Tuesday, November 23, 2004

[Mr Creosote enters.]
First Fish: [in tank] Oh shit! It's Mr creosote.
[All the fish disappear with six flicks of the tail.]
Maitre D: Ah good afternoon, sir, and how are we today?
Mr Creosote: Better...
Maitre D: Better?
Mr Creosote: Better get a bucket, I'm going to throw up.
Maitre D: Gaston! A bucket for monsieur!
[They seat him at his usual table. A gleaming silver bucket is placed beside him and he leans over and throws up into it.]
Maitre D: Merci Gaston.
[He claps his hands and the bucket is whisked away.]
Mr Creosote: I haven't finished!
Maitre D: Oh! Pardon! Gaston!... A thousand pardons monsieur.
[Puts the bucket back.] [The Maitre D produces the menu as Mr Creosote continues spewing.]
Maitre D: Now this afternoon we monsieur's favourite - the jugged hare. The hare is *very* high, and the sauce is very rich with truffles, anchovies, Grand Marnier, bacon and cream.
[Mr Creosote pauses. The Maitre D claps his hands and signs to Gaston, who whisks away the bucket.]
Maitre D: Thank you, Gaston.
Mr Creosote: There's still more.
[Gaston rapidly replaces the bucket.]
Maitre D: Allow me! A new bucket for monsieur.
[The Maitre D picks the bucket up and hands it over to Gaston. Mr Creosote leans over and throws up onto the floor. And the cleaning woman.] [Gaston hurries off. The Maitre D takes care to avoid the vomit and places the menu in front of Mr Creosote.]
And maintenant, would monsieur care for an aperitif?
[Creosote vomits over the menu. It is covered.]
Or would you prefer to order straight away? Today for appetizers... er... excuse me... [The Maitre D leans over and wipes away the sick with his hand so that the words of the menu are readable.]
... moules marinieres, pate de foie gras, beluga caviar, eggs Benedictine, tart de poireaux - that's leek tart - frogs' legs amandine or oeufs de caille Richard Shepherd - c'est a dire, little quails' eggs on a bed of pureed mushrooms, it's very delicate, very subtle...
Mr Creosote: I'll have the lot.
Maitre D: A wise choice, monsieur! And now, how would you like it served? All mixed up in a bucket?
Mr Creosote: Yes. With the eggs on top.
Maitre D: But of course, avec les oeufs frites.
Mr Creosote: And don't skimp on the pate.
Maitre D: Oh monsieur I can assure you, just because it is mixed up with all the other things we would not dream of giving you less than the full amount. In fact I will personally make sure you have a *double* helping. Maintenant quelque chose a boire - something to drink, monsieur?
Mr Creosote: Yeah, six bottles of Chateau Latour '45 and a double Jeroboam of champagne.
Maitre D: Bon, and the usual brown ales...?
Mr Creosote: Yeah... No wait a minute... I think I can only manage six crates today.
Maitre D: Tut tut tut! I hope monsieur was not overdoing it last night...?
Mr Creosote: Shut up!
Maitre D: D'accord. Ah the new bucket and the cleaning woman.
[Gaston arrives. The Cleaning Woman gets down on her hands and knees. Mr Creosote vomits over her.] [Some guests at another table start to leave. The Maitre D approaches.]
Maitre D: Monsieur, is there something wrong with the food?
[The Maitre D indicates the table of half-eaten main courses. The guests shrink from his vomit-covered hand.
The Maitre D realises and shakes a little off. It hits another guest, who wipes his eye.]
Guest: No. The food was... excellent...
Maitre D: Perhaps you are not happy with the service?
Guest: Er no... no... no complaints.
Guest's Wife: It's just we have to go - um - I'm having rather a heavy period.
[A slight embarrassed silence while the rest of the party look at her.]
Guest: And... we... have a train to catch.
Guest's Wife: [as if covering for her previous gaffe] Oh! Yes! Yes... of course! We have a train to catch... and I don't want to start bleeding over the seats.
[An awkward pause. The Maitre D gropes for words.]
Guest: Perhaps we should be going...
[They start to go. The Maitre D follows.]
Maitre D: Very well, monsieur. Thank you so much, so nice to see you and I hope very much we will see you again very soon. Au revoir, monsieur.
[He pauses. A look of awful realization suffuses his face.]
Maitre D: ... Oh dear... I've trodden in monsieur's bucket.
[The Maitre D claps his hands.] Another bucket for monsieur...
[Mr Creosote is sick down the Maitre D's trousers.]and perhaps a hose...
[Someone at another table gently throws up.]
Companion: Oh Max, really!
[At another table someone else has really thrown up all over the place. His mother and brother look at him incredulously. Meanwhile Mr Creosote has scoffed the lot. The Maitre D approaches him with a silver tray.]
Maitre D: And finally, monsieur, a wafer-thin mint.
Mr Creosote: No.
Maitre D: Oh sir! It's only a tiny little thin one.
Mr Creosote: No. Fuck off - I'm full... [Belches]
Maitre D: Oh sir... it's only *wafer* thin.
Mr Creosote: Look - I couldn't eat another thing. I'm absolutely stuffed. Bugger off.
Maitre D: Oh sir, just... just *one*...
Mr Creosote: Oh all right. Just one.
Maitre D: Just the one, sir... voila... bon appetit... [Mr Creosote somehow manages to stuff the wafer-thin mint into his mouth and then swallows. The Maitre D takes a flying leap and cowers behind some potted plants. There is an ominous splitting sound. Mr Creosote looks rather helpless and then he explodes, covering waiters, diners, and technicians in a truly horrendous mix of half digested food, entrails and parts of his body. People start vomiting.]
Maitre D: [returns to Mr Creosote's table] Thank you, sir, and now the check.

