Episode 5

‘Summarize Proust Competition’

(The hall of the Memorial Baths, Swansea, done up for a gala occasion. There is a stage with flags, bunting and flowers. Echoing noise of audience anticipation. Muffled tannoy announcements in background.)

Voice Over: Good evening, and welcome to the Arthur Ludlow Memorial Baths, Newport, for this year's finals of the All-England Summarize Proust Competition. (pull back slightly to reveal big banner across the top of the stage: 'All-England Summarize Proust Competition') As you may remember, each contestant has to give a brief summary of Proust's 'A La Recherche du Temps Perdu', once in a swimsuit and once in evening dress. The field has now narrowed to three finalists and your judges tonight are... (cut to panel of judges at long desk; they are all cut-outs of smiling photos of the following) Alec and Eric Bedser, ex-Surrey cricketers, Stewart Surridge, ex-captain of Surrey, Omar Sharif, Laurie Fishlock, ex-Surrey opening batsman, Peter May, the former Surrey and England Captain, and Yehudi Menuhin, the world-famous violinist and the President of the Surrey Cricket Club. And right now it's time to meet your host for tonight Arthur Mee!

(Showbiz music, applause, and Arthur Mee appears from the back of the stage; he wears the now traditional spangly jacket. He comes forward and speaks into the mike ; the sound is rather hollow and strident as in big halls with a hastily rigged PA.)

Mee: (TERRY J) Good evening and welcome, whereas Proust would say, 'la malade imaginaire de recondition et de toute surveillance est bientôt la même chose'. (roars of applause; quick shot of grinning faces of the jury) Remember each contestant this evening has a maximum of fifteen seconds to sum up 'A La Recherche du Temps Perdu' and on the Proustometer over here... (curtain pulls back at back of stage to reveal a true, enormous, but cheap, audience appreciation gauge; it lists the seven books of Proust's masterwork in the firm of a thermometer) you can see exactly how far he gets. So let's crack straight on with our first contestant tonight. He's last year's semi-finalist from Luton - Mr Harry Bagot. (Harry Bagot, in eveening dress, comes forward from back of stage, he has a number three on his back; Mee leads the applause for him) Hello Harry. Now there's the summarizing spot you're on the summarizing spot, fifteen seconds from now.

(Music starts, continuity-type music. The needle of the Proustometer creeps up almost inperceptibly to a tiny level.)

Harry: Proust's novel ostensibly tells of the irrevocability of time lost, the forfeiture of innocence through experience, the reinstallment of extra-temporal values of time regained, ultimately the novel is both optimistic and set within the context of a humane religious experience, re-stating as it does the concept of intemporality. In the first volume, Swann, the family friend visits...

(Gong goes, chord of music, applause. The meter has hardly risen at all.)

Mee: Well tried, Harry.

Voice Over: A good attempt there but unfortunately he chose a general appraisal of the work, before getting on to the story and as you can see (close up of Proustometer) he only got as far as page one of 'Swann's Way', the first of the seven volumes. A good try though and very nice posture.

(Cut back to the stage.)

Mee: Harry Bagot, you're from Luton?

Harry: Yes, Arthur, yeah.

Mee: Now Harry what made you first want to try and start summarizing Proust?

Harry: Well I first entered a seaside Summarizing Proust Competition when I was on holiday in Bournemouth, and my doctor encouraged me with it.

Mee: And Harry, what are your hobbies outside summarizing?

Harry: Well, strangling animals, golf and masturbating.

Mee: Well, thank you Harry Bagot.

(Harry walks off-stage. Music and applause.)

Voice Over: Well there he goes. Harry Bagot. He must have let himself down a bit on the hobbies, golf's not very popular around here, but never mind, a good try.

Mee: Thank you ladies and gentlemen. Mr Rutherford from Leicester, are you ready Ronald? (Ronald is a very eager man in tails) Right. On the summarizing spot. You have got fifteen seconds from now.

