by John Cleese
At the BBC I was assigned a rather boring little job writing material for an early-evening magazine programme. The only challenge was to avoid clichés; sadly, any surreal attempts to do so were rewritten by others. The greatest pleasure was getting to know many of the producers of famous radio comedy shows, some of which (like The Navy Lark, The Clitheroe Kid and Beyond Our Ken) had been running for years. The golden age of radio had ended when television took over, but what I found was that there was a collective delusion among the older producers that television was essentially a passing fad, that its attraction would begin to fade, and that the audiences would then drift back to their real first love – radio. It was an astonishing fantasy but it showed me what even apparently sensible people can believe if they really want to.
I was still performing at the Lyric and about six weeks before the end of the run I had what should have been a wonderful experience. One night I did, as near as dammit, a perfect show. I got every laugh, never missed a beat, my timing was exquisite; I was relaxed, disciplined and hilarious. There had been nights when I’d got most of the sketches dead right, but never before had I done the whole show impeccably. I was superb. (Please remember we did about 180 performances and this happened just once.)
The result: exhilaration. And then, the next day, depression. Because I realised I’d never do it so well again. Every night from now on I would go on stage and do it less well than I was capable of – it was going to be downhill all the way. And for a week or so after that, doing the show became a struggle: I was having to push myself through an emotional sound barrier, going on stage to do an imperfect performance that was going to dissatisfy me. It was a ridiculous expression of perfectionism but it made me belatedly realise that that’s why I always called myself a writer-performer: I wanted to write something, perform it perfectly just once and then move on. Of course, I eventually found the right professional attitude: keep it as fresh as possible every night, and take pride in your discipline, but it now always felt like work.
When the run came to an end in November, we were, all of us, rather relieved, which meant that the last-night party seemed rather downbeat. We were proud of what we’d achieved but we also knew it was a passing phase. Two days later, to celebrate my first free weekday evening for five months, I treated myself by taking a good book to a fine fish restaurant on Baker Street. I ordered my meal, started to read – and then began to feel uncomfortable. I couldn’t work out what was unsettling me, but I knew I was becoming more anxious by the minute. I’d started to sweat and my chest was tightening up, and now – a flash of alarm – my heart was pounding hard. Very hard. I took several deep breaths. What the hell was happening to me? I glanced at my watch. It was eight o’clock! Curtain up! The moment I realised what was going on, the symptoms disappeared. The weirdest part of it all was the fact that this happened to me not on the Sunday that followed the end of the run, but on the Monday when we would have been performing. My subconscious knew the difference.
The Light Entertainment Department now assigned me my first major project – a Christmas one-off for Brian Rix and Terry Scott called Yule Be Surprised. The first draft had been crammed full of the most ancient and enfeebled jokes; my job was to cut the worst ones. The main problem was leaving anything in the script at all. It was not the most creative start to a BBC writing career.
More encouraging was that Peter Titheradge, who had recruited Humphrey Barclay, David Hatch and me to the Light Entertainment staff as trainees, now persuaded the BBC to make three audience comedy shows, based on the Cambridge Circus show and cast, which turned out to be the prototype of our long-running radio comedy show I’m Sorry I’ll Read That Again. I enjoyed recording these enormously. In radio, technology is at the absolute minimum: just a microphone between the performers and the audience; a studio audience which becomes an ally in the conspiracy to entertain the listeners; and a script in your hand which removes any possibility you might forget the words. Perfection. And it was lovely to be working with the team again, with Humphrey producing the shows under Peter’s mentorship.
And, in the New Year, at last a proper writing job, producing two or three sketches weekly for a couple of comedians a generation or so older than me: Dick Emery and Deryck Guyler. This was the first time I had worked with professionals. We’d meet at ten in the morning, read the script through a couple of times, do some rewrites, take a break, and then record the programme at lunchtime. Emery was very good at playing broad comedy characters, but I always felt that he was not a classy performer, though he had his own immensely popular TV series for nearly twenty years. He never seemed to stretch his abilities, and that may be why he’s not remembered as one of the greats. Guyler, on the other hand, was a top-class comic actor, but one who never became a ‘star’. Their attitudes to our show were revealed by the first two minutes of rehearsal: Dick would slit open the envelope containing the script he had been sent; Deryck’s script was already covered with little marks, like musical annotations. Dick’s performance would be OK; Deryck’s superb.
