For queens birthday weekend.
Whenever I hear of new knight, I think of this.
For queens birthday weekend.
Whenever I hear of new knight, I think of this.
‘as the waiter will know, the method of payment is something we have had under consideration for some time now…’
This is bloody brilliant. Aussie humour, but the application is pretty universal.
‘Well, it’s nothing very special. Uh, try and be nice to people, avoid eating fat, read a good book every now and then, get some walking in, and try and live together in peace and harmony with people of all creeds and nations.’
‘Mash ups’ or dubbing different souonds onto existing film footage have become all the rage since Youtube became popular.
But they’re not new, really.
This was done by Not the Nine O’Clock News, circa 1980, with a speech by Northern Ireland protestant leader Ian Paisley, the sounds of Northern Irish band Thin Lizzy, and – for reasons which are not clear – a bit of footage from Rod Stewart’s band of the time.
Scene: A field. An unmistakable historic figure from 200 years ago stands, alone and glowering, in his French uniform, his arm tucked in characteristic pose.
A stentorian voiceover demands, rhetorically: ‘Why did Napoleon keep his hand inside his waistcoat?’
Napoleon pulls his hand out. His trousers fall down.
This was one of the earliest things I can remember laughing like a drain at for several hours afterwards. It is stuck in my mind for that reason and also because it was the first time I realised how you pronounced ‘Napoleon’.
I had read the word – probably in Look and Learn magazines – but had no idea how to pronounce it.
Napoleon was, I think, played by either David Jason or Terry Jones. The sketch was from Do Not Adjust Your Set, a tv series made in Britain in the late 1960s by several people who went on to form of Monty Python’s Flying Circus.
It is best described as a kind of children’s version of Monty Python, although it pre-dates that series.
It was shown in New Zealand in the early 1970s – I think 1972.
And I loved it. The combination of eccentricity, humour, and historical references like the one above was just magical.
It was just so gloriously different.
It’s been on my mind at the moment because I threw together an iTunes music playlist for a road trip last month labelled “Brits” which included the obvious ones such as the Kinks and Madness and Ian Dury and the Jam and the Smiths…and then, for light relief, the Bonzos.
Vivian Stanshall was…well, an alcoholic nutter, and probably rather awkward to be around. A brilliant eccentric, though.
The Bonzos only had one hit – I’m the Urban Spaceman – and the B side was this lovely piece.
I first heard this on a jukebox in an Auckland cafe, sometime in the mid-eighties, and lay on the floor under the table laughing uncontrollably.
‘An editor isn’t like a general commanding an army; he’s just the ringmaster of a circus. I mean I can book the acts, but I can’t tell the acrobats which way to jump.’
Antony Jay, who created the superb BBC comedy ‘Yes Minister’ and ‘Yes Prime Minister’ series has died.
A lot of folk – including, according legend, then-British Prime Minister Margeret Thatcher, regarded it as a documentary. When it started being shown on TV in New Zealand I was at polytech and boarding with the family of a top New Zealand public servant. I don’t think he ever called it a documentary (and he had worked in the British civil service before coming here) but it was about the only programme he watched and I was left with the distinct impression it struck a very strong chord.
‘Open government, Prime Minister. Freedom of information. We should always tell the press freely and frankly anything that they could easily find out some other way.’
It was also a reminder, in its way, of a more robust political culture than New Zealand has. Many of the episodes were based on either current events or on real previous events recorded in various boat-rocking memoirs by former ministers or by officials.
This excerpt is taken from an episode based on the Westland row which saw Michael Heseltine walk out of Thatcher’s cabinet. Sir Humphrey’s speech at the end is magnificent.
New Zealand doesn’t have much of that. In recent times, Ruth Richardson’s autobiography came closest. Simon Carr’s ‘The Dark Art of Politics’ had some insights into working for Jim Bolger and then for the Act Party in the mid-1990s but there was a sense he could have told much, much more.
This episode, about memoirs of a former PM, could have been about almost any former UK minister, probably from the Harold Wilson governments as those administrations unleashed a library of bilious memoirs.
It’s also brilliantly played, especially by Eddington.