Ronald: Er, well, Swann, Swann, there's this house, there's this house, and er, it's in the morning, it's in the morning - no, it's the evening, in the evening and er, there's a garden and er, this bloke comes in - bloke comes in - what's his name - what's his name, er just said it - bbig bloke - Swann, Swann

(The gong sounds. Mee pushes Ronald out.)

Mee: And now ladies and gentlemen, I'd like you to welcome the last of our all-England finalists this evening, from Bingley, the Bolton Choral Society and their leader Superintendent McGough, (a big choir comes on, immaculately drilled, each holding a score, with Fred Tomlinson as superintendent McGough) All right Bingley, remember you've got fifteen seconds to summarize Proust in his entirety starting from now.

First Soloist: Proust, in his first book wrote about... fa la la...

Second Soloist: Proust in his first book wrote about...

Tenors: He wrote about...

(They continue contrapuntally, in madrigal, never getting beyond these words until they rallentando to say...)

All: Proust in his first book wrote about the... (gong sounds)

Voice Over: Very ambitious try there, but in fact the least successful of the evening, they didn't even get as far as the first volume. (the singers leave the stage)

Mee: Well ladies and gentlemen, I don't think any of our contestants this evening have succeeded in encapsulating the intricacies of Proust's masterwork, so I'm going to award the first prize this evening to the girl with the biggest tits.

(Applause and music. A lady with enormous knockers comes on to the side of the stage. Roll credits:)

THE ALL-ENGLAND SUMMARIZE PROUST COMPETITION A BBG PRODUCTION WITH MR I. T. BRIDDOCK, 2379, THE TERRACE, HODDESDON. IT WAS CONCEIVED, WRITFEN AND PERFORMED BY...

(Roll usual Monty Python credits and music. Behind them the lady accepts the cup and the singers come back on stage and admire her. Fade out.)

Mount Everest Climbed by Hairdressers

(Begins with a picture of the sun rising over two mountain peaks)

Announcer (Michael Palin): Mount Everest. Forbidding, aloof, terrifying. The mountain with the biggest tits in the world.

(Gong crashes, a disgusted voice interrupts)

Voice Over (Eric Idle): Start again!

(A hideous clown in green plaid shirt, 14-inch wide blue polka-dotted bow tie, red curly wig, false teeth and an ugly mask steps in front of the picture of the mountain for a second and waves.)

Announcer: Mount Everest. Forbidding, aloof, terrifying. This year, this remote Himalayan mountain, this mystical temple, surrounded by the most difficult terrain in the world, repulsed yet another attempt to conquer it. (Picture changes to wind-swept, snowy tents and people) This time, by the International Hairdresser's Expedition. In such freezing, adverse conditions, man comes very close to breaking point. What was the real cause of the disharmony which destroyed their chances at success?

(Hairdresser #1 is a snowy, bundled up climber with a very gay voice. Hairdressers #2 and #3 are even more gay and windswept.)

Hairdresser #1: Well, people keep taking your hairdryer on every turn.

Hairdresser #2: There's a lot of bitching in the tents.

Hairdresser #3: You couldn't get near the mirror.

(Cut to the announcer, a stuffy looking older man, delicately trimming millimeters off the leaves of cabbages growing in his country garden.)

Announcer: The leader of the expedition was Colonel Sir John Cheesy-Weezy Butler, veteran K2, Annapurna, and Vidal. His plan was to ignore the usual route around the south and to make straight for the top.

(next part shows a map of the mountain)

Cheesy-Weezy: We established Base Salon here, and climbed quite steadily up to Mario's, here. From here, using crampons and cutting ice steps as we went, we moved steadily up the face to the north ridge, establishing Camp Three, where we could get a hot meal, a manicure, and a shampoo and set.

Announcer: Could it work? Could this 18-year old hairdresser from Brixton succeed where others had failed? The situation was complicated by the imminent arrival of the monsoon storms. Patrice takes up the story.

