Monty Python's Flying Circus, Series 3

Mrs Conclusion:
Hello, Mrs Premise.

Mrs Premise:
Hello, Mrs Conclusion.

Mrs Conclusion:
Busy day?

Mrs Premise:
Busy! I've just spent four hours burying the cat.

Mrs Conclusion:
Four hours to bury a cat?

Mrs Premise:
Yes, it wouldn't keep still. Wriggling about, howling its head off.

Mrs Conclusion:
Oh - it wasn't dead then?

Mrs Premise:
Well, no, no, but it's not at all a well cat. So, as we were going away for a fortnight's holiday, I thought I'd better bury it just to be on the safe side.

Mrs Conclusion:
Quite right. You don't want to come back from Sorento to a dead cat. It'd be so anticlimactic. Yes, kill it now, that's what I say.

Mrs Premise:
Yes.

Mrs Conclusion:
We're going to have our budgie put down.

Mrs Premise:
Really? Is it very old?

Mrs Conclusion:
No. We just don't like it.

Third Whicker:
Father Pierre, why did you stay on in this colonial Campari-land where the clink of glasses mingles with the murmur of a million mosquitoes, where waterfalls of whisky wash away the worries of a world-weary Whicker, where gin and tonic jingle in a gyroscopic jubilee of something beginning with J? Father Pierre, why did you stay on here?

Father Pierre:
[putting on a pair of Whicker-style glasses] Well, mainly for the interviews.

Mrs. Shazam:
Mrs. N*gger-Baiter's exploded!

Mrs. Shazam's son:
Good thing, too.

Mrs. Shazam:
She was my best friend!

Mrs. Shazam's son:
Oh, don't be so sentimental, mother. Things explode everyday.

Host:
Tschaikowsky: Was he the tortured soul who poured out his immortal longings into dignified passages of stately music, or was he just an old poof who wrote tunes?

Newsreader:
The BBC wishes to deny rumors that it is going into liquidation. Mrs Kelly, who owns the flat where they live, has said that they can stay on till the end of the month ... (he is handed a piece of paper) and we've just heard that Huw Weldon's watch has been accepted by the London Electricity Board and transmissions for this evening can be continued as planned. (he coughs and pulls the blanket tighter round his shoulders) That's all from me so... goodnight.

Mr Kelly:
Are you going to be in there all night?

Newsreader:
It's just a bulletin, Mr Kelly... and now back to the Story.

Mr Kelly:
Commence!

Newsreader:
All right!

Woman:
Well there's rat cake ... rat sorbet... rat pudding... or strawberry tart.

Man:
Strawberry tart?!

Woman:
Well it's got some rat in it.

Man:
How much?

Woman:
Three, rather a lot really.

Man:
... well, I'll have a slice without so much rat in it.

Mr. Vibrating:
I'm very sorry, but I'm not allowed to argue unless you've paid.

Man:
Aha! If I didn't pay, then why are you arguing? Got you!

Mr. Vibrating:
No you haven't.

Man:
Yes I have. If you're still arguing, I must have paid.

Mr. Vibrating:
Not necessarily. I could be arguing in my spare time.

Man:
Oh, I've had enough of this!

Mr. Vibrating:
No, you haven't.

Man:
Oh, shut up!

Merchant Banker:
Ah, Mr. Victim, I'm glad to say we've got the go-ahead to lend you the money you required. We will, of course, need for security the deed to your house, the deed to your aunt's house, of your wife's parents' house, and of your granny's bungalow. And we will in addition need a controlling interest in the stock of your new company, unrestricted access to your private bank accounts, the deposit of your three children in our vaults as hostages, and a full legal indemnity in case of any embezzlement carried out against you by members of our staff during the normal course of their duties. No, I'm afraid we couldn't accept your dog instead of your youngest child, but we would like to suggest a brand new scheme of ours in which 51 percent of your wife and your dog pass to us in the event of your suffering a serious accident.

Arthur Mee:
Well, ladies and gentlemen, I don't think any of our contestants tonight succeeded in encapsulating the intricacies of Proust's masterwork. So, I'm going to give the award to the girl with the biggest tits.

Narrator:
Mount Everest. Forbidding. Aloof. Terrifying. The mountain with the biggest tits in the world.

Documentary Presenter:
The gastropod is a randy little fellow whose tiny brain scarcely strays from the subject of you-know-what. The randiest of the gastropods is the limpet; this hot-blooded little beast, with its tent-like shell, is always on the job. Its extramarital activities are something startling. Frankly, I don't know how the female limpet finds the time to adhere to the rock face! How am I doing?

Gladys:
Disgusting!

George:
But more interesting!