This, from the Twitter feed of Zach Braff says everything that needs to be known, or said, about the Pokemon Go thingy.
Apart from the fact that, really, it’s not an internet fad until those Pokemon whatjamakallits start planking.
Oh, and if you don’t know who Zach Braff is – he played JD in the comedy ‘Scrubs’ which made me laugh immoderately on many an occasion.
“I know I’ve got a degree. Why does that mean I have to spend my life with intellectuals? I’ve got a lifesaving certificate but I don’t spend my evenings diving for a rubber brick with my pyjamas on.”
Genuine laugh-out-loud line from Victoria Wood. This is becoming the Year of Obituaries – she died of cancer overnight, only 62.
First time I saw her was on one of the Secret Policeman’s Ball concert films – she sang a song about being fed up with men. It seemed a shame. She seemed quite cuddly.
It seemed a shame. She seemed quite cuddly.
She actually seemed a bit out of place amongst the clever if rather cold English comedians who dominated that sort of show – sharp and clever, certainly, but with a down-to-earth warmth which they lacked.
Sometimes the infectious jolliness got a bit OTT but this has some very clever lines. It’s about babyboomers.
And while I’m on the subject of tall, brilliant, funny and problematic Englishmen… Stephen Fry. Over at Quote Unquote, Stephen Stratford has a note about Fry, his genius and his insufferable side, having had to struggle recently through Fry’s autobiographies.
I’m more of a Fry fan, perhaps – Ok, I *love* QI. But I was disappointed in the autobiographies. I expected to enjoy them, but didn’t. The whole, repeated, ‘Oh you’ll think I’m awfully self-absorbed and wrapped in my own cleverness’ theme, put up as a defence shield which doesn’t work because, yes he is awfully self absorbed and wrapped in his own cleverness. Constantly.
So he’s not so good on his own, but with a good ensemble around him – or just Hugh Laurie, who is a one-man-ensemble – I find him immensely enjoyable.
Of his films, I enjoyed Peter’s Friends. Loved it, in fact.
Yes, I know its a minority view.
And he is, as Emma Thompson teases him here, the ultimate annoying luvvie.
Some of the best moments on QI, though, are when he is being wound up by Phil Jupitus. Some great moments here – I particularly like the beer goggles one. Oh, and New Zealand gets a mensh.
So, Anyway by John Cleese. Random House 2014.
“Most of you don’t give a tinkers cuss about me as a human being or feel for the many different forms of suffering that make me so special. No, you are flipping through my heart-wringing life story in the hope of getting a couple of good laughs, aren’t you?”
Last week I cited an incident from John Cleese’s greatest comic half hour, Fawlty Towers, in my NBR column: for those of you who have a sub, its here.
There is, I reckon, a Basil Fawlty’s Fire Extinguisher Rule of Politics: If you know the episode you can probably work it out.
But anyway….John Cleese is visiting New Zealand in the near future, along with fellow ex-Python Eric Idle. I’ve written about him before, here: some years back, when his imminent arrival was causing some excitement.
His autobiography has its moments, although he is very hard on his mum, I feel.
The rest of it isn’t so bad. He discusses school days, noting that rugby was “invented for large nasty rough boys” (as if this were a bad thing) and also the rules were baffling.
This kind of misses the point of rugby: a game administered by and often played by yobbo lawyers, it is hardly surprising it has turned out full of violence and difficult-to-follow rules.
But small boys at his school, he says weren’t all that worried about rules: he recalls watching two classmates playing chess and how one of the kings had been taken: when he pointed this out was told dismissively, ‘we know.’
The funniest bits, as you might expect, are about the Monty Python years and also contain classic Cleesian sarcasm. Recalling the internal arguments of the team of comedians which made up the troupe, he outlines the different responses to confrontation (Palin withdrawing to a safe distance, Chapman staying silent and puffing on a pipe, Idle trying to be reasonable and constructive, Gilliam “would side with anyone else called Terry” while Terry Jones himself would charge at Cleese and vice versa.