(cut to Patrice (Eric Idle) in a salon, very effeminately brushing and blow- drying a customer's hair.)

Patrice: Well, we knew as well as anyone that the monsoons were due. But the thing was, Ricky and I had just had a blow dry and rinse, and we couldn't go out for a couple of days.

(Picture of mountaineers climbing down mountain)

Announcer: After a blazing row, the Germans and Italians had turned back, taking with them the last of the hairnets. On the third day, a blizzard blew up. Temperatures fell to minus 30 degrees centigrade. Inside the little tent, things were getting desperate.

(Ricky (Michael Palin) and John Cleese are crowded inside a little tent, sporting beards, hairnets, and curlers. They sit beneath stationary hairdryers. Cleese is reading, Ricky is buffing his nails.)

Ricky: Well, things have gotten so bad that we've been forced to use the last of the heavy oxygen equipment just to keep the dryers going. (A woman hands him a cup of tea.) Oh, she's a treasure.

Cleese: Shhh!

(another mountain climbing scene)

Announcer: But a new factor had entered the race. A team of French chiropodists, working with brand new corn plasters and Dr. Scholl's Mountaineering Sandals, were close behind. The Glasgow Orpheus male voice choir were tackling the difficult north part. All together, fourteen expeditions were at the scene. This was it. Ricky had to make a decision.

(back to Patrice at his salon)

Patrice: Well, we decided to open a salon.

Announcer: It was a tremendous success.

(the following is accompanied by pictures of great mountaineering heros upon whom are pasted elaborate Marie Antoinette style hairdos)

Announcer: Challenging Everest? Why not drop in at Ricky Pule's, only 24,000 feet from this cinema. (A huge pink neon sign reading 'Ricky's' appears on the mountain.) Ricky and Maurice offer a variety of styles for the well-groomed climber. Why should Tenzing and Sir Edmond Hillary be number one on top, when you're number one on top?

Fire Brigade/Our Eamonn

(We see little old Mrs Little on the phone in her hall. She is a dear little old lady and lives in a rather fussy ducks-on-wall house.)

Mrs Little: Hello, is that the fire brigade?

(Cut to the fire station.)

First Fireman: No, sorry, wrong number.

(He puts the phone back. Pull out to reveal four or five firemen in full gear, surrounded by fire-fighting equipment and a gleaming fire engine. The firemen are engaged in a variety of homely pursuits: one is soldering a crystal set, another is cooking at a workbench, another is doing embroidery, another is at a sewing machine. The first fireman is at the phone on the wall. He goes back to clearing up a budgie's cage.)

Second Fireman: That phone's not stopped ringing all day.

Third Fireman: What happens when you've mixed the batter, do you dice the ham with the coriander?

First Fireman: No, no, you put them in separately when the vine leaves are ready.

(The phone rings.)

Second Fireman: Oh, no, not again.

Third Fireman: Take it off the hook.

(The first fireman takes the phone off the hook. Cut back to Mrs Little on phone. She looks at the receiver then listens again.)

Mrs Little: I can't get the fire brigade Mervyn.

(Mervyn, her 38-year-old, 6'8" son appears.)

Mervyn: Here, let me try, dear. You go and play the cello.

Mrs Little: Oh it doesn't do any good, dear.

Mervyn: Look. Do you want the little hamster to live or not?

Mrs Little: Yes I do, Mervyn.

Mervyn: Well go and play the cello!

(She looks helplessly at him, then goes into the sitting room, Mervyn dials.)

Mervyn: Hello, hello, operator? Yes we're trying to get the fire brigade ... No, the fire brigade. Yes… yes… yes… yes… yes… yes… yes… yes… yes… yes… what? ... (he takes one of his shoes off and looks in it) Size eight. Yes… yes… yes… yes… yes… yes… no, of course not! Yes...

(Mrs Little appears, dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief.)

Mrs Little: (touching Mervyn gently on the arm) He's gone, dear.

Mervyn: What?

Mrs Little: He's slipped away.

Mervyn: What?

Mrs Little: The sodding hamster's dead!

Mervyn: (broken) Oh no!! What were you playing?

Mrs Little: Some Mozart concertos, dear.

Mervyn: What... How did he... ?

Mrs Little: His eyes just closed, and he fell into the wastepaper basket. I've covered him with a copy of the 'Charlie George Football Book'.

Mervyn: (handing her the phone) Right, you hang on. I must go and see him.

Mrs Little: There was nothing we could do, Mervyn. If we'd have had the whole Philharmonic Orchestra in there, he'd still have gone.

Mervyn: I'm going upstairs, I can't bear it.

Mrs Little: (restraining him) There isn't an upstairs dear, it's a bungalow.

Mervyn: Damn. (he storms off)

Mrs Little: (into the phone) Hello, I'm sorry to keep you waiting, It's just that... (she takes her shoe off and looks inside) size three, yes it's just - we've lost a dear one and my son was ... yes, that's fight, size eight, yes and... Oh I see... yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, I see, yes, yes, I, I ... Yes, yes. No ... no... yes, I see ..... ; They can't get the fire brigade Mervyn, will the Boys' Brigade do?

Mervyn: (off) No! They'd be useless!

Mrs Little: No, he doesn't want anyone at the moment, thank you. No, yes, yes, no thank you for trying, yes, yes, ... no, Saxones, yes, yes thank you, bye, bye.

(As she puts the phone down the front door beside her opens and there stands a huge African warrior in war paint and with a spear and shield. At his feet are several smart suitcases.)

Eamonn: Mummy!

Mrs Little: Eamonn. (he brings in the cases and doses the front door) Mervyn! Look it's our Eamonn - oh let me look at you, tell me how... how is it in Dublin?

Eamonn: Well, things is pretty bad there at the moment but there does seem some hope of a constitutional settlement.

Mrs Little: Oh don't talk. Let me just look at you.

Eamonn: Great to be home, mummy. How are you?

Mrs Little: Oh, I'm fine. I must just go upstairs and get your room ready.

Eamonn: It's a bungalow, mummy.

Mrs Little: Oh damn, yes. Mervyn, Mervyn - look who's here, it's our Eamonn come back to see us.

(Mervyn appears. He still looks shattered by the death of the hamster.)

Mervyn: Hello, Eamonn.

Eamonn: Hello, Merv.

Mervyn: How was Dublin?

Eamonn: Well as I was telling mummy here, things is pretty bad there at the moment but there does seem some hope of a constitutional settlement.

(The phone rings)

Mervyn: (answering phone) Hello, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes - what? what? ... (looking at Eamonn's bare foot) Size seven. Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes .... it's the fire brigade, they want to know if they can come round Thursday evening.

Mrs Little: Oh no, Thursday's the Industrial Relations Bill Dinner Dance. Can't they make it another day?

Mervyn: (into the phone) Hello, no Thursday's right out. Yes, yes, yes, yes... (fade out)

(Fade up on a dinner-jacketed announcer sitting at a table with a bowl of flowers on it. A hand waves bm inside the bowl of flowers.)

Announcer: And so it was the fire brigade eventually came round on Friday night.

(Cut to fire engines skidding out of the fire station and roaring away - speeded up. They skid to a halt outside the Littles' suburban house. Fireman pour out of the fire engine and start to swarm in through the windows. Cut to interior of Littles' sitting room. It is laid out for a cocktail party. Mervyn is in evening dress and is sitting on the sofa looking very depressed Mrs Little in a faded cocktail dress. Eamonn still in warpaint with spear and shield. The fireman appear.)

Mrs Little: Oh, so glad you could come. What would you like to drink? Gin and tonic? Sherry?