Monday, November 22, 2004

Nudge Nudge

Man(Eric Idle):'Evening, squire!
Squire(Terry Jones):(stiffly)Good evening.
Man:Is, uh,... Is your wife a goer, eh? Know whatahmean, know whatahmean, nudge nudge, know whatahmean, say no more?
Squire:I, uh, I beg your pardon?
Man:Your, uh, your wife, does she go, eh, does she go, eh?
Squire:(flustered)Well, she sometimes 'goes', yes.
Man:Aaaaaaaah bet she does, I bet she does, say no more, say no more, know whatahmean, nudge nudge?
Squire:(confused)I'm afraid I don't quite follow you.
Man:Follow me. Follow me. That's good, that's good!A nod's as good as a wink to a blind bat!
Squire:Are you, uh,... are you selling something?
Man:SELLING! Very good, very good! Ay? Ay? Ay?(pause)Oooh! Ya wicked Ay! Wicked Ay! Oooh hooh! Say No MORE!
Squire:Well, I, uh....
Man:Is, your uh, is your wife a sport, ay?
Squire:Um, she likes sport, yes!
Man:I bet she does, I bet she does!
Squire:As a matter of fact she's very fond of cricket.
Man:'Oo isn't? Likes games, eh?Knew she would. Likes games, eh?She's been around a bit, been around?
Squire:She has traveled, yes. She's from Scarsdale.(pause)
Man:SAY NO MORE!!Scarsdale, saynomore, saynomore, saynomore, squire!
Squire:I wasn't going to!
Man:Oh! Well, never mind. Dib dib?Is your uh, is your wife interested in... photography, ay? 'Photographs, ay', he asked him knowlingly?
Man:Snap snap, grin grin, wink wink, nudge nudge, say no more?
Squire:Holiday snaps, eh?
Man:They could be, they could be taken on holiday.Candid, you know, CANDID photography?
Squire:No, no I'm afraid we don't have a camera.
Man:Oh.(leeringly)Still, mooooooh, ay? Mwoohohohohoo, ay? Hohohohohoho, ay?
Squire:Look... are you insinuating something?
Man:Oh, no, no, no... yes.
Man:Well, you're a man of the world, squire.
Man:I mean, you've been around a bit, you know, like, you've, uh... You've 'done it'...
Squire:What do you mean?
Man:Well, I mean like,... you've SLEPT, with a lady...
Man:What's it like?