Documentary Presenter:
Another loose-living gastropod is the periwinkle. This shameless little libertine with its characteristic ventral locomotion is not the marrying kind! "Anywhere, anytime" is its motto, off with the shell and they're at it!

Gladys:
What about the lemmelebrates?

Documentary Presenter:
I'm coming to them. The Great Scallop: This tacky, scrofulous old rapist is second in depravity only to the common clam. This latter is a right whore! A harlot! A cynical, bed-hopping, firm-breasted, Rabelaisian bit of seafood that makes Fanny Hill look like a dead pope! And finally, among the lemmelebrate bivalves, that most depraved of the whole subspecies, the whelk. The whelk is nothing but a homosexual of the worst kind! This gay boy of the gastropods, this queer crustacian, this mincing mollusk, this screaming, prancing, limp-wristed queen of the deep makes me sick!

Announcer:
We would like to apologize for the way in which politicians are represented in this programme. It was never our intention to imply that politicians are weak-kneed, political time-servers who are more concerned with their personal vendettas and private power struggles than the problems of government. Nor to suggest at any point that they sacrifice their credibility by denying free debate on vital matters in the mistaken impression that party unity comes before the well-being of the people they supposedly represent. Nor to imply at any stage that they are squabbling little toadies without an ounce of concern for the vital social problems of today. Nor indeed do we intend that viewers should consider them as crabby, ulcerous, little self-seeking vermin with furry legs and an excessive addiction to alcohol and certain explicit sexual practices which some people might find offensive. We are sorry if this impression has come across.

Various characters:
Lemon curry?!

Announcer #1:
The BBC would like to apologize to everyone in the world for that last item. It was disgusting and bad and thouroughly disobediant, and please don't bother to phone up because we know it was very tasteless, but they didn't really mean it and they all come from broken homes and have very unhappy personal lives, especially Eric. Anyway, they're all really nice people underneath, and very warm in the traditional show business way. And please don't write in either because the BBC is going through an unhappy phase at the moment, what with its father dying, and the mortgage, and BBC2 going out with men.

Announcer #2:
The BBC would like to deny the last apology. It is very happy at home, and BBC2 is bound to go through this phase, so from all of us here, good night, sleep well, and have an absolutely super day tomorrow, kiss kiss.

Mr. Pither:
You are Rear Admiral Sir Dudley Compton?

Chinaman:
No. He die. He have heart attack and fell out of window onto exploding bomb, and was killed in shooting accident.

Chinaman:
[toasting] Buttocks up!

Communist:
Oh, my lack of God! It's Trotsky!

Badger:
There's a bomb onboard this plane, and I'll tell you where it is for a thousand pounds.

Second Pilot:
I don't believe you.

Badger:
If you don't tell me where the bomb is... If I don't give you the money... Unless you give me the bomb...

Stewardess:
The money.

Badger:
The bomb, thank you pretty lady - the bomb will explode, killing everybody.

Second Pilot:
Including you.

Badger:
[pause] I'll tell you where it is for a pound.

Second Pilot:
Here's a pound.

Badger:
I don't want Scottish money. They've got the numbers. It can be traced.

Second Pilot:
One English pound. Now where's the bomb?

Badger:
I can't remember.

Second Pilot:
You've forgotten.

Badger:
Aye, you'd better have your pound back. Oh... [rubs it] fingerprints.

First Pilot:
Now where's the bomb?

Badger:
Ah, wait a tic, wait a tic. Er, my first is in Glasgow but not in Spain, my second is in steamer but not in train, my whole is in the luggage compartment on the plane... I'll tell you where the bomb is for a pound.

Second Pilot:
It's in the luggage compartment.

Badger:
Right. Here's your pound.

Narrator:
This is the planet Algon, fifth world in the system of Aldebaran, the Red Giant in the constellation of Sagittarius. Here an ordinary cup of drinking chocolate costs four million pounds, an immersion heater for the hot-water tank costs over six billion pounds, and a pair of split-crotch panties would be almost unobtainable.

Roger Last:
Good evening. Tonight on 'Is There' we examine the question, 'Is there a life after death?' And here to discuss it are three dead people.

Mrs O:
[reading her horoscope] You have green, scaly skin, and a soft yellow underbelly with a series of fin-like ridges running down your spine and tail. Although lizardlike in shape, you can grow anything up to thirty feet in length with huge teeth that can bite off great rocks and trees. You inhabit arid subtropical zones, and you wear spectacles.

Mrs Trepidatious:
It's very good about the spectacles.

Mrs O:
It's amazing!

