by John Cleese
The next day I flew back to London, thinking how difficult it seemed to foretell the future (I was still naive enough to think it was possible). But, of course, the moment I arrived in London such speculations were swept aside by the urgent writing requirements of The 1948 Show. We had five weeks to write five episodes, and to rewrite the pilot, making six altogether. Just the four of us, with some help from three of the Frost Report team, Dick Vosburgh, Eric Idle and Barry Cryer (all of whom also appeared regularly in both series).
But . . . there’s a problem chronicling them. The Frost organisation wiped all thirteen tapes. Really. They no longer exist.
You see, back in those Palaeozoic times TV shows were recorded on enormous reels of videotape, which were expensive and also took up a lot of storage space. So, unless a repeat was on the cards, TV companies liked to reuse the tape. (A by-product of this was that they didn’t like you to edit the programme you’d made, because to do that you had to cut the tape with a razor blade, and that rendered the tape unfit for future reuse. And for some reason the companies didn’t want the public to know that shows were edited – don’t ask me why – so tape editors were never allowed a credit.)fn2 By the 1970s the storage problem had become so acute that the BBC destroyed several priceless series, which means that Alan Bennett’s On the Margin, and episodes from Peter Cook and Dudley Moore’s Not Only . . . But Also and from Hancock’s Half Hour no longer exist: acts of vandalism that, for me, equal the burning of the library in Alexandria.
David Frost’s hatchet man, a Mr George Brightwell, not wanting to be thought a laggard in this artistic carnage, ordered the wiping of thirteen episodes of At Last the 1948 Show starring Marty Feldman, Graham Chapman, Tim Brooke-Taylor and John Cleese, so that he could free up four and a half cubic feet of shelf space. George had a reputation as a hard businessman. Very hard, the Vinny Jones of British television executives (except that his suit fitted him better). So hard, in fact, that an immensely well-liked agent called Sonny Zahl, at the end of a meeting with George, actually jumped out of George’s office window and fell several floors to his death. There were rumours that George used to leave it open for this express purpose . . .
So . . . suddenly there were no tapes of The 1948 Show. It was no more. It was an ex-series.
Then . . . a Swede found five reels in the vaults of a Stockholm TV station. Much rejoicing followed, slightly dampened by the discovery that there were not five episodes, but five half-hour compilations of 1948 Show sketches, chosen with an eye to Swedish comedy sensibilities. Then, in 2010, when Marty Feldman’s widow Lauretta died, two more shows were found in her attic. At the time of the Python O2 Arena shows, Wilfred Frost (David Frost’s son and my godson) happened upon another pair, somewhere in the Frost Archives. In addition, my old PA Howard Johnson combed the internet and found shards of the show out there – thirty seconds of this, a minute of that, so, with the help of the splendid Dick Fiddy, a consultant for the British Film Institute, we are beginning to put them back together. Recently I’ve been able to view about eight and a half 1948 Shows . . .
And because I really liked what I saw when I watched the series, and because it’s generally regarded as half a step in the direction of Monty Python, I propose to demonstrate the sort of comedy we were doing by presenting you with extracts from the better sketches.
‘Lazy bastard!’ I hear you cry. But I believe I can justify my behaviour, for several reasons.
1. The sketches are really funny (in my opinion and it’s my fucking book).
2. The two series were transmitted just once, decades ago, and even then, not in large areas of the UK, so it’s unlikely that you will start thinking, ‘Oh God, not this again.’ (That’s why some of the extracts are longer than usual.)
3. I know this book is supposed to be an autobiography, but the fact is that most of you don’t give a tinker’s cuss for me as a human being or feel for the many different forms of suffering that make me so special. No, you are just flipping through my heart-rending life story in the hope of getting a couple of good laughs, aren’t you?
So I’ll start with some of the sketches where I’m an authority figure. In the first I’m a psychiatrist and Tim, a first-time patient, is having trouble confiding his problem:
Tim Brooke-Taylor: Well, I was saying, I’ve started to meet girls in the course of our business and at parties and socially, and well, I don’t like to tell them about, well, it’s not a thing you can tell people about . . .
John Cleese: Come on, come on! Spit it out!