For the first time in my comedy-writing life I now had to produce scripts on a regular basis, and this brought with it a simple problem: I would start the morning with a blank sheet of paper, and I might well finish the day with a blank sheet of paper (and an overflowing waste-paper basket). There are not many jobs where you can produce absolutely nothing in the course of eight hours, and the uncertainty that produces is very scary. You never hear of accountant’s block or bricklayer’s block; but when you try to do something creative there can be no guarantee anything will happen.
And this is why Peter Titheradge suddenly became such an important influence. In his time he’d been a distinguished writer of West End revue material, and he was able to calm my incipient panics when fruitless hours were passing. He got me to understand that, if you kept at it, material would always emerge: a bad day would be followed by a decent one, and somehow an acceptable average would be forthcoming. I took a leap of faith, and my experience started to confirm this mysterious principle.
He also clarified something that had been slowly occurring to me: how very, very rare it is to find a great punchline which both surprises an audience and pulls the main threads of the sketch together in a satisfying way. He showed me that I was wasting hours of my time trying to discover the ideal punchline when the conditions for one simply didn’t exist. You just needed to find something that was ‘good enough’ to resolve the piece. I sometimes wonder whether Peter’s radical insight helped me six years later towards the Python punchline solution – ‘Don’t bother with them.’
In addition, Peter helped me to edit what I had written, removing whatever ‘fat’ my dialogue had on it, whether it was a repetition, a redundant phrase, an unnecessary adjective – even a single syllable. I’d half-realised some of this, but not the ruthlessness it required. Finally, of the many things that he taught me, I still remember this: always put the key funny word in a sentence at the end of it, as this will give it maximum impact; any words that follow it will soften its effect, causing the audience momentarily to hold back their laughter so that they do not miss what is still to be said.
I was fascinated by Peter’s expertise, and I asked him why he had stopped writing. ‘When the war was over, I ran out of malice,’ he replied. I’d never met a man so free of malice as Peter. He padded his way round the corridors of the Aeolian Hall, where the BBC had some of their recording studios, dispensing whatever executive expertise was necessary, and people were invariably delighted to see him coming. He was always immaculately dressed; I teased him by calling him ‘dapper’. He exuded a mixture of wisdom, charm and empathy that made him loved throughout the department. I’ve never met a more admirable human being.
Yet his remark about ‘malice’ bothered me. Was humour essentially malicious? It was certainly in some way critical. You can’t make a joke about people behaving intelligently and generously. A TV executive once said to me, ‘Show me a sitcom about St Francis of Ass
isi and I’ll show you a bummer.’ Jokes are about stupidity, greed, vengefulness, anger, obsession . . . all things of which we should disapprove. But is this disapproval malicious? I think it really depends on the frame of mind of the joke-teller. Think of teasing: there can be nasty, spiteful, hurtful teasing, and there can be affectionate, even loving, teasing that gently reminds someone of an aspect of their behaviour that needs attention, but that does so in a way that is entirely accepting of them, and it. But then what about a joke like ‘Why do the French have so many civil wars?’ Answer: ‘So they can win one now and again.’ We don’t laugh because we hate the French, yet there is nevertheless a hard-edged quality here, as there is in all laughs that involve cultural stereotypes. Perhaps the problem could be solved if each year the United Nations voted that one country should be the butt of all the insult jokes for the forthcoming twelve months. My proposal when it’s Sweden’s turn: ‘How do you get fifteen Swedes into a Volvo?’ Answer: ‘Throw a krona in the back.’
