Monty Python — Forum Archive

5 Jan 2002, 10:27

Immanuel Kant was a real piss-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 pissed. 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 pissed.

5 Jan 2002, 10:29

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 following a prolonged squawk.

Well, he's...he's, ah...probably pining for the fjords.

5 Jan 2002, 10:30

'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! 'Is metabolic processes are now 'istory! 'E's off the twig! 'E's kicked the bucket, 'e's shuffled off 'is mortal coil, run down the curtain and joined the bleedin' choir invisibile!! THIS IS AN EX-PARROT!!

5 Jan 2002, 10:33

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 frocks squirting Timothy White's suncream all over their puffy raw swollen purulent flesh 'cos they "overdid it on the first day." 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 queues and if you're not at your table spot on seven you miss the bowl of Campbell's Cream of Mushroom soup, the first item on the menu of International Cuisine, and every Thursday night the hotel has a 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 arse presenting Flamenco for Foreigners. And adenoidal typists from Birmingham with flabby white legs and diarrhoea 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 colour 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. And sending tinted postcards of places they don't realise they haven't even visited to "All at number 22, weather wonderful, our room is marked with an 'X'. Food very greasy but we've found a charming little local place hidden away in the back streets where they serve Watney's Red Barrel and cheese and onion 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 you find 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 plagues 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, like 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.....

5 Jan 2002, 10:33

Hello WHADDYA WANT YOU LITTLE TWERP I've just come fo SHUT UP YOU HORRIBLE LITTLE TIT, YOU MAKE ME SICK I was just looking for an argument TERRIBLY SORRY, THIS IS ABUSE, YOU'LL FIND ARGUMENTS DOWN THE CORRIDOOR 2A

5 Jan 2002, 10:36

Timbo - you have the scripts at hand - ya cheating bastard!! Use yer memory twatface - or I'll come down there and perform the Fish-slapping dance :spit:

5 Jan 2002, 11:08

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 awkward and embarrassing things, and to point at peoples privates.

5 Jan 2002, 12:58

Here's a little number I tossed off recently at the club:

Isn't it awfully nice to have a penis? Isn't it frightfully good to have a dong? It's swell to have a stiffy, it's divine to own a dick From the tiniest little tadger To the world's biggest prick! So three cheers for your willy or john thomas, hooray for your one-eyed trouser snake, Your piece of pork, your wife's best friend your percy or your cock. But don't take it out in public or they will stick you in the dark And you won't come back

Thank you

5 Jan 2002, 12:59

If I had the script in front of my, I'd have posted the Upper Class Twit of the Year entire...

5 Jan 2002, 14:01

All I did was type "Monty Python" into Lycos, and it spewed out a load of sites with complete scripts !

5 Jan 2002, 14:12

OI! SPLEENY! NO-O-O-O!!! RASPUTIN ALREADY BEAT YOU TO THE DEAD PARROT SKETCH -PAY ATTENTION WILL YOU, FISHLIPS!!! :nonono:

5 Jan 2002, 14:42

You're not arguing, you're just contradicting!

5 Jan 2002, 16:41

Originally posted by Old Blue You're not arguing, you're just contradicting!

no im not

Liv :angel:

5 Jan 2002, 16:52

My particular favourite sketch... apart from "The Bishop"

Last Tuesday a reign of terror was ended when the notorious Piranha brothers,

Doug and Dinsdale, after one of the most extraordinary trials in British legal

history, were sentenced to 400 years imprisonment for crimes of violence. We

examined the rise to power of the Piranhas, the methods they used to subjugate

rival gangs and their subsequent tracking down and capture by the brilliant

Superintendent Harry 'Snapper' Organs of Q Division.

Doug and Dinsdale Piranha were born, on probation, in a small house in Kipling

Road, Southwark, the eldest sons in a family of sixteen. Their father Arthur

Piranha, a scrap metal dealer and TV quizmaster, was well known to the police,

and a devout Catholic. In 1928 he had married Kitty Malone, an up-and-coming

East End boxer. Doug was born in February 1929 and Dinsdale two weeks later;

and again a week after that. Someone who remembers them well was their next

door neighbour, Mrs April Simnel.

"Oh yes Kipling Road was a typical East End Street, people were in and out of

each other's houses with each other's property all day. They were a cheery

lot. Cheerful and violent. Doug was keen on boxing, but when he learned to

walk he took up putting the boot in the groin. He was very interested in that.

His mother had a terrible job getting him to come in for tea. Putting his

little boot in he'd be, bless him. All the kids were like that then, they

didn't have their heads stuffed with all this Cartesian dualism."