TBT: Sometimes I think . . . sometimes I really . . . (He mumbles inaudibly)
JC: What?! You come in here, you won’t say what’s up, it’s all bloody mumbling! I can’t hear a word, you’re all tensed up like all the other nuts that come in here. You know how much fun this is, listening to loonies eight hours a day? It’s so boring! (louder) So will you please tell me, in God’s name, what’s the matter with you?!
Long pause
TBT: I think I’m a rabbit!
JC: You stupid loony! ’Course you’re not a rabbit! Pull yourself together!
TBT: I’m a rabbit! (imitating)
JC: Look, if you were a rabbit, you’d have big long ears, wouldn’t you?!
TBT: They dropped off when I came in!
JC: Look, if you say you’re a rabbit once more, I’ll smash your face in! Now, what are you?!
TBT: I’m a . . . I’m a . . . dog. (panting)
JC: Right, that’s better! Here’s a bone, we’ll take it from there next week.
Standard Cleese bullying but Tim was wonderfully good at being frightened. The terror he summons up before he blurts out ‘I think I’m a rabbit’ has to be seen to be believed.fn3
Here’s another version of me as an authority figure, this time at a zoo, where I discipline Tim:
John Cleese: (on phone) I’m seeing the governors for lunch to discuss buying a new tiger, I’m seeing the giraffe keeper at three, so I’ll see you at half past.
Voice: (on phone) Oh, and sir, the reptile keeper’s outside to see you.
JC: Bring him in. (Hangs up. Several keepers bring in a large snake with a keeper-sized bulge in it) Lay it down there. (They put it on a table and leave)
JC: Morning, Lotterby.
Tim Brooke-Taylor: Morning, sir. Sorry, sir.
JC: Fourth time he swallowed you this week, Lotterby.
TBT: I think he’s acquiring a taste for me, sir.
JC: I’m getting fed up with this, Lotterby.
TBT: I don’t do it deliberately, sir!
JC: I know you. You like loafing around in there.
TBT: Oh, no, sir, I don’t, sir!
JC: Any time you feel like taking an afternoon off, you just pop along to the boa constrictor and climb inside.
TBT: No, sir! Swallowing me I think is a sign of affection, sir.
JC: I’m not having the boa constrictor treated as a rest room.
TBT: I’m sorry, sir!
JC: Sorry’s not enough! It’s an expensive business! It costs us fifty pounds every time we operate to get you out.
TBT: Couldn’t you put a zip on it, sir?
JC: No. I’m going to teach you a lesson. We’re not going to operate this time. We’re just going to let nature take its course.
TBT: (screams frantically) But that’ll take years, sir! What shall I eat?!
JC: Second-hand mice.
Now that there was no one to warn us that our stuff might not be fully appreciated in Bradford, we were able to push the envelope a little further, but we liked always to set the extra silliness in a familiar context – even a rather bland and reassuringly normal one. It seemed to enhance the lunacy, by making it stand out in contrast. Parodies often provided that familiar framework.
As Gra and I always loved writing sketches where some flawed logic prevailed, which someone was trying urgently to figure out, we hit upon a parody of a popular BBC radio show where schools competed against each other in general knowledge:
Marty Feldman: Pork?
JC: Good, good, that’s two marks to you. Marcia, what is the name of the metal alloy that we get from zinc and copper?
Graham Chapman: Brass?
JC: No, no, I’m afraid not. The answer is pork. Malcolm, what is the capital of Australia?
Tim Brooke-Taylor: Sydney?
JC: No, no, I can see you’re not going to get this one. The capital of Australia is pork. Arthur, who wrote A Tale of Two Cities?
MF: Pork?
JC: Good, that’s two marks for you. And so, on to Stig’s question. Stig, what was the date of Captain Cook’s discovery of Australia?
GC: Pork?
JC: Good, two marks. And the last question of this round to you, Lust: can you quote the first two lines of Thomas Gray’s ‘Elegy Written in a Country . . .’
TBT: Pork!
JC: Good, and the score at the end of Round 2 – please, Joan Sharp.
JC: (in wig) Well, the score at the end of Round 2 is the boys of King Arthur’s Grammar School, Podbury, 3, and the girls of Mildenhall Grainboiling