Posted on 10/05/2009 10:43:08 AM PDT by Phlap
Monty Python's Flying Circus, the group responsible for the launching the Ministry of Silly Walks and the Parrot Sketch on an unsuspecting world, was on Monday celebrating 40 years since the comedy sketch show was first broadcast.
The show, which was written and acted by John Cleese, Terry Gilliam, Eric Idle, Terry Jones, Michael Palin and Graham Chapman, first aired on October 5, 1969 and ran for a total of 45 episodes.
It was the Pythons' surreal and satirical humour which shot them to global fame in the 1970s, as they broke new ground in what was acceptable in terms of both style and content.
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 ORALIZE
When I’m between your thighs
You blow me away
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 away
Yes I quite agree I mean what’s the point of being treated like sheep. What’s the point of going abroad if you’re just another tourist carted around in buses surrounded by sweaty mindless oafs from Kettering and Coventry 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.” - and stopping at Majorcan bodegas selling fish and chips and Watney’s Red Barrel and calamares and two veg and sitting in their cotton sun frocks squirting Timothy White’s suncream all over their puffy raw swollen purulent flesh ‘cos they “overdid it on the first day.”
Bounder: (agreeing patiently) Yes absolutely, yes I quite agree...
Tourist: And being herded into endless Hotel Miramars and Bellvueses and Continentales with their modern international luxury roomettes and draught Red Barrel and swimming pools full of fat German businessmen pretending they’re acrobats, forming pyramids and frightening the children and barging into the queues and if you’re not at your table spot on seven you miss your bowl of Campbell’s Cream of Mushroom soup, the first item on the menu of International Cuisine, and every Thursday night the hotel there’s bloody cabaret in the bar, featuring a tiny emaciated dago with nine-inch hips and some bloated fat tart with her hair brylcreemed down and a big *** presenting Flamenco for Foreigners.
Bounder: (beginning to get fed up) Yes, yes now......
Tourist: And then some adenoidal typists from Birmingham with flabby white legs and diarrhea trying to pick up hairy bandy-legged wop waiters called Manuel. And once a week there’s an excursion to the local Roman remains to buy cherryade and melted ice cream and bleeding Watney’s Red Barrel and one evening you visit the so called typical restaurant with local color and atmosphere and you sit next to a party from Rhyl who keep singing “Torremolinos, torremolinos” and complaining about the food - “It’s so greasy isn’t it?” - and you get cornered by some drunken greengrocer from Luton with an Instamatic camera and Dr. Scholl sandals and last Tuesday’s Daily Express and he drones on and on about how Mr. Smith should be running this country and how many languages Enoch Powell can speak and then he throws up over the Cuba Libres.
Bounder: Will you be quiet, please?
Tourist: And sending tinted postcards of places they don’t realize they haven’t even visited to “All at number 22, weather wonderful, our room is marked with an ‘X’.
Bounder: Shut up
Tourist: Food very greasy, but we’ve found a charming little local place hidden away in the back streets
Bounder: Shut up!
Tourist: where they serve Watney’s Red Barrel and cheese and onion.......
Bounder: Shut your bloody gob!
Tourist: crisps and the accordionist plays ‘Maybe it’s because I’m a Londoner’.” And spending four days on the tarmac at Luton airport on a five-day package tour with nothing to eat but dried BEA-type sandwiches and you can’t even get a drink of Watney’s Red Barrel because you’re still in England and the bloody bar closes every time you’re thirsty and there’s nowhere to sleep and the kids are crying and vomiting and breaking the plastic ash-trays and they keep telling you it’ll only be another hour although your plane is still in Iceland and has to take some Swedes to Yugoslavia before it can load you up at 3 a.m. in the bloody morning and you sit on the tarmac till six because of “unforeseen difficulties”, i.e. the permanent strike of Air Traffic Control in Paris - and nobody can go to the lavatory until you take off at 8, and when you get to Malaga airport everybody’s swallowing “enterovioform” and queuing for the toilets and queuing for the armed customs officers, and queuing for the bloody bus that isn’t there to take you to the hotel that hasn’t yet been finished. And when you finally get to the half-built Algerian ruin called the Hotel del Sol by paying half your holiday money to a licensed bandit in a taxi, there’s no water in the pool, there’s no water in the taps, there’s no water in the bog and there’s only a bleeding lizard in the bidet. And half the rooms are double booked and you can’t sleep anyway because of the permanent twenty-four-hour drilling of the foundations of the hotel next door - and you’re plagued by appalling apprentice chemists from Ealing pretending to be hippies, and middle-class stockbrokers’ wives busily buying identical holiday villas in suburban development plots just like Esher, in case the Labour government gets in again, and fat American matrons with sloppy-buttocks and Hawaiian-patterned ski pants looking for any mulatto male who can keep it up long enough when they finally let it all flop out. And the Spanish Tourist Board promises you that the raging cholera epidemic is merely a case of mild Spanish tummy, unlike the previous outbreak of Spanish tummy in 1660 which killed half London and decimated Europe - and meanwhile the bloody Guardia are busy arresting sixteen-year-olds for kissing in the streets and shooting anyone under nineteen who doesn’t like Franco. And then on the last day in the airport lounge everyone’s comparing sunburns, drinking Nasty Spumante, buying cartons of duty free “cigarillos” and using up their last pesetas on horrid dolls in Spanish National costume and awful straw donkeys and bullfight posters with your name on “Ordoney, El Cordobes and Brian Pules of Norwich” and 3-D pictures of the Pope and Kennedy and Franco, and everybody’s talking about coming again next year and you swear you never will although there you are tumbling bleary-eyed out of a tourist-tight antique Iberian airplane...
Shut up! What are you going to do if someone comes after you armed with a banana?
“Who d’ya think I am, a bloody Doctor Bronovsky???”
Here: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=92vV3QGagck
Then, of course, there was “Biggus Dickus.”
The TV show was hilarious. My two favorite sketches that someone hasn’t mentioned yet are the Blackmail! game show and Racial Prejudice (”let’s come up with a bad name for the Belgians”).
And from Monty Python and the Holy Grail - the castle filled with women and the grail shaped light.
I'm shocked that Blackmail! hasn't become a real show, yet.
What about the football game where one side was comprised entirely of Long John Silver impersonators?
Did you ever read Chapman’s book “A Liar’s Autobiography?” Hysterical.
“I think the girl in the pic was also “Polly” in Fawlty Towers, and I think she was married to John Cleese at one time.”
Wink Wink, Say no more squire, SAY no more.
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.
Hitler: Ah! Stalingrad! Ha ha ha, Heinri...Reginald, you have the wrong map here you silly old leg-before-vicket English person.
Himmler: 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?
that mockumentary they made about The World’s Deadliest Joke is one of the funniest things ever put on film
and now a man with three buttocks..
/fishslap
Here you go.
It’s not much of a cheese shop, is it?
Disclaimer: Opinions posted on Free Republic are those of the individual posters and do not necessarily represent the opinion of Free Republic or its management. All materials posted herein are protected by copyright law and the exemption for fair use of copyrighted works.