At the age of fifteen Doug and Dinsdale started attending the Ernest Pythagoras

Primary School in Clerkenwell. When the Piranhas left school they were called

up but were found by an Army Board to be too unstable even for National

Service. Denied the opportunity to use their talents in the service of their

country, they began to operate what they called 'The Operation'... They would

select a victim and then threaten to beat him up if he paid the so-called

protection money. Four months later they started another operation which the

called 'The Other Operation'. In this racket they selected another victim and

threatened not to beat him up if he didn't pay them. One month later they hit

upon 'The Other Other Operation'. In this the victim was threatened that if he

didn't pay them, they would beat him up. This for the Piranha brothers was the

turning point.

Doug and Dinsdale Piranha now formed a gang, which the called 'The Gang' and

used terror to take over night clubs, billiard halls, gaming casinos and race

tracks. When they tried to take over the MCC they were, for the only time in

their lives, slit up a treat. As their empire spread however, Q Division were

keeping tabs on their every move by reading the colour supplements.

One small-time operator who fell foul of Dinsdale Piranha was Vince

Snetterton-Lewis.

"Well one day I was at home threatening the kids when I looks out through the

hole in the wall and sees this tank pull up and out gets one of Dinsdale's

boys, so he comes in nice and friendly and says Dinsdale wants to have a word

with me, so he chains me to the back of the tank and takes me for a scrape

round to Dinsdale's place and Dinsdale's there in the conversation pit with

Doug and Charles Paisley, the baby crusher, and two film producers and a man

they called 'Kierkegaard', who just sat there biting the heads of whippets and

Dinsdale says 'I hear you've been a naughty boy Clement' and he splits me

nostrils open and saws me leg off and pulls me liver out and I tell him my

name's not Clement and then... he loses his temper and nails me head to the

floor."

Another man who had his head nailed to the floor was Stig O' Tracy.

Rogers: I've been told Dinsdale Piranha nailed your head to the floor.

Stig: No. Never. He was a smashing bloke. He used to buy his mother

flowers and that.  He was like a brother to me.

Rogers: But the police have film of Dinsdale actually nailing your head to

the floor.

Stig: (pause) Oh yeah, he did that.

Rogers: Why?

Stig: Well he had to, didn't he? I mean there was nothing else he could do,

be fair.  I had transgressed the unwritten law.

Rogers: What had you done?

Stig: Er... well he didn't tell me that, but he gave me his word that it was

the case, and that's good enough for me with old Dinsy.  I mean, he

didn't \*want\* to nail my head to the floor.  I had to insist.  He

wanted to let me off.  He'd do anything for you, Dinsdale would.

Rogers: And you don't bear him a grudge?

Stig: A grudge! Old Dinsy. He was a real darling.

Rogers: I understand he also nailed your wife's head to a coffee table.

Isn't that true Mrs O' Tracy?

Mrs O' Tracy: No, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no.

Stig: Well he did do that, yeah. He was a hard man. Vicious but fair.

Vince Snetterton-Lewis agreed with this judgement.

Yes, definitely he was fair. After he nailed me head to the table, I used to

go round every Sunday lunchtime to his flat and apologise, and then we'd shake

hands and he'd nail me head to the floor. He was very reasonable. Once, one

Sunday I told him my parents were coming round to tea and would he mind very

much not nailing my head that week and he agreed and just screwed my pelvis to

a cake stand."

Clearly Dinsdale inspired tremendous fear among his business associates. But

what was he really like?

Gloria Pules knew him intimately.

"I walked out with Dinsdale on many occasions and found him a charming and

erudite companion. He was wont to introduce one to eminent celebrities,

celebrated American singers, members of the aristocracy and other gang leaders,

who he had met through his work for charities. He took a warm interest in

Boys' Clubs, Sailors' Homes, Choristers' Associations and the Grenadier Guards.

"Mind you there was nothing unusual about him. I should say not. Except, that

Dinsdale was convinced that he was being watched by a giant hedgehog whom he

referred to as 'Spiny Norman'. Normally Spiny Norman was wont to be about

twelve feet from snout to tail, but when Dinsdale was depressed Norman could be

anything up to eight hundred yards long. When Norman was about Dinsdale would

go very quiet and start wobbling and his nose would swell up and his teeth

would move about and he'd get very violent and claim that he'd laid Stanley

Baldwin."

Rogers: "Did it worry you that he, for example, stitched people's legs

 together?"

Gloria: "Well it's better than bottling it up isn't it. He was a gentleman,

 Dinsdale, and what's more he knew how to treat a female impersonator."

But what do the criminologists think? We asked The Amazing Kargol and Janet:

"It is easy for us to judge Dinsdale Piranha too harshly. After all he only

did what many of us simply dream of doing... I'm sorry. After all we should

remember that a murderer is only an extroverted suicide. Dinsdale was a

looney, but he was a happy looney. Lucky bugger."

Most of the strange tales concern Dinsdale, but what about Doug? One man who

met him was Luigi Vercotti.

