A Liar's Autobiography: The Untrue Story of Monty Python's Graham Chapman

Is this fucking thing on? Oh. Ladies and gentlemen.

He's wacky, he's zany,

he's one entire sixth of the greatest comedy team the world has ever seen.

Here to reveal all, please welcome Monty Python's Graham Chapman!

Er, before I begin,

there is a favour I would like to ask of all of you, please.

And I do mean every single person in the room.

No opting out. I'd like everyone to join in with this, please.

I would like to ask you all for 3O seconds...

of abuse.

Thank you so much.

Go home! Get off!

Thank you. Thank you so much.

Thank you. Thank you so much. Thank you.

15 seconds to go! Thank you. Thank you so much.

I want my fucking money back!

Oh, thank you. Thank you.

Get off that stage!

You suck!

You're a shit!

You-you-you-you... You miscreant!

I like you!

Thank you very much indeed. That was excellent abuse.

And it will certainly save a lot of time later on.

New York, 1976. The City Center theatre.

Monty Python's Flying Circus is appearing. We are in mid-sketch.

I am playing Oscar Wilde.

My congratulations, Wilde. Your play is a great success.

The whole of London is talking about you.

There is only one thing in the world worse than being talked about

and that is NOT being talked about.

Very witty, Wilde. Very witty.

There is only one thing worse in the world than being witty

and that is not being witty.

I wish I had said that.

You will, Oscar. You will.

Your Highness, do you know James McNeill Whistler?

Yes. We play squash together.

There is only one thing worse than playing squash together

and that is playing it by yourself.

He waits expectantly for the roars of laughter

and the shrieks of glee. They do not come.

The silence grows longer.

I wish I hadn't said that.

You did, Oscar. You did.

Forgive me, Wilde, but I must get back up the palace.

Wilde is desperate.

The Prince of Wales is leaving with a smile on his face

that had not been put there by Oscar Wilde. He blurts:

Your Majesty, you are like a big jam doughnut with cream on top.

I beg your pardon?

Er... er... Erm, it was one of Whistler's.

- I didn't say that. - You did, James. You did.

L... l meant that, er,

like a doughnut, your arrival, your Majesty, gives us pleasure,

and your departure only makes us hungry for more.

Your Majesty is like a stream of bat's piss.

- I beg your pardon? - It was one of Wilde's.

Uh... uh... uh...

I have just dried. I cannot remember the next line.

I'm waiting, Wilde. I'm waiting.

The entire theatre waits and as they wait, so do I

for that damned line to enter my head. It refuses to come.

Oh, get on with it.

Get on with it.

Dr Chapman? We'll be landing in Los Angeles shortly.

Hello? Dr Chapman?

Are you all right, Dr Chapman?

Keep your seat belts fastened and luggage stowed safely.

Turn off your head sets and electrical equipment

until you see the seat belt sign turned off.

It's at moments like this when one thinks,

“Oh, fuck it. Does it really matter? What are we all here for?

"Are we predestined to take the paths we follow?"

I was born in Leamington, now officially known as Royal Leamington Spa,

moderately famous for the manufacture of gas cookers.

The year was 1942

and the period of gestation ended on February 7th,

during an air raid in which the Germans thought they were hitting Coventry.

My parents, Tim and Beryl

- sorry, Tim and Betty - were outraged when I arrived

because they'd been expecting a heterosexual black Jew

with several amusing birth deformities as they needed the problems.

They lived in an enormous Gothic castle in the south of France

called “Done Drinking Gin And Slimline Tonic With Ice But No Lemon In",

which was originally built by Marco Polo for himself and a few friends

he wanted to invite round to his place after the pub closed.

I must admit so far

that this has not had much more than a grain of truth in it,

but it is more interesting

than all the usual humdrum wetting of nappies and, later, pants,

not being allowed to sit next to the Czech girl because I once shat myself,

seeing bits of people hanging from trees... Oh!

That does sound interesting. Perhaps I should put that down.

I was three at the time

and my mother wanted to take me along to see my father.

- Walter. - Sorry, dear. I'm busy.

Hey, you. That's sack's already got two legs in it.

Walter, dear, we were just out shopping

and I thought that Graham might like...

Can't you come back later, dear? Has anyone found that head yet?

Has anyone in this street found a head? Oh, come on. Someone must have it.

I know this street. You'd steal anything.

I mean, what the bloody hell are you gonna do with a head?

