A Liar's Autobiography: The Untrue Story of Monty Python's Graham Chapman Page #2

---

having three atoms to the molecule.

- 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 Nonuay,

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 Herlford,

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, f*** off, Ginger.

To heck with the lot of them.

I'll just jolly well sit down here

and improve the bally old mind a little,

don't you know.

"The Complete Works

of Captain W E Johns".

"How to speak English

in other languages".

"The Interpretation of Dreams",

by Sigmund Freud.

In the following lecture,

I, Sigmund Freud,

shall prove the entire psychology

of man can only be understood

with a reference

to the science of navigation.

Spot on.

In relation to this,

I remember a young adolescent

who was having reoccurring dreams

about flying.

A fictional aviator called Bigglesworth

and his companions

are attempting to escape

from a Focke-Wulf

which is pursuing them

and shooting at them.

A typical dream recall of a particularly

exciting episode

of an adventure story for boys.

Or so it would seem.

Let's look at the dream more closely.

The first thing we notice

is that throughout the scene

we see navigational elements

hidden not so far below the surface.

A compass, indicating

the plane's direction of travel.

A map behind the aviators

telling them where they are going.

All unmistakable symptoms

of a navigational obsession.

Note also the use

of zoological terminology

in their navigational exchange

with one another.

"Old bison," "old tapir"

and even "old guillemot"

clearly indicates a yearning for a

pre-rational animal state of existence

in which navigation

is not yet distinguishable

from simply running around.

The boy patient clearly identifies himself

with the minor character, Ginger,

who is excluded from the adventure

because he is navigationally inadequate.

Ginger? That's me.

Inadequate? What a bally awful tone,

don't you know, what ho, old chap.

- You've been bloody reading again.

- I haven't.

Well, what's this in my hand?

"The Interpretation of Dreams",

by Sigmund Freud,

probably his most original work,

in which he explored the unconscious

and found that neurotic symptoms

are like dreams,

a product of conflict and compromise

between the conscious

and unconscious states...

Is it? What's this?

"Sucking at the mother's breast

"is the starting point

for the whole sexual life,

"the unmatched prototype

of every latent sexual satisfaction"?

I've got the haddock.

Now, what were you saying?

Oh, another book, dear?

What is it this time?

Nothing. Just a road map.

Who's "Frood," then?

He's an expert on...navigation.

Very interesting.

His theories on navigation, you see.

Longitude and latitude.

- That sort of thing.

- Ah, well. That's enough of that.

Let's get back to Mrs Richers

with this haddock.

Right.

Quite a lot happened

over the next few years.

A disastrous sexual experiment

with Rita Blake,

my first love affair with another boy.

Ooh!

Stuffing snails into a gatepost,

the hen-stealing nuns,

Pig-Sh*t Freeman,

Miss Chamberlain's three consecutive

head girls pregnant,

my questions about ejaculation

to the biology master,

Albert the groundsman, holding hands

with Mark Collins in a maths class,

painting John Wilder black,

Prunose Eskimo Nell,

Monsieur Le Beau Vatten,

and elderly spinsters'

wanking-off birthday cakes.

But such trivia needs no elaboration.

One childhood is much like another.

Amateur psychologists who think it clever

to explain the character of the later man

for a jumble of largely

fictitious memories

can ferret for their filth

in other people's autobiographies.

In the spring

of nineteen sixty-splunge,

John Cleese and Graham Chapman

thought they might like to do

another television program.

In another part of London, Michael Palin,

Terry Jones and Eric Idle,

and an American draft dodger -

and who can blame him? -

called Terry Vance Gilliam

thought they would too.

Me? Hmm-mm.

I still like "owl stretching time".

Of course, it was my idea.

Terry Jones.

And lots of noises

only the Welsh can make.

I still like "a horse, a bucket

and a spoon".

His suggestion.

J Cleese.

Look, you Welsh git. We discarded

that about two hours ago.

Oh, f***ing hell!

I remember not being particularly

interested in the debate about titles.

Had I given up medicine

for trivia such as this?

- Aren't we able to talk about things?

- Yes.

But do we have to go on about it

in such a high-pitched voice?

John Cleese guffaws like a ban-ister

having made his point.

This winds Terry Jones up

to near violence.

Of course I go on about it.

It's f***ing important.

Terry, would you or would you not say

that the rest of us have already

agreed that we don't like it?

Characteristic of his temperament,

T Jones calms down instantly,

having vented his spleen

on inanimate objects.

I still like "owl stretching time."

M Palin.

No, I've gone off that a bit.

I prefer "sex and violence",

Rate this script:0.0 / 0 votes