A Liar's Autobiography: The Untrue Story of Monty Python's Graham Chapman Page #7

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You deserve more OBEs

# And that was the message

That was

Super, super, super. Super.

Super.

On the way out,

I consoled an agitated Rod Stewart,

who unfortunately had had to come

to the party in person.

He'd got married that morning

and the blow-ups of the happy couple

could not be processed in time.

- Hello, Keith.

- Hello, Graham. What do you want?

Would you like to come to a party

at my place later?

- I think I'm already at one.

- George said he'd drop by.

- And Harry and Richard will be there.

- Can I bring Mick and Ronnie?

- All right. See you later.

- And Pete and Ringo?

Sure. See you later. I'm just gonna

nip off down through Boys Town.

- I want to pick up some zoom.

- I'll bet that's not all.

Graham, you must face up

to this name-dropping problem.

- What should I do? Move to Finland?

- You'll just have to sweat it out.

Isn't there anything I can do

to speed up my recovery?

There is, but it isn't going to be pleasant,

I'm afraid.

Revulsion therapy.

I'm going to prescribe an intensive

course of Hollywood parties for you.

It's your only hope.

Hello, Graham.

Is that young lady all right over there?

It's working, Graham.

Stick with it.

Good evening, Mr Chapman.

I am Jose.

I'll be your star to bed tucker-inner

to the stars this evening.

Jolly good.

I had slipped

into a state of inertia.

All further activities seemed pointless.

I decided to have a farewell party.

David made the cucumber sandwiches

and I slipped out in my beige spacesuit

to see if the others

would be prepared to pop along.

I stepped up nimbly through the air lock

and deftly percolated past Elton John's

piano-shaped moon buggy.

He was obviously entertaining

David Bowie and Ken Liberace,

so I passed on.

I knew the next space vehicle

was occupied for an at-home evening

by David Hockney and Alan Bennett,

comparing the size of their accents.

Custard cream, David?

Just a weak Darjeeling, please, Alan.

So I didn't bother with them.

- Can you come to our party?

- No!

And I have got to do

the hoovering!

- Can you come to our party?

- Sorry, Gray.

Diary's absolutely chock-a-block.

"Here lies Oscar Fingal

O'Flahertie Wilde.

"Gone out for good."

Can you come to our party?

There is a time

in the affairs of greed,

which, taken at the kludge,

leads on to brutalness.

A man is not a wasp,

nor Dfisseldorf built in a day.

Damon Runyan had a bunion.

For all, they say, hey I.

What's that supposed to mean?

My heart bakes.

A drowsy numbness fills my...

Let it be. Let it be.

Oh, come on, Wilde.

What does that mean?

It means, your Majesty, it means...

Learn your lines.

You had us waiting for hours.

I didn't think anyone noticed.

No, I suppose they didn't.

The end.

Graham Chapman,

co-author of the pan-ot sketch,

is no more.

He has ceased to be.

Bereft of life, he rests in peace.

He's kicked the bucket,

hopped the twig,

bit the dust, snuffed it,

wheezed his last

and gone to meet the great

Head of Light Entertainment in the sky.

And I guess that we're all thinking

how sad it is

that a man of such talent,

of such capability for kindness,

of such unusual intelligence,

should now so suddenly be spirited

away at the age of only 48

before he'd achieved many of the things

of which he was capable

and before he'd had enough fun.

Well, I feel that I should say,

"Nonsense.

"Good riddance to him, the freeloading

bastard. I hope he fries."

And the reason I feel I should say this...

...is he would never forgive me

if I didn't,

if I threw away this glorious opportunity

to shock you all on his behalf.

Anything for him

but mindless good taste.

# Inflammation of the foreskin

# Reminds me of your smile

# I've had ballanital chancroids

# For quite a little while

# I gave my heart to NSU

# That lovely night in June

# I ache for you, my darling

# And I hope you'll get well soon

# My penile warts

# Your herpes

My syphilitic sores

# Your monilial infection

# How I miss you more and more

# Your Dhobi's itch

My scrumpox

# Our lovely gononhoea

# And at least we both were lying

# When we said that we were clear

# Our syphilitic kisses

# Sealed the secret of our tryst

# You gave me scrotal pustules

# With a quick flick of your wrist

# Your tricho-vaginitis

# Sent shivers down my spine

# I got snail tracks in my anus

# When your spirochetes met mine

# Gonococcal urethritis

# Streptococcal balanitis

# Meningomyelitis

# Diplococcal cephalitis

# Epididymitis

# Interstitial keratitis

# Syphilitic choroiditis

# And anterior uveitis

# Gonococcal urethritis

# Streptococcal balanitis

# Meningomyelitis

# Diplococcal cephalitis

# Epididymitis

# Interstitial keratitis

# Syphilitic choroiditis

# And anterior uveitis

# Sit on my face

And tell me that you love me

# I'll sit on your face

And tell you I love you too

# I love to hear you oralise

# When I'm between your thighs

You blow me away

# Sit on my face

And let my lips embrace you

# I'll sit on your face

And then I'll love you truly

# Life can be fine

If we all 69

# If we sit on our faces

In all sorts of places

# And play till we're blown away

Ooh. Terribly sorry.

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