Prejudice" Host:
Well now, the result of last week's competition when we asked you to find a derogatory term for the Belgians. Well, the response was enormous and we took quite a long time sorting out the winners. There were some very clever entries. Mrs Hatred of Leicester Said 'let's not call them anything, let's just ignore them'. And a Mr St John of Huntingdon said he couldn't think of anything more derogatory than 'Belgians'. But in the end we settled on three choices: number three ... 'The Sprouts', sent in by Mrs Vicious of Hastings... very nice; number two..... 'The Phlegms', from Mrs Childmolester of Worthing; but the winner was undoubtedly from Mrs No-Supper-For-You from Norwood in Lancashire... 'Miserable Fat Belgian Bastards'!

Presenter:
Would Albert Einstein ever have hit upon the theory of relativity if he hadn't been clever? All these tremendous leaps forward have been taken in the dark. Would Rutherford ever have split the atom if he hadn't tried? Could Marconi have invented the radio if he hadn't by pure chance spent years working at the problem? Are these amazing breakthroughs ever achieved except by years and years of unremitting study? Of course not. What I said earlier about accidental discoveries must have been wrong.

Scientist:
If we increase the size of the penguin until it is the same height as the man and then compare the relative brain size, we now find that the penguin's brain is still smaller. But, and this is the point, it is larger than it was!

Vicar:
I like TITS!!! [Attacks noblewoman]

First Lady:
Oh vicar! Vicar!

Vicar:
[composing himself] Oh my goodness, I do beg your pardon! How dreadful! The first day in my new parish, I completely... so sorry!

First Lady:
Yes. Never mind, never mind. Chivers, send Mary in with a new gown, will you?

Chivers:
Certainly, m'lady.

Vicar:
I do beg your pardon... I must sit down.

First Lady:
As I was saying, how do you find the new vicarage?

Vicar:
Oh yes, certainly, yes indeed, I find the grounds delightful, and the servants most attentive. Particularly the little serving maid with GREAT BIG KNOCKERS! [attacks again]

Mrs Premise:
[knocks on Jean-Paul Sartre's room's door] Coo-ee! Jean-Paul? Jean-Paul! It's only us. Oh, pardon...c'est même nous.

Jean-Paul:
[opens door] Oui.

Mrs Premise:
Jean-Paul. Your famous trilogy Rues à Liberté: is it an allegory of man's search for commitment?

Jean-Paul:
Oui.

Mrs Premise:
I told you so.

Mrs Conclusion:
Oh, coitus.

Mr Barnard:
What do you want?

Man:
Well I was told outside...

Mr Barnard:
Don't give me that you snotty-faced heap of parrot droppings!

Man:
What?

Mr Barnard:
Shut your festering gob you tit! Your type makes me puke! You vacuous toffee-nosed malodorous pervert!

Man:
Look, I came here for an argument!

Mr Barnard:
(apologetic) Oh, I'm sorry. This is abuse. No, you want room 12A next door.

Man:
I see, sorry!

Mr Barnard:
Not at all. (the man exits) Stupid git.

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!

Inspector Fox:
You are hereby charged where you did willfully take part in a strange sketch. That is a skit, spoof, or humorous vignette of an unconventional nature, with intent to cause grievous mental confusion to the Great British public.

"Life and Death Struggles" Narrator:
Here you see some English comic actors engaged in a life or death struggle with a rather weak ending. This is typical of the zany madcap world of the irresistible kooky funsters. The English pantomime horse wins and so is assured of a place in British history, and a steady job at a Merchant Bank. Unfortunately, before his pension rights are assured, he catches bronchitis and dies. Another victim of the need to finish these shows on time.

Narrator:
I think we're getting pictures now from Algon itself, and it looks as though, YES, the satellite has found a bird - the probe has struck crumpet. And she looks pretty good, too.

Second Assistant:
There's a 'Bridget - Queen of the Whip'.

Porn Shop Customer:
Yes...

Second Assistant:
Or 'Naughty Nora'... or there's this one: 'Doug, Bob and Gordon Visit the Ark Royal'. Or there's 'Sister Teresa: The Spanking Nun'.

Porn Shop Customer:
Mmmm, I see. You don't have anything specially about Devon and Cornwall?

Second Assistant:
No, I'm afraid not, sir.

Porn Shop Customer:
The one I was really after was Arthur Hotchkiss' 'Devonshire Country Churches'.

Second Assistant:
Well how about this, sir: 'Bum Biters'?

Porn Shop Customer:
No, not really. I don't suppose you have any general surveys of English church architecture?

Second Assistant:
No, it's not really our line, sir.

Porn Shop Customer:
No, I see. Well, never mind. I'll just take the 'Lord Lieutenant in Nylons' then, and trade in these two copies of 'Piggie Parade'. Thank you.

Dickie Attenborough:
There can be no finer honor tonight than to welcome into our midst tonight a guest who has not only done more than not anyone for our society, but nonetheless has only done more.