They might settle an argument after hours and then the next day when they reconvene Jones would announce he had thought about it a bit more and “I really feel that…”
“It seemed as though he had a fundamental belief that the merit of his argument depends on the strength of his feelings about the matter, and since it always felt uncontrollably passionate about everything, then he was always right. This irrational claptrap, coming as it did from a swarthy excitable plump Celtic’s demi-dwarf, struck me is not only thoroughly impertinent but also noisy and attempts to undermine the most basic principles of the Enlightenment. What is more…”
It impossible, I find, not to hear Cleese’s voice when reading that.
Cleese has always seemed a schoolmaster ( and I use the word ‘master’ rather than ‘teacher’ deliberately) on the verge of a mental breakdown: he has a strong didactic impulse and has lectured the wider public, at different times, on everything from making money to proportional representation to the benefits of psychotherapy.
The apogee of this persona was probably the sex education lesson in Monty Python’s Meaning of Life, lecturing a bunch of schoolboys on foreplay [“What’s wrong with kiss…?…there are plenty of possibilities before we go stampeding for the clitoris, boy.”]
There is also the under-appreciated film ‘Clockwise’ which has Cleese as headmaster from a decidedly less-than-top-drawer school being invited to speak at a headmasters’ conference.
It combines Cleese’s two great comedic personae – the rampaging, lecturing classroom didact, and the barely-contained-class-insecurity-and-rage of Basil Fawlty.
The trailer is here: to my mind it is a comedic gem, more conventional than most of his comedy but better than, say, the over-rated A Fish Called Wanda.
This didactic impulse gets full rein in this autobiography: one of his teachers who taught him maths, he says, left him convinced at the end of each term he had learned nothing but at the start of the next term the youthful Cleese would find he grasped the lessons of the previous term instantly.
“Promotion, in other words, was followed by bewilderment, and that the next term, by full comprehension,” Cleese informs us.
Lessons of comedy were learned in the classroom as well: one fellow pupil was trying to draw a circle with a compass but as he was about to complete a nice neat circle the point of the compass would slip. After several slips, the pupil borrowed a penknife and began furiously sharpening the metal compass with a penknife “while all the time just, just stifling the seething, roiling bloodlust motivating within… “Adding to the tension was the fear, which all the class had, of the withdrawal of affection from the teacher of this particular class, because the entire dynamic of the classroom hung around seeking, and hoping to keep, this particular teacher’s prized goodwill.
This, Cleese found hysterical: it partly inspired Basil Fawlty.
Basil’s anger, Cleese explains – at length – is always underpinned by fear – fear of hotel inspectors’ bad report, psychiatrists, Germans or German guests or fear or offending people, or failing to measure up. Then because of the stress caused by the fear he starts making mistakes, over-corrects, and becomes increasingly panicky and desperate.
And of course he is terrified of his wife, Sybil, who he variously insults under his breath “my little golfing puff adder” “sabre toothed tart”.. and or “rancorous, coiffeured old sow”. she delivers as good as – better, in fact – she gets, describing him as “an aging, brilliantined stick-insect” .
This brings me to one problem I have with Fawlty Towers – it has some truly marvellous lines, but they are too clever for the characters uttering them.
They are not the kinds of insults uttered by hoteliers, unless those hoteliers, like Cleese, trained as barristers at Cambridge.
Cleese contains a few chunks of script from the now-mostly-forgotten At Last the 1948 Show, which was a precursor to Python. He forestalls any criticism by saying there are several good reasons for doing so. One is “the sketches are really funny (in my opinion and it’s my fucking book).” and although the book is quite supposed to be an autobiography”.
The book closes with the 2014 Monty Python reunion, and musing on how much had changed since the show began 45 years previously – how on the one hand attitudes to swearing and vulgarity meant what was fairly shocking in 1969 is ordinary conversation in 2014. On the other hand there was what he dubs the “life denying for school political correctness”.
“This may have started as a kind intention but was soon hijacked and taken and observed by few individuals without any sense of proportion – which means by definition they werewithout any sense of humour either.”
In the book closes with the second night of the 2014 reunion, when please is waiting to go on stage, he peered out at the packed auditorium and wondered “how is it possible that I’m not feeling the slightest bit excited?” The final words of the book are “perhaps I should stick to writing from now on.”
I’m not so sure.