Text by Eric Idle; Illustration by Terry Gilliam

Text by Eric Idle; Illustration by Terry Gilliam

[Written in 1971, this piece by John Cleese was published on Pythonline]

The Rectorial Address

of Mr John Cleese, M.A., LLD.

First I must thank you because you have done me a great honour.

I’m afraid all Rectors seem to start by saying something of the sort.

In fact only one in recent history appears not to have thanked those who elected him ; and that was only because he was too busily engaged on the subject of ‘Magnanimity’. And so to those of you who elected me may I say ‘Thank you’. And to those of you who, while not actually casting your votes in my direction, have since treated me with such kindness and courtesy, may I simply say ‘Ha ha ha’.

But now that the moment of truth has arrived, for me at any rate, I think it should be made clear to you what you have done. For the first time in St. Andrews’ long and distinguished history you have elected a Silly Rector. Where stood John Stuart Mill, Balfour, Marconi, Kipling, Earl Haig, Smuts and Sir James Barrie, now stands a 31-year-old TV funnyman, a vir definitely non majoris digniatis ac nominis,…. (please continue straight on) an electronic buffoon who peddles jokes to the subversively inclined in order to scrape together his humble fortune.

The day after the result was announced, in November, and while I was still under sedation, a London newspaper published a photograph of me. I was posed astride a motorcycle, with my teeth blacked out, wearing knuckledusters and dressed as an elderly woman. Above the photograph was the headline ‘This is the Rector of St. Andrews’ and underneath the picture, the headline continued ‘What is it all coming to?’. Now I doubt if many of you saw this because the newspaper in question is called the Sun, which does not have a very wide readership among those who enjoy the fruits of a formidable education, but the thought nevertheless seemed to me a very fair one.

What’s it all coming to? Well, you have had your moment of levity, and now this afternoon I have to pay for it. I ask you quite seriously to consider my predicament. I have now to deliver a Rectorial Address, something that I am almost uniquely unqualified to do, since the one subject I might talk about with any semblance of knowledge or authority, which is Humour, is the most exquisitely dull and stupefying uninteresting topic known to man, the Law of Real Property not excepted. And yet, since I had not the courage to stay in that chair feigning death, I now have to speak for some twenty minutes on a serious subject, without, and this has been made very clear to me, without in any way suplimenting it with comic songs, or bird noises, or balancing on a bicycle, or exhibitions of even a mildly ventriloquial nature. The requirement is a Rectorial Address and a Rectorial Cabaret is not acceptable.

I cannot even hope to be diverted by an enormous papier mache’ foot crashing down upon this platform or by a Colonel entering the hall and bringing proceedings to a close by announcing that the whole thing is too silly. I am limited to words alone, and even then the dignity of this occasion precludes cheap sexual innuendo or sustained passages of personal or political abuse, inviting though the figure of our present Prime Minister is. I may not even occasionally break away from my theme to recommend commercial products. In addition this Address is being seen on close circuit television, may be mentioned in the papers and worst of all, worst of all is to be printed in full and kept in the University Library for thousands upon thousands of succeeding generations of St. Andrews students to sneer at. Furthermore, my agent tells me there is absolutely no question of a fee. There is a phrase to cover this particular situation. It is something to do with being on a hiding to nothing.

Now as well as all this, there’s one further snag. I’ve always had the strongest dislike of public speeches of almost any kind. Why I should have this prejudice against public speaking I don’t know. Perhaps, because many years ago I noticed that on pages of advertisement in newspapers, offers of tuition in the art of public speaking always seemed to be sandwiched between cures for stammering and blushing on one hand, and recommended treatments for haemorrhoids and nocturnal enuresis on the other. This association has remained so strongly in my mind that I think I may subconsciously assume that people speak in public only to compensate for the humiliating nature of their private lives. But whatever the reason, I harbour an aversion for public speaking so strong that until today I have always managed to lie my way out of it. But now, unless in the next few seconds I am fortunate enough to be struck by a passing meteorite, I shall have to begin, and take responsibility for twenty minutes of public embarrassment worthy of John Davies himself, not to mention the most acute scenes of academic distress since Ridley and Latimer went to the stake. The trouble is, I haven’t the slightest idea how to go about it. You see, there aren’t any little instruction manuals. No “Teach Yourself Rectorial Addressing”, no “Rectoring for Beginners”. These are books like “Teach Yourself to Open Parliament” of too limited appeal to interest publishers.