Dead Parrot Sketch

A customer enters a pet shop.

Mr. Praline(Michael Palin): 'Ello, I wish to register a complaint.
(The owner does not respond.)
Mr. Praline: 'Ello, Miss?
Owner(John Cleese): What do you mean "miss"?
Mr. Praline: I'm sorry, I have a cold. I wish to make a complaint!
Owner: We're closin' for lunch.
Mr. Praline: Never mind that, my lad. I wish to complain about this parrot what I purchased not half an hour ago from this very boutique.
Owner: Oh yes, the, uh, the Norwegian Blue...What's,uh...What's wrong with it?
Mr. Praline: I'll tell you what's wrong with it, my lad. 'E's dead, that's what's wrong with it!
Owner: No, no, 'e's uh,...he's resting.
Mr. Praline: Look, matey, I know a dead parrot when I see one, and I'm looking at one right now.
Owner: No no he's not dead, he's, he's restin'! Remarkable bird, the Norwegian Blue, idn'it, ay? Beautiful plumage!
Mr. Praline: The plumage don't enter into it. It's stone dead.
Owner: Nononono, no, no! 'E's resting!
Mr. Praline: All right then, if he's restin', I'll wake him up! (shouting at the cage) 'Ello, Mister Polly Parrot! I've got a lovely fresh cuttle fish for you if you show...
(owner hits the cage)
Owner: There, he moved!
Mr. Praline: No, he didn't, that was you hitting the cage!
Owner: I never!!
Mr. Praline: Yes, you did!
Owner: I never, never did anything...
Mr. Praline: (yelling and hitting the cage repeatedly) 'ELLO POLLY!!!!! Testing! Testing! Testing! Testing! This is your nine o'clock alarm call!
(Takes parrot out of the cage and thumps its head on the counter. Throws it up in the air and watches it plummet to the floor.)
Mr. Praline: Now that's what I call a dead parrot.
Owner: No, no.....No, 'e's stunned!
Mr. Praline: STUNNED?!?
Owner: Yeah! You stunned him, just as he was wakin' up! Norwegian Blues stun easily, major.
Mr. Praline: look, mate, I've definitely 'ad enough of this. 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.
Owner: Well, he's...he's, ah...probably pining for the fjords.
Mr. Praline: PININ' for the FJORDS?!?!?!? What kind of talk is that?, look, why did he fall flat on his back the moment I got 'im home?
Owner: The Norwegian Blue prefers keepin' on it's back! Remarkable bird, id'nit, squire? lovely plumage!
Mr. Praline: Look, I took the liberty of examining that parrot when I got it home, and I discovered the only reason that it had been sitting on its perch in the first place was that it ad been NAILED there.
Owner: Well, o'course it was nailed there! If I hadn't nailed that bird down, it would have nuzzled up to those bars, bent 'em apart with its beak, and VOOM! Feeweeweewee!
Mr. Praline: "VOOM"?!? Mate, this bird wouldn't "voom" if you put four million volts through it! 'E's bleedin' demised!
Owner: No no! 'E's pining!
Mr. Praline: 'E's not pinin'! 'E's passed on! This parrot is no more! He has ceased to be! 'E's expired and gone to meet 'is maker! 'E's a stiff! Bereft of life, 'e rests in peace! If you hadn't nailed 'im to the perch 'e'd be pushing up the daisies! '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!!
Owner: Well, I'd better replace it, then. (he takes a quick peek behind the counter) Sorry squire, I've had a look 'round the back of the shop, and uh, we're right out of parrots.
Mr. Praline: I see. I see, I get the picture.
Owner: I got a slug.
Mr. Praline: Pray, does it talk?
Owner: Nnnnot really.
Owner: N-no, I guess not. (gets ashamed, looks at his feet)
Mr. Praline: Well.
Owner: (quietly) D'you.... d'you want to come back to my place?
Mr. Praline: (looks around) Yeah, all right, sure.

