idle: And now for something completely different. A man with three buttocks!

Host (John Cleese): I have with me Mr Arthur Frampton who... (pause) Mr. Frampton, I understand that you - um - as it were...(pause) Well let me put it another way. Erm, I believe that whereas most people have - er - two... Two.

Frampton (Michael Palin): Oh, sure.

Host: Ah well, er, Mr Frampton. Erm, is that chair comfortable?

Frampton: Fine, yeah, fine.

Host: Mr Frampton, er, vis a vis your... (pause) rump.

Frampton: I beg your pardon?

Host: Your rump.

Frampton: What?

Host: Er, your derriere. (Whispers) Posterior. Sit-upon.

Frampton: What's that?

Host (whispers): Your buttocks.

Frampton: Oh, me bum!

Host (hurriedly): Sshhh! Well now, I understand that you, Mr Frampton, have a... (pause) 50% bonus in the region of what you say.

Frampton: I got three cheeks.

Host: Yes, yes, excellent, excellent. Well we were wondering, Mr Frampton, if you could see your way clear to giving us a quick... (pause) a quick visual... (long pause). Mr Frampton, would you take your trousers down.

Frampton: What? (to cameramen) 'Ere, get that away! I'm not taking me trousers down on television. What do you think I am?

Host: Please take them down.

Frampton: No!

Host: No, er look, er Mr Frampton. It's quite easy for somebody just to come along here claiming... that they have a bit to spare in the booty department. The point is, our viewers need proof.

Frampton: I been on Persian Radio, and the Forces' Network!

 

[MrPresident]

Frampton (Michael Palin):

That thought this was played by Terry Jones.