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

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Is this f***ing 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 30 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 f***ing money back!

Oh, thank you.

Thank you.

Get off that stage!

You suck!

You're a sh*t!

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 blurtsz

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.

I...I 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, f*** it. Does it really maer?

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 ln",

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.

- Sony, 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.

"Iam 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,

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