Fish License

Praline: (whistles a bit, then) Hello. I would like to buy a fish license, please.
Postal clerk: A what?
Praline: A license for my pet fish, Eric.
Clerk: How did you know my name was Eric?
Praline: No, no, no! My fish's name is Eric. Eric fish. He's an halibut.
Clerk: What?
Praline: He is an halibut.
Clerk: You've got a pet halibut?
Praline: Yes, I chose him out of thousands. I didn't like the others, they were all too flat.
Clerk: You must be a loony.
Praline: I am not a loony. Why should I be tarred with the epithet 'loony' merely because I have a pet halibut? I've heard tell that Sir Gerald Nabarro has a pet prawn called Simon - you wouldn't call him a loony! Furthermore Dawn Pathorpe, the lady show jumper, had a clam called Stafford, after the late chancellor. Alan Bullock has two pikes, both called Chris, and Marcel Proust had an 'addock! So if you're calling the author of 'A la recherche de temps perdu' a loony, I shall have to ask you to step outside!
Clerk: All right, all right, all right. A license?
Praline: Yes!
Clerk: For a fish.
Praline: Yes!
Clerk: You *are* a loony.
Praline: Look, it's a bleeding pet, isn't it? I've got a license for me pet dog Eric, I've got a license for me pet cat Eric.
Clerk: You don't need a license for your cat.
Praline: I bleedin' well do and I've got one! Can't be caught out there!
Clerk: There is no such thing as a bloody Cat license.
Praline: Yes there is.
Clerk: No there isn't.
Praline: Is!
Clerk: Isn't!
Praline: Is!
Clerk: Isn't!
Praline: Is!
Clerk: Isn't!
Praline: Is!
Clerk: Isn't!
Praline: Is!
Clerk: Isn't!
Praline: Is!
Clerk: Isn't!
Praline: What's that then?
Clerk: This is a dog license with the word 'dog' crossed out and 'cat' written in, in crayon.
Praline: Man didn't have the right form.
Clerk: What man?
Praline: The man from the cat detector van.
Clerk: The loony detector van, you mean.
Praline: Look, it's people like you what cause unrest.
Clerk: What cat detector van?
Praline: The cat detector van from the Ministry of Housinge.
Clerk: Housinge?
Praline: It was spelt like that on the van. I'm very observant. I never seen so many bleedin' aerials. The man said their equipment could pinpoint a purr at four hundred yards, and Eric being such a happy cat was a piece of cake.
Clerk: How much did you pay for this?
Praline: Sixty quid and eight for the fruit-bat.
Clerk: What fruit-bat?
Praline: Eric the fruit-bat.
Clerk: Are all your pets called Eric?
Praline: There's nothing so odd about that. Kemel Attaturk had an entire menagerie called Abdul.
Clerk: No he didn't.
Praline: Did!
Clerk: Didn't!
Praline: Did, did, did, did, did and did!
Clerk: Oh all right.
Praline: Spoken like a gentleman, sir. Now, are you going to give me a fish license?
Clerk: I promise you that there is no such thing. You don't need one.
Praline: Then I would like a statement to that effect signed by the Lord Mayor.
(Fanfare of trumpets. Mayor gorgeously dressed with dignitaries enters flanked by trumpeters.)
Clerk: You're in luck.
(In long shot now. The Mayor, who is nine foot high, and dignitaries approach a startled Praline. Organ music below a reverent voice over)

The Spanish Inquisition Sketch

From "Monty Python's Flying Circus" and "And Now for Something Completely Different"