Oh, dear. Perhaps we'll go and get your tea.

What? Oh, yes. Egg on toast, please.

Left arm here. Anyone missing a left arm?

We haven't got any eggs. There is a war on.

Ask Harold. Something's bound to have fallen off the back of a lorry.

All right, dear. Come on, Graham.

Stop staring at all that blood. It won't do you any good.

Oh, come on, mum. This must be one of my major formative experiences.

Eton.

"Summer term, or “wops" as we called it,

seemed to have dragged on endlessly.

The smell of freshly mown grass wafted over from far-off Hayes meadow,

the village clock chimed in the distance

and somewhere, miles above our petty earth,

a wisp of cloud took flame from the dying embers of the setting sun.

They combined to produce an atmosphere

so redolent of this type of writing.

“lam victoria tam facilis scrotum non valet...

We always beat Harrow anyway. Why bother?

Oh, Chapman, sir, may I clean your teeth tonight? Oh, please?

Why don't you bugger off, Shagspot?

Oh! Thank you, sir.

Plucky little squit, that young McMillan. Should go far.

In a few days, I would be in Nice,

soaking up the sun at the side of my father's pool,

while Jenkins hovered by with a tray of vodkatinis.

Would you like another sandwich, dear?

What?

They're your favourite, sandwich spread.

So this is Nice?

What do you mean, Nice? This is Scarborough.

You do too much reading.

It'll do you more good if you eat your tea.

Quite right. You can't get through to him when he's got a book in his hand.

- What is it, anyway? - "Claudius the God“ by Robert Graves."

A fine historical reconstruction of the life of Claudius, the Roman emperor,

thought of in his time as a pitiful fool,

though the reign Mr Graves describes is far from folly.

Is it?

Anyway, finish your tea. We ought to get a haddock for Mrs Richers.

There's plenty time for that later. Thraxted's doesn't close till five.

- They'll be out of haddock by then. - We'll get halibut.

Mrs Richers especially asked for the haddock.

Oh, haddock, halibut, cod. There's no difference. It's all fish.

Let's just sit here for a bit and enjoy the view.

- It's raining. - It's bracing.

You should have your window open, lad. Get a bit of ozone in your lungs.

Ozone is oxygen in a condensed state,

having three atoms to the molecule. O3.

- What you can smell is rotting seaweed. - Well, it's good for you.

- No, it isn't. - Don't argue with your father.

It's those fancy books. You can't learn everything out of books, my lad.

There's no argument. It's a fact.

Stop it, Graham. Now, come on. We'll go and get the fish.

- No, we'll stay here. - I think we should get the fish.

That ship over there ls bringing wood from Norway,

coniferous wood used in the paper manufacturing industry

since the late 15th century.

But the first paper mill in England was owned by John Tate in Hertford,

a manufacturer of continuous...

Oh, the Tates. Wasn't their youngest walking about with that Valerie Maskell?

No.

This process was developed by the stationers Messrs H and S Fourdrinier.

It was her.

She was the one that got all the spots at secretarial college.

Quiet, Edith.

The Fourdriniers were assisted by Mr Bryan Donkin, an inventor and engineer.

Wasn't his step-uncle, Stephanie, a wholesale poultry in Peatling Parva?

- No! - Yes, he was.

It was their youngest that moved downstairs

next door to the chemist in Wimbledon, nearly opposite the Gantleys.

Shut up.

Do you realise that if you look out there on a very clear day,

you can't quite see Denmark?

I think we should get the haddock.

Will you shut up about the bloody haddock?

- Why is it that every bloody year... - Language.

Every year our summer holiday consists of two weeks

in Scarborough, Filey or Bridlington, sitting in a car in the rain, bickering.

- Why don't we go to bloody Denmark? - Language!

- We did promise haddock. - Oh, all right!

We'll go and get your bloody, flaming, bloody haddock!

Trouble with you two is you don't appreciate the beauties of nature.

What's that you've got back there?

It's a book. “I, Biggles", by Captain W E Graves.

Captain, eh? Mm. That sounds better.

Everything OK, skipper?

Tell you what, old man. Having a bit of trouble with this.

Could you just pop your hand down my Mae West, old tapir?

Well, if that's an order, old guillemot.

- It is. - Righty-o.

Here it comes, old bison.

- Don't stop now! I'm nearly there. - So am I!

- What about me? - Oh, fuck off, Ginger.

To heck with the lot of them.

I'll just jolly well sit down here