After a few months in the new job, the BBC very kindly gave me six weeks’ leave to tour New Zealand with Cambridge Circus. It was something that Michael White had arranged. He’d called us to his office and said he wanted to take the show on tour. We assumed he meant round Britain, but he said, ‘No, here’, and showed us on a map. We agreed like a shot. I think we were intrigued by the sheer pointlessness of the idea. Anyway, it would certainly be fun.
In July 1964, therefore, we all boarded a BOAC airliner and flew to New Zealand, where it was the midwinter of 1922. Our first hotel was a good indication of what was to come. Modelled closely on Norman Bates’s motel in Psycho, it was run by two sour, unobliging old bats who were clearly put out by the whole idea of accommodating overnight guests. Registering, an hour or so after landing at the airport, caused endless difficulties, during which we were asked, ‘How do you like New Zealand so far?’ ‘Very promising,’ we lied. ‘We’re a happy-go-lucky people,’ one of the old bats explained, rather grudgingly.
Getting ready for New Zealand: from left to right, me, Johnny, David Palmer (musical director), Graham, Mrs Palmer, Master Palmer, our hosts Lady and Lord Crathorne, (sitting) Humphrey, Jean Hart, Bill, Jo, Tim, David, Peter Titheradge, Ann Hatch.
We soon discovered that the country was basically completely clueless. Bill Oddie walked into an ice-cream parlour and ordered a banana split. The chef took a banana, peeled it, split it in half and presented it to him. Graham caused consternation by ordering a ‘three-egg omelette’. ‘A three-egg omelette?’ ‘Yes,’ said Graham, ‘a three-egg omelette. Made with three eggs . . .’ He received a large omelette with three fried eggs on the top. At Sunday lunch I saw ‘Colonial Goose’ on the menu. I love goose, so I ordered it. When it arrived, it tasted like lamb. ‘This is Colonial Goose?’ I queried. ‘Yis.’ Graham tasted some. ‘It’s lamb,’ he said. I called the waitress back. ‘I’m sorry, but this tastes like lamb.’ ‘Yis,’ she said. ‘But I ordered Colonial Goose.’ ‘Colonial Goose is lamb,’ she explained.
Fortunately the shows were well received, but even in the theatre ineptitude ruled. During one performance, a loud bell started ringing at regular junctures, which distracted the audience badly. At the interval, Humphrey, who had taken over as stage manager, since we could find no one else in New Zealand who was up to the task, raced round to the front of the theatre, found the theatre manager and angrily asked him to find out who was ringing the bell.
‘It’s me,’ replied the manager.
‘What?’ cried Humphrey.
‘I’m ringing it,’ explained the manager.
‘Why?’
‘It’s the fire bell.’
‘Is there a fire?’ Humphrey demanded.
‘No.’
‘Well, why are you ringing it?’
‘I’m testing it.’
‘But we’re doing a performance!’
‘I’m only doing my job.’
Perhaps the most bizarre moment came when we went to Dunedin. On the way in by car we noticed cinema posters advertising Zulu. We’d heard it was a great film and got excited about the prospect of seeing it during our stay. As we checked in at the hotel we noticed we were being scrutinised rather closely by the proprietor. Conversation seemed stilted; eventually she posed the question on her mind: ‘Are you the Zulus, then?’
Another extraordinary phenomenon. In an attempt to reduce the dangers of alcohol, it was illegal for public houses to serve drinks after six in the evening. So people would race to the pub after work, and line up six pints of beer which they would then drink in the next thirty minutes, rendering them all legless by the time the pubs closed. This was known as the ‘six o’clock swill’.
When you encounter a culture totally uncontaminated by logic, it eventually undermines your reliance on reason. For example, Johnny Lynn walked into a department store in search of cufflinks. ‘Where do I find cufflinks?’ he asked. ‘Try the tobacco counter.’ ‘No,’ said Johnny, indicating the cuffs on his shirt, ‘cufflinks.’ ‘Yis. Try the tobacco counter.’ ‘OK,’ thought Johnny. ‘After all, this is New Zealand.’ So he strolled over to the tobacco counter. ‘Excuse me, do you have any cufflinks?’ ‘This is the tobacco counter!’ was the reply.