Graham Chapman: Trouble at mill.
Carol Cleveland: Oh no - what kind of trouble?
Chapman: One on't cross beams gone owt askew on treddle.
Cleveland: Pardon?
Chapman: One on't cross beams gone owt askew on treddle.
Cleveland: I don't understand what you're saying.
Chapman: (slightly irritatedly and with exaggeratedly clear accent) One of the cross beams has gone out askew on the treddle.
Cleveland: Well what on earth does that mean?
Chapman: *I* don't know - Mr. Wentworth just told me to come in here and say that there was trouble at the mill, that's all - I didn't expect a kind of Spanish Inquisition.
(The door flies open and Cardinal Ximinez of Spain (Palin) enters, flanked bytwo junior cardinals. Cardinal Biggles (Jones) has goggles pushed over hisforehead. Cardinal Fang (Gilliam) is just Cardinal Fang)
Ximinez: NOBODY expects the Spanish Inquisition! Our chief weapon is surprise... surprise and fear... fear and surprise.... Our two weapons are fear and surprise... and ruthless efficiency.... Our *three* weapons are fear, surprise, and ruthless efficiency... and an almost fanatical devotion to the Pope.... Our *four* *Amongst* our weapons.... Amongst our weaponry... are such elements as fear, surprise.... I'll come in again.
(Exit and exeunt)
Chapman: I didn't expect a kind of Spanish Inquisition.
(The cardinals burst in)
Ximinez: NOBODY expects the Spanish Inquisition! Amongst our weaponry are such diverse elements as: fear, surprise, ruthless efficiency, an almost fanatical devotion to the Pope, and nice red uniforms - Oh damn! (To Cardinal Biggles) I can't say it - you'll have to say it.
Biggles: What?
Ximinez: You'll have to say the bit about 'Our chief weapons are ...'
Biggles: (rather horrified): I couldn't do that...
(Ximinez bundles the cardinals outside again)
Chapman: I didn't expect a kind of Spanish Inquisition.
(The cardinals enter)
Biggles: Er....
Ximinez: Expects...
Biggles: Expects... Nobody expects
Ximinez: Inquisition.
Biggles: I know, I know! Nobody expects the Spanish Inquisition. In fact, those who do expect -Ximinez: Our chief weapons are...
Biggles: Our chief weapons
Ximinez: Surprise...
Biggles: Surprise and --
Ximinez: Okay, stop. Stop. Stop there - stop there. Stop. Phew! Ah! ...our chief weapons are surprise...blah blah blah. Cardinal, read the charges.
Fang: You are hereby charged that you did on diverse dates commit heresy against the Holy Church. 'My old man said follow the--'
Biggles: That's enough. (To Cleveland) Now, how do you plead?
Cleveland: We're innocent.
Ximinez: Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! (Superimposed caption: 'DIABOLICAL LAUGHTER')
Biggles: We'll soon change your mind about that! (Superimposed caption: 'DIABOLICAL ACTING')
Ximinez: Fear, surprise, and a most ruthless-- (controls himself with a supreme effort) Ooooh! Now, Cardinal -- the rack!
(Biggles produces a plastic-coated dish-drying rack. Ximinez looks at it andclenches his teeth in an effort not to lose control. He hums heavily to coverhis anger)
Ximinez: You....Right! Tie her down.
(Fang and Biggles make a pathetic attempt to tie her on to the drying rack)
Ximinez: Right! How do you plead?
Cleveland: Innocent.
Ximinez: Ha! Right! Cardinal, give the rack (oh dear) give the rack a turn.
(Biggles stands their awkwardly and shrugs his shoulders)
Biggles: I....
Ximinez: (gritting his teeth) I *know*, I know you can't. I didn't want to say anything. I just wanted to try and ignore your crass mistake.
Biggles: I...
Ximinez: It makes it all seem so stupid.
Biggles: Shall I...?
Ximinez: No, just pretend for God's sake. Ha! Ha! Ha!
(Biggles turns an imaginary handle on the side of the dish-rack)
(Cut to them torturing a dear old lady, Marjorie Wilde).
Ximinez: Now, old woman -- you are accused of heresy on three counts -- heresy by thought, heresy by word, heresy by deed, and heresy by action -- *four* counts. Do you confess?
Wilde: I don't understand what I'm accused of.
Ximinez: Ha! Then we'll make you understand! Biggles! Fetch...THE CUSHIONS!
(Biggles holds out two ordinary modern household cushions)
Biggles: Here they are, lord.
Ximinez: Now, old lady -- you have one last chance. Confess the heinous sin of heresy, reject the works of the ungodly -- *two* last chances. And you shall be free -- *three* last chances. You have three last chances, the nature of which I have divulged in my previous utterance.
Wilde: I don't know what you're talking about.
Ximinez: Right! If that's the way you want it -- Cardinal! Poke her with the soft cushions!
(Biggles carries out this rather pathetic torture)
Ximinez: Confess! Confess! Confess!
Biggles: It doesn't seem to be hurting her, lord.
Ximinez: Have you got all the stuffing up one end?
Biggles: Yes, lord.
Ximinez (angrily hurling away the cushions): Hm! She is made of harder stuff! Cardinal Fang! Fetch...THE COMFY CHAIR!
(Zoom into Fang's horrified face)
Fang (terrified): The...Comfy Chair?
(Biggles pushes in a comfy chair -- a really plush one)
Ximinez: So you think you are strong because you can survive the soft cushions. Well, we shall see. Biggles! Put her in the Comfy Chair!
(They roughly push her into the Comfy Chair)
Ximinez (with a cruel leer): Now -- you will stay in the Comfy Chair until lunch time, with only a cup of coffee at eleven. (aside, to Biggles) Is that really all it is?
Biggles: Yes, lord.
Ximinez: I see. I suppose we make it worse by shouting a lot, do we? Confess, woman. Confess! Confess! Confess! Confess!
Biggles: I confess!
Ximinez: Not you!I didn't expect a kind of Spanish Inquisition.