All I have discovered is that I have to talk to you on some subject of importance. At first I thought I might show you how to skin an antelope, a trick I was taught years ago by my aunt Margery, the great white huntress of Islington. But it’s rather technical and a bit messy and the lectern isn’t nearly large enough… next I wondered if you all might like to learn how to imitate Mr. Health, but then that involves tying long lengths of elastic round your throat and gargling with rancid milk… and so, in my search of likely topics I read other Rectorial Addresses, and found that moral qualities have been very popular in the past. But then to my dismay I realised that all the good ones had been done. Courage has gone. Sir James Barrie nicked that. And independence and magnanimity and freedom… I’ve been left with things like good taste and chastity. And frankly, I feel whatever I speak on I should have some genuine feeling for. And the only quality that I am aware of possessing more than my fellow man is that of physical cowardice. I don’t wish to boast, but I am widely regarded as one of Europe’s Six Leading Cowards. I have been a coward ever since I could run. Cowadice runs in my family. The Duke of Wellington encountered my great great grandfather running full pelt from the field at Waterloo. He was merely anticipating Ambrose Bierce’s definition of a coward as ‘one who in a perilous emergency, thinks with his legs’. But the Duke didn’t know this. ‘Why’, he thundered, ‘are you running away ?’ ‘I am running’, replied my great-great, ‘because I am physically unable to fly’.

Consequently I feel it is something I am qualified to talk about. I know about cowardice. I put my own down to my sincere dislike of physical pain. It is my ever present hope, as I rise from my bed every morning, that this day my head will not get gashed, and that no large men will try to force a tea chest down my throat. Some nights I lie awake in bed, paralyzed by the thought that one day I may be tortured for information, vital to the interests of this country, which I do not possess.

And because I have these quite normal fears, I am reviled as a coward. At school my housemaster hated me because I was not prepared to risk getting kneed in the head, simply to prevent the Brown’s House third from scoring another try against the North Town third XV. It seemed to me that the adding of another three points to their already enormous total was nothing compared with the possibility of my sudden demise. And for this rational approach my life was made a living hell.

And why ? For one reason only, that cowardice is badly thought of. Now I would put it another way. I would say it is badly underrated. Dr. Johnson asserted that ‘Mutual Cowardice keeps us in peace’. I believe it could, that this fundamentally realistic behaviour could be a great force for social cohesion. And I suggest that the reason why there is so much more internecine behaviour within the human species than within any other species of animals is because cowardice has got itself a bad name.

Man is a social animal. So let us look at the behaviour of other social animals. Take the wolf - he lives in a pack. Like man he is a hunter. Now, whenever a conflict breaks out between two members of a pack, either wolf can bring it to an immediate halt by making a ritual act of submission, by offering the side of his neck, his most vulnerable part, to his opponent. This immediately stops his opponent’s aggressive behaviour. What a sensible system ! No feeling of shame for the submittor. Just peace.

A Canadian zoologist who had been studying wolves’ behaviour tried this out in a human context. He was stopped by a traffic policeman for speeding. As the zoologist saw the policeman approaching his car he noticed that the policeman, for some reason, seemed particularly angry. So he adopted sensible wolf behaviour. First he got out of his car, because to remain seated while someone is talking to you is standing suggests superior status which is clearly not submissive. He then took off his spectacles, because spectacles have connotations of wide staring eyes, which in terms of animal behaviour is also aggressive. And then he stood hanging his head and offering the side of his neck to the cop. The policeman’s anger immediately subsided, and the zoologist was let off. the ritual submission, the cowardly behaviour, had worked.