When we talked to New Zealanders of our own age we found a complete dichotomy between those who had never left their country and those who had spent a year or so abroad. The former were very happy with their lives; the latter now viewed New Zealand from a wider perspective and spent their waking hours plotting how to escape again.
Nevertheless, our gang – Tim, Bill and his girlfriend Jean Hart, Jo Kendall, Graham, David, Humphrey, Johnny and I – travelled happily by coach around this beautiful country with its small centres of population separated by vast tracts of countryside and sheep, being treated with great friendliness and laughing all the way.
So relaxed did I become that I made an important breakthrough: I started to feel comfortable in the company of women. Up until now I had faced a seemingly insuperable hurdle: the feeling that, when I was on my own with a person of the same sex as my mother, I had to put on some sort of act. I had no clear idea of what the act needed to be, just a deep intuition that there was some mental button which, if I could ever find and press it, would shove me into a more male persona – one that was quietly impressive, strong, manly, effortlessly sexual, masterful, ironic and whatever else it was that James Bond exuded. Until this button had been located, the best I could do was to hint that these secret-agent qualities existed deep inside me, albeit skilfully camouflaged by my extreme good manners and self-deprecating humour.
But in the six weeks that I travelled around New Zealand in the company of Jo Kendall, I underwent a sea-change. I am not for a moment hinting at a romance with Jo; it was just that the experience of being around a cheerful, chatty, undramatic friend-who-happened-to-be-a-girl nudged me in the direction of being a little more ‘myself’; partly, no doubt, because my ‘act’ was too demanding to maintain for hours on end, so weariness produced more authentic behaviour.
And a few weeks later I was presented with the surprising offer of a chance to lose my virginity. The New Zealand girls were a wholesome and cheery bunch and I must have been losing my stiffness and rigidity (I speak metaphorically) because in Christchurch I met a girl – we’ll call her Ann – with whom I felt really relaxed and who thought me hilarious. She found my impersonation of a mouse the funniest thing she had ever seen. We enjoyed a couple of evenings of entirely lust-free meetings, and off I flew to Auckland for the last stage of the tour. I was embarrassed that I still was unable to drive a car, so to fill my afternoons usefully, I arranged some driving lessons, but then received a phone call from Ann, making it quite clear that she was coming to Auckland the next day, and would be staying with me at the hotel. The message was unequivocal, even to dopey old me. Intimacy would be taking place.
The next day, trying to anticipate what normal human beings did when faced with romantic encounters, I decided that apart from flo
wers in the hotel room, I should buy Ann some scent, to create the right atmosphere. So I visited the perfume department of the local store, but found it difficult to find a scent that I liked, which meant that it took me some time before I could hurry off to my driving lesson.
Arriving late, I was shown into the driving seat; the instructor sat next to me and started introducing himself; and then he froze, snatched his hand back, flattened himself against the passenger door, stared with a look of horror straight out of the windscreen, and went white. I looked at him and saw fear. I explained that I was not a complete beginner. He nodded but would not look at me. I was bemused. I put my hand out for the keys, but this caused him to bang his forehead on the visor. Did he think I was an escaped psychopath? Then I noticed he was covertly opening a window and I finally got it. He’d read about actors – worse, English actors – and I smelled like a direct hit on a perfumery. This so-called ‘driving lesson’ was clearly a prelude to something much more intimate – an act so alien to New Zealand culture that it was probably punishable by ritual disembowelment during half-time in a rugby match.
I immediately started talking about my ‘girlfriend’ who was arriving that afternoon, and how I was thinking of proposing marriage, but it was to no avail. A travesty of a driving lesson now took place, as I jerked the car around, stalling it at ten-second intervals, and then just got out, apologised and walked away . . .
After that, the evening was a relative anticlimax, thank God. Ann and I had a few drinks, went upstairs, and she made it easy for me, bless her. I had no idea how to please her, but she seemed perfectly happy, and there was affection, and she only asked me to do my mouse impersonation twice.