The Spam Sketch

From the second series of "Monty Python's Flying Circus"

(Spam = Spiced Pork And Ham, a sort of cheap luncheon meat)

Scene: A cafe. One table is occupied by a group of Vikings with horne helmets on. A man and his wife enter.

Man (Eric Idle): You sit here, dear.
Wife (Graham Chapman in drag): All right.
Man (to Waitress): Morning!
Waitress (Terry Jones, in drag as a bit of a rat-bag): Morning!
Man: Well, what've you got?
Waitrss: Well, there's egg and bacon; egg sausage and bacon; egg and spam; egg bacon and spam; egg bacon sausage and spam; spam bacon sausage and spam; spam egg spam spam bacon and spam; spam sausage spam spam spam bacon spam tomato and spam;
Vikings (starting to chant): Spam spam spam spam...
Waitrss: ...spam spam spam egg and spam; spam spam spam spam spam spam baked beans spam spam spam and spam...
Vikings (singing): Spam! Lovely spam! Lovely spam!
Waitrss: ...or Lobster Thermidor a Crevette with a mornay sauce served in a Provencale manner with shallots and aubergines garnished with truffle pate, brandy and with a fried egg on top and spam.
Wife: Have you got anything without spam?
Waitrss: Well, there's spam egg sausage and spam, that's not got much spam in it.
Wife: I don't want ANY spam!
Man: Why can't she have egg bacon spam and sausage?
Wife: THAT'S got spam in it!
Man: Hasn't got as much spam in it as spam egg sausage and spam, has it?
Vikings: Spam spam spam spam (crescendo through next few lines)
Wife: Could you do the egg bacon spam and sausage without the spam then?
Waitrss: Urgghh!
Wife: What do you mean 'Urgghh'? I don't like spam!
Vikings: Lovely spam! Wonderful spam!)
Waitrss: Shut up!
Vikings: Lovely spam! Wonderful spam!
Waitrss: Shut up! (Vikings stop) Bloody Vikings! You can't have egg bacon spam and sausage without the spam.
Wife (shrieks): I don't like spam!
Man: Sshh, dear, don't cause a fuss. I'll have your spam. I love it. I'm having spam spam spam spam spam spam spam beaked beans spam spam spam and spam!
Vikings (singing): Spam spam spam spam. Lovely spam! Wonderful spam!
Waitrss: Shut up!! Baked beans are off.
Man: Well could I have her spam instead of the baked beans then?
Waitrss: You mean spam spam spam spam spam spam spam spam spam spam spam and spam?...
(but it is too late and the Vikings drown her words)
Vikings (singing elaborately): Spam spam spam spam. Lovely spam! Wonderful spam! Lovely spam! Wonderful Spam spa-a-a-a-a-am spam spa-a-a-a-a-am spam. Lovely spam! Lovely spam! Lovely spam! Lovely spam! Lovely spam! Spam spam spam spam!