An interesting experiment. Nothing more perhaps. But these gestures of appeasement, these acts of ritual submission, are found in all social animals. Wherever there is trouble, gulls turn away their beaks, puppies roll on their backs, jackdaws offer the napes of their necks, dogs present their throats and baboons proffer their buttocks. And what happens ? The stroppy gulls and dogs and jackdaws and baboons lay off. Peace reigns. But you and I have been conditioned to despise such sensible behaviour as the seagull’s. And the carnage and distruction within the human species continues unabated.

To be continued.

John Cleese, 1971

Text by Eric Idle, for Pythonline

[The following was written by Python leading-lady Carol Clevaland for Pythonline in 1996]

HI, PYTHONLINE!!

I got a call from Eric yesterday, asking me to talk to you. And about time too! (I guess you can tell I don’t have CD ROM!) The cheeky bugger suggested I spill the beans on which Pythons I… how did he put it?… Well, it implied intimacy! I’m surprised at him. He, of ALL people, should know I wouldn’t divulge that information for NOTHING! I’m biding my time, waiting for the best offer. Here’s an idea: How about an auction on PythOnline? I’ll sell to the highest bidder!

I’m busy right now working on a project with a deadline, so can’t prattle on. I’ll just start with telling you what I’m up to at the moment.

As you see, I AM alive and well, living (presently alone) in a charming cottage in Brighton, a seaside town on the south coast of England. I’ve been here 17 years now, having moved down from London after my marriage break-up.

Yes, I’m STILL an actress! I’m sure my survival in this silly business is largely due to PYTHON, which continues to open many doors to me. But even though it’s brought fame, it hasn’t, alas, brought me the same fortune. Millionairess I ain’t! (Hey, Guys… can I have another handout?)

In the looks department, well, I reckon I’m doing pretty damn good! Better than the guys, that’s for sure! But don’t ask how old I am… I’ve settled on ‘ageless!’ I’ve always kept myself fit, and energy level is still high. I’ve trimmed down quite a bit and now am considered slim rather than voluptuous (sorry, fellas!). Legs are still good though! Hair has turned blond and cut in a bob. I miss those long locks, but this suits me better now.

Though still considered glamorous by some, I prefer to play character roles these days. I’m a good harridan! Last year, I made an American TV movie, a sequel to Annie called Annie, a Royal Adventure in which I play MISS HANNIGAN. I looked frightening! Totally unrecognizable! This suited me fine. I no longer wish to be recognized as the ‘PYTHON GIRL’ on screen… On the street, yes!… but not on the screen.

Last Christmas, I played WICKED WITCH in pantomime at Edmonton, starring alongside ALVIN STARDUST, and will be back there this year.

But before that, in September, I will be a celebrity guest on board the QE2, doing my one-woman show and talking about… yes, you guessed… PYTHON! As yet, I haven’t decided who to take as my companion — any ideas?

My one-woman show, called CAROL CLEVELAND REVEALS ALL, (but now to be retitled POM-POMS UP) was first done at the BRIGHTON FESTIVAL in 1994. It’s a semi-autobiographical, humorous, and informative look at the glamour business. TERRY and MICHAEL came to see it and loved it (they wouldn’t lie to me, would they?), even though I had them sweating a bit! I even wrote songs for it (a first), one being pure PYTHON called ‘THE W.W. SONG.î It’s a sweet little ditty about my hysterectomy (so now you know!).

I was due to do the show in L.A. later that same year, for the L.A. FESTIVAL, but due to bad management, it had to be cancelled. I do very much want to return and try again with it, but need some backing. If anyone would be interested in producing it, please get in touch! (Seriously)

That’s all for now… More to come!

CAROL CLEVELAND REVEALS ALL

CAROL CLEVELAND REVEALS ALL is an autobiographical, humorous, and informative look at the glamour business.

Beginning with a brief history of early Hollywood, Carol acts out the glory and heartbreak of some of its glamourous stars … Marilyn Monroe, Mae West, Marlene Dietrich … pointing out that only the toughest survived, and sometimes being clever meant ‘playing’ dumb!

She then charts her own life as a glamour-girl, from puberty to post-Python, through songs, jokes, poems, anecdotes, and some saucy revelations.

Starting with her birth … ‘Congratulations, Mrs. Cleveland. It’s a fine, healthy, little glamour-girlî … she moves from her own Hollywood school days … ‘Children can be very cruel to those more fortunate than themselvesî … to becoming a well-rounded teenager learning the tricks of the trade. As a pom-pom girl in high school, she mastered the art of ‘Pom-Poms Up!î and never looked back (in fact, no one has looked at her back since!).

She then offers an amusing insight into the world of models, beauty queens, Playboy bunnies, and ‘glamour stooges,’ while advising the would-be glamour girls in the audience on the do’s and don’ts. And of course, there are behind the scene stories of her Python days.

While never divulging her true age … ‘Glamour girls always lieî … she does finally admit to having crossed the bridge from glamour girl to glamour gran, and to the indignity of aging, such as being subjected to the torturous mammogram … ‘The guy who invented that contraption must hate women with a passion!î

The show ends with the audience being initiated into her fan club by singing along with “The Carol Cleveland Song” (written by an adoring fan some years ago, while obviously drunk or brain-damaged!).

The bulk of the material is original, including the songs. Carol wrote at least two of the numbers, “Miss Paddington Shopping Queen” and “The W.W. Song (Wombless Women!);” the others are adapted.

Altogether, it’s fun, glamorous, original, informative, and a little outrageous!

Text by Eric Idle; Illustration by Terry Gilliam

[From a series of biographies about the Pythons by John Cleese]

Terry Gilliam Biography

by John Cleese

The truly exceptional animated sequences in “Life of Brian” spring from the fertile brain of London, England-based U.C.L.A. graduate TERRY VANCE GILLIAM. Gilliam came to England just 12 years ago for a bet. He’s still there, ensconced in his Hampstead, London, England, Europe studio home. A painter, a sculptor, a near-professional-standard opera singer, a photo-journalist and a former swimming champion all live nearby.

Some friends call Gilliam a Renaissance man: others place him earlier. The sloping forehead, the forward slant of the body as he lopes and the prognathous jaw all point to the Upper Paleolithic period. But whatever his physical appearance, his graphics, drawings and paintings are unmistakably Lascaux. And his energy is Cromagnon to match.

Left alone with some crates of crayons, some bales of paper and a box or two of fresh fruit, his output is nothing short of phenomenal. But Terry Gilliam is not just an illustrator. “Yuuurrrrrhhhhhhh,” he admits, wryly. “Yuuurrrrrrhhhhhhh.” Now that “Life of Brian” is safely in the can, Terry is planning to get a typewriter to have a shot at the complete works of William Shakespeare.

Text by Eric Idle; Illustration by Terry Gilliam

  [John Goldstone, producer of the Monty Python films, wrote this remembrance for Pythonline in 1996]

WHO WILL RID ME OF THOSE PYTHONS?

by John Goldstone

I have been trying to rid myself of those Python boys for the last 22 years but they keep on coming back into my life.

They first disturbed my life in 1974 when no one would give them the money to make Monty Python & the Holy Grail because they were thought by the luminaries of the British film industry to be utterly irresponsible and could not be trusted with money. It took some equally irresponsible rock ‘n rollers and two mad gamblers to cover the derisory budget and I was charged with having to oversee the making of the film for the investors and afterwards to sell it to an unsuspecting world.

The first investors screening was a disaster due to a rather over­realistic soundtrack which left this generous audience dumbstruck and when we asked them for even more money to finish the film, we were ridiculed and all had to go to the bank and pledge our children against a loan sufficient to re­cut, re­score and re­mix the film.

I took the final version of the film (without the missing 24 seconds) in February 1975 to Los Angeles to show it at Filmex (the Los Angeles film festival of the time) where the Pythons also happened to be at the end of a North American promotional tour. I had invited a number of Los Angeles based distributors to the screening and when we got to the ABC theater complex in Century City there was a queue around the block for some event going on there. When we realised the queue was for the Holy Grail (the film not the goblet) excitement mounted at the commercial possibilities of Monty Python in North America. What I had not realised was that there had been an underground swell building from the illegal import of some of the Monty Python albums and a public television awareness of the Flying Circus. The audience embraced the film wildly and I thought I would have no problem at all finding a distributor who would pay me lots of money.

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