Fireman: (in unison) A drop of sherry would be lovely. (as she starts to pour drinks the firemen confide in unison) We do like being called out to these little parties, they're much better than fires. (The phone rings. Half the fireman go to answer it. A Fireman (off)..) Yes, yes yes.

Fireman: Well, how was Dublin, Eamonn?

Eamonn: Well, as I was telling mummy and Mervyn earlier, things is pretty bad there at the moment but there does seem some hope of a constitutional...

Mrs Little: (to camera) Look at them enjoying themselves. (shot of party in the hall; we can just see the fireman on phone; they keep looking at their shoe sizes) You know I used to dread parties until I watched 'Party Hints by Veronica'. I think it's on now...

(Panning shot across mountains in CinemaScope format.)

SUPERIMPOSED ROLLER CAPTION:

THE BRITISH BROADCASTING CORPORATION

IN ASSOCIATION WITH TRANSWORLD INTERNATIONAL

AND NIMROD PRODUCTIONS PRESENT

AN ARTHUR E. RICEBACHER

AND DAVID A. SELTZER PRODUCTION

FOR HASBACH ENTERPRISES

OF CHARLES D. ORTIZ' ADAPTATION

OF THE PULITZER PRIZEWINNING IDEA

BY DANIEL E. STOLLMEYER

BROUGHT TO THE SCREEN FROM ROBERT HUGHES'S NOVEL

BY LOUIS H. TANNHAUSER AND VERNON D. LARUE

PARTY HINTS BY VERONICA SMALLS

A SELZENBACH-TANSROD PRODUCTION

IN ASSOCIATION WITH

VICTOR A. LOUNGE

ROLO NICE SWEETIES

FISON'S FERTILIZERS

TIME LIFE INNIT-FOR-THE-MONEY LIMITED

THE TRUSTEES OF ST PAUL'S CATHEDRAL

THAT NICE MR ROBINSON AT THE VET'S

RALPH READER

RALPH NADER!

THE CHINESE GOVERNMENT

MICHAEL'S AUNTIE BETTY IN AUSTRALIA

A CINEMASCOPE PRODUCTION

‘Party Hints’ with Veronica Smalls

(Cut to Veronica in the 'Party Hints' set - a chintzy kitchen.)

Veronica (Eric Idle): Hello, Last week on 'Party Hints' I showed you how to make a small plate of goulash go round twenty-six people, how to get the best out of your canapes, and how to unblock your loo. This week I'm going to tell you what to do if there is an armed communist uprising near your home when you're having a party. Well obviously it'll depend how far you've got with your party when the signal for Red Revolt is raised. If you're just having preliminary aperitifs - Dubonnet, a sherry or a sparkling white wine - then the guests will obviously be in a fairly formal mood and it will be difficult to tell which are the communist agitators. So the thing to do is to get some cloth and some bits of old paper, put it down on the floor and shoot everybody. This will deal with the Red Menace on your own doorstep. If you're having canapes, as I showed you last week, or an outdoor barbecue, then the thing to do is to set fire to all houses in the street. This will stir up anti-communist hatred and your neighbours will be right with you as you organize counter-revolutionary terror. So you see, if you act promptly enough, any left-wing uprising can be dealt with by the end of the party. Bye.

Language Laboratory

(Cut to a language laboratory. Mr Mann is showing Tick round. There is a line of booths, each lined with pegboard. Each has a person with a pair of earphones on with attached microphones, a tape recorder and a swivel chair)

First Booth: (Eric) Bleck people. Bleck people. Rrrhodesian. Kill the blecks. Kill the blecks. Rrhodesian. Smith, Smith. Kill the blecks within the five principles.

(He starts to rewind the tape recorder. Nods at Mr Mann. They come to the second booth.)

Second Booth: I'm afraid I cannot comment on that until it's been officially hushed up.

Mr Mann: This is our politicians booth.

Second Booth: While there is no undue cause for concern, there is certainly no room for complacency. Ha, ha, ha. He, he, he.

(They pass on to the next booth.)

Third Booth: Well I'll go, I'll go to the foot of our stairs. Ee ecky thump put wood in 'ole, muther.

(Mr Mann taps him. He removes his earphones.)

Third Booth: (normal) Yes?

Mr Mann: Ee ecky thump.

Third Booth: (trying it) Ee ecky thump.

Mr Mann: Ee ecky thump! (indicates more power)

Third Booth: Ee ecky thump!

Mr Mann: Excellent.

Third Booth: Thank you, sir. (puts earphones on, listens)

Mr Mann: It's a really quick method of learning.

Third Booth: Can you smell gas or is it me?

Tick: (who is very different) Looks jolly good.

(They come to the fourth booth where sits a very city-type gent.)

Fourth Booth: Hello, big boy. (very breathy) Oo varda the ome. D'you want a nice time?

Mr Mann: Very good.

Fourth Booth: (butch) Thank you very much, sir.

(They pass the fifth booth, whose occupant is making silly noises.)

Mr Mann: And we control everything from here. (indicating the control desk)

Tick: Superb.

Mr Mann: Well then what sort of thing were you looking for?

Tick: Well, er, really something to make me a little less insignificant?

Mr Mann: Oh, I see sort of 'Now look here, you may be Chairman but your bloody pusillanimous behaviour makes me vomit!' That sort of thing?

Tick: Oh no, no, no, not really no.

Mr Mann: Oh I see, well perhaps something a bit more sort of Clive Jenkins-ish? Perhaps - sort of (Welsh accent) 'Mr Smarmy so-called Harold Wilson can call himself pragmatic until he's blue in the breasts'.

Tick: Oh no, I really want something that will make people be attracted to me like a magnet.

Mr Mann: I see, well, you want our 'Life and Soul of the Party' tape then, I think.

Tick: What's that?

Mr Mann: Well it's sort of 'Ello squire, haven't seen you for a bit, haven't seen you for a bit either, Beryl. Two pints of wallop please, love. Still driving the Jensen then? Cheer up Jack it may never happen, what's your poison then?'

Tick: Fantastic, yes.

Mr Mann: Right, I'll just see if we've got the tape.

(He puts the headphones on. Whilst he looks away, the whole of the back wall of people in booths, swing round on their chairs and do a little thirties routine, with their earphones on, kicking their legs, etc., they sing.)

SUPERIMPOSED CAPTION: 'SANDY WILSON'S VERSION OF "THE DEVILS" '

All:

Boo boopee doo

Boo boopee doo

Scuby duby duby doo-oo!

Hello operator

Is that the central line?

Give me the Piccadilly number

Nine one o nine

Mr operator now that number's wrong

So come on everybody

Let's sing this song...

... Proust in his first book wrote about... etc ....

(Gong sounds.)

Voice Over: Start again.

(The loony leans into shot and waves. Fade to black.)

Travel Agent

Voice Over: And now, here is a magnificent recording made in the Y valley of an ordinary Travel Agent's office. Note the huge-breasted typist in the background.

Tourist: Good morning.

Secretary: Oh good morning, ummm, do you want to come upstairs?

Tourist: I beg your pardon?

Secretary: Do you want to come upstairs? Oh! Or have you come to arrange a holiday?

Tourist: Er...to arrange a holiday.

Secretary: Oh sorry.

Tourist: What's all this about coming upstairs?

Secretary: Oh, nothing, nothing. Now where were you thinking of going?

Tourist: India.

Secretary: Ah one of our adventure holidays.

Tourist: Yes.

Secretary: Well you'd better see Mr Bounder about that. (Calls out to Mr Bounder) Mr Bounder, this gentleman is interested in the India Overland.

(walks over to Mr Bounder's desk)

Bounder: Ah good morning. I'm Bounder of Adventure.

Tourist: Hello. I'm Smoke-too-much.

Bounder: Well you'd better cut down a little then.

Tourist: I'm sorry?

Bounder: You'd better cut down a little then.

Tourist: Oh I see! Smoke-too-much, so I'd better cut down a little then.

Bounder: Yes...I expect you get people making jokes about your name all the time, eh?

Tourist: No, I'd never noticed it before.

Bounder: So, you're interested in one of our adventure holidays, are you?

Tourist: Yes I saw your advert in the bolour supplement.

Bounder: The what?

Tourist: The bolour supplement.

Bounder: The colour supplement?

Tourist: Yes I'm sorry I can't say the letter 'B'

Bounder: C?

Tourist: Yes that's right. It's all due to a trauma I suffered when I was a sboolboy. I was attacked by a bat.

Bounder: A cat?

Tourist: No a bat.

Bounder: Can you say the letter 'K'?

Tourist: Oh yes, Khaki, kind, kettle, Kipling, kipper, Kuwait, Keble Bollege Oxford.

Bounder: Why don't you say the letter 'K' instead of the letter 'C'?

Tourist: What you mean.....spell bolour with a K?

Bounder: Yes.

Tourist: Kolour. Oh thank you, I never thought of that. What a silly bunt.

Bounder: Anyway about the holiday..

Tourist: Well yes, I've been on package tours many times and so your advert really bought my eye.

Bounder: Ah good. (begins to murmer 'yes' and 'uh-huh' in agreement)

Tourist: Yes, you're quite right. I'm fed up with being treated like sheep. What's the point of going abroad if you're just another tourist carted around in buses surrounded by sweaty mindless oafs from Kettering and Boventry in their cloth caps and their cardigans and their transistor radios and their Sunday Mirrors, bomplaining about the tea - 'Oh they don't make it properly here, do they, not like at home' - and stopping at Majorcan bodegas selling fish and chips and Watney's Red Barrel and calamaris and two veg and sitting in their cotton frocks squirting Timothy White's suncream all over their puffy raw swollen purulent flesh 'cos they 'overdid it on the first day.'

Bounder: (still patiently) Yes, absolutely, yes I quite agree... (continues to intersperse comments throughout the tirade)

Tourist: And being herded into endless Hotel Miramars and Bellvueses and Bontinentales with their modern international luxury roomettes and draught Red Barrel and swimming pools full of fat German businessmen pretending they're acrobats forming pyramids and frightening the children and barging into queues and if you're not at your table spot on seven you miss the bowl of Campbell's Cream of Mushroom soup, the first item on the menu of International Cuisine, and every Thursday night the hotel has a bloody cabaret in the bar, featuring a tiny emaciated dago with nine-inch hips and some bloated fat tart with her hair brylcreemed down and a big arse presenting Flamenco for Foreigners.

Bounder: (beggining to get fed up) Shut up!! (comments grow more rude and more forceful)

Tourist: And then some adenoidal typists from Birmingham with flabby white legs and diarrhoea trying to pick up hairy bandy-legged wop waiters called Manuel and once a week there's an excursion to the local Roman Ruins to buy cherryade and melted ice cream and bleeding Watney's Red Barrel and one evening you visit the so called typical restaurant with local colour and atmosphere and you sit next to a party from Rhyl who keep singing 'Torremolinos, torremolinos' and complaining about the food - 'It's so greasy here, isn't it?' - and you get cornered by some drunken greengrocer from Luton with an Instamatic camera and Dr. Scholl sandals and last Tuesday's Daily Express and he drones on and on and on about how Mr. Smith should be running this country and how many languages Enoch Powell can speak and then he throws up over the Cuba Libres.

Bounder: Will you shut up?

Tourist: And sending tinted postcards of places they don't realise they haven't even visited to 'All at number 22, weather wonderful, our room is marked with an 'X'.

Bounder: Please, Shut up!!!!

Tourist: Food very greasy but we've found a charming little local place hidden away in the back streets...

Bounder: Damn you, I can't take it!!!

Tourist: where they serve Watney's Red Barrel and cheese and onion.......

Bounder: For God's sake, take it off, TAKE IT OFF!!!!

Tourist: crisps and the accordionist plays 'Maybe it's because I'm a Londoner'.

(Sound of needle being lifted off a record and the speech abruptly ends)

‘Theory on Brontosauruses’ by Anne Elk

Television Host (Graham Chapman): Good evening. Tonight - dinosaurs. I have here sitting in the studio next to me an elk. Aaagghhhh! Oh, I'm sorry, Anne Elk, Mrs Anne Elk.

Miss Elk (John Cleese, as a very prim lady): Miss.

Host: Miss Anne Elk, who is an expert on the...

Elk: No, no, no, Anne Elk.

Host: What?

Elk: Anne Elk, not Anne Expert.

Host: No, no, I was saying that you, Miss Elk, were an, A.N. not A.N.N.E., expert...

Elk: Oh!

Host: ...on elks - I'm sorry, on dinosaurs.

Elk: Yes, I certainly am, Chris, how very true, my word yes!

Host: Now, Miss Elk - Anne - you have a new theory about the brontosaurus.

Elk: Could I just say, Chris, for one moment that I have a new theory about the brontosaurus?

Host: Er... exactly. What is it?

Elk: Where?

Host: No, no, no. What is your theory?

Elk: Oh, what is my theory?

Host: Yes.

Elk: Oh what is my theory, that it is. Yes, well you may well ask, what is my theory.

Host: (slightly impatient) I am asking.

Elk: And well you may. Yes my word you may well ask what it is, this theory of mine. Well, this theory that I have--that is to say, which is mine-- ...is mine.

Host: (more impatient) I know it's yours. What is it?

Elk: Where? Oh, what is my theory?

Host: Yes!

Elk: Oh, my theory that I have follows the lines I am about to relate. (Coughs) Ahem. Ahem. Ahem. Ahem. Ahem. Ahem.

Host: Oh God.

Elk: Ahem. Ahem. Ahem. Ahem. Ahem. Ahem. Ahem. Ahem. Ahem. Ahem. Ahem. Ahem. [Impatient noises from Host] The Theory, by A. Elk. That's A for Anne, it's not by a elk.

Host: Right....

Elk: This theory which belongs to me is as follows. Ahem. Ahem. This is how it goes. Ahem. The next thing that I am about to say is my theory. Ahem. Ready?

(Host moans)

Elk: The Theory by A. Elk brackets Miss brackets. My theory is along the following lines.

Host: Oh God.

Elk: All brontosauruses are thin at one end, much MUCH thicker in the middle, and then thin again at the far end. That is the theory that I have and which is mine, and what it is too.

Host: That's it, is it?

Elk: Right, Chris.

Host: Well, Anne, this theory of yours seems to have hit the nail on the head.

Elk: And it's mine.

Host: (ironical) Thank you for coming along to the studio.

Elk: My pleasure, Chris.

Host: Er...Britain's newest wasp farm...

Elk: It's been a lot of fun.

Host: ...opened last week...

Elk: Saying what my theory is.

Host: Yes, thank you.

Elk: And whose it is.

Host: Yes. ...opened last week...

Elk: I have another theory.

Host: Not today, thank you.

Elk: My theory number two, which is the second theory that I have. Ahem! This theory...

Host: Oh look...shut up!

Elk: ...is what I am about to say...

Host: Oh please shut up!

Elk: ...which, with what I have said, are the two theories that are mine and belong to me.

Host: Look, if you don't shut up I shall shoot you.

Elk: Ahem! My brace of theories, which I possess the ownership of, which belongs to me...

(BANG!)

(Pause)

Elk: Ahem. The Theory the Second by Anne...

(MACHINE GUN FIRE)