"I had been running a successful escort agency -- high class, no really, high

class girls -- we didn't have any of *that* -- that was right out. So I

decided to open a high class night club for the gentry at Biggleswade with

International cuisine and cooking and top line acts, and not a cheap clip joint

for picking up tarts -- that was right out, I deny that completely --, and one

evening in walks Dinsdale with a couple of big lads, one of whom was carrying a

tactical nuclear missile. They said I had bought one of their fruit machines

and would I pay for it? They wanted three quarters of a million pounds. I

thought about it and decided not to go to the Police as I had noticed that the

lad with the thermonuclear device was the chief constable for the area. So a

week later they called again and told me the cheque had bounced and said... I

had to see... Doug.

Well, I was terrified. Everyone was terrified of Doug. I've seen grown men

pull their own heads off rather than see Doug. Even Dinsdale was frightened of

Doug. He used... sarcasm. He knew all the tricks, dramatic irony, metaphor,

bathos, puns, parody, litotes and... satire. He was vicious."

In this way, by a combination of violence and sarcasm, the Piranha brothers by

February 1966 controlled London and the Southeast of England. It was in

February, though, that Dinsdale made a big mistake.

Latterly Dinsdale had become increasingly worried about Spiny Norman. He had

come to the conclusion that Norman slept in an aeroplane hangar at Luton

Airport. And so on Feb 22nd 1966, Dinsdale blew up Luton.

Even the police began to sit up and take notice. The Piranhas realised they

had gone too far and that the hunt was on. They went into hiding. But it was

too late. Harry 'Snapper' Organs was on the trail.

"I decided on a subtle approach, viz. some form of disguise, as the old helmet

and boots are a bit of a giveaway. Luckily my years with Bristol Rep. stood me

in good stead, as I assumed a bewildering variety of disguises. I tracked them

to Cardiff, posing as the Reverend Smiler Egret. Hearing they'd gone back to

London, I assumed the identity of a pork butcher, Brian Stoats. On my arrival

in London, I discovered they had returned to Cardiff, I followed as Gloucester

from _King Lear_. Acting on a hunch I spent several months in Buenos Aires as

Blind Pew, returning through the Panama Canal as Ratty, in _Toad of Toad Hall_.

Back in Cardiff, I relived my triumph as Sancho Panza in _Man of la Mancha_

which the "Bristol Evening Post" described as 'a glittering performance of rare

perception', although the "Bath Chronicle" was less than enthusiastic. In fact

it gave me a right panning. I quote: 'as for the performance of

Superintendent Harry "Snapper" Organs as Sancho Panza, the audience were

bemused by his high-pitched Welsh accent and intimidated by his abusive

ad-libs.' The "Western Daily News" said: 'Sancho Panza (Mr Organs) spoilt an

otherwise impeccably choreographed rape scene by his unscheduled appearance and

persistent cries of "What's all this then?"'"

Against this kind of opposition for the Piranha Brothers the end

was inevitable.

THE END

5 Jan 2002, 16:58

and now, for something completely different...

5 Jan 2002, 17:14

Originally posted by Nigel Spleen All I did was type "Monty Python" into Lycos, and it spewed out a load of sites with complete scripts !

SAY NO MORE;)

5 Jan 2002, 17:36

A nod's as good as a wink to a blind bat !

5 Jan 2002, 18:08

From The Brand New Monty Python Papperbok, a school report on God from Ferndean. Relevant subjects,exam marks, and master's comments.

DIVINITY: 14. Poor. Keeps disputing biblical facts. He refuses to read the Bible on the grounds that he was "misquoted".

LATIN: 100. Quite the best scholar I ever had.

GEOGRAPHY: 30. Surprisingly poor. His knowledge appears somewhat outdated. Interesting ideas about rock formation. Keeps going "Kerpow".

WOODWORK: 87. An excellent carpenter. Mary and I are still very fond of him.

5 Jan 2002, 21:45

Does anybody all the words to the traffic light song? All I remember is "I like Traffic Lights (repeat ad nauseum) but not when they are red. . . That is what I said" I have people I would like to piss off on a long car ride.:)

6 Jan 2002, 01:15

Originally posted by Iain Curtis Does anybody all the words to the traffic light song? All I remember is "I like Traffic Lights (repeat ad nauseum) but not when they are red. . . That is what I said"I have people I would like to piss off on a long car ride.:)

This song'll really do the trick then, especially if you sing in the monotone voice that they use.

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 He likes traffic lights That is what I 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!

6 Jan 2002, 04:23

My personal fave:

HE'S NOT THE MESSIAH, HE'S A VERY NAUGHTY BOY!!

6 Jan 2002, 11:12

Originally posted by Green > Originally posted by Iain Curtis> Does anybody all the words to the traffic light song? All I remember is "I like Traffic Lights (repeat ad nauseum) but not when they are red. . . That is what I said"> I have people I would like to piss off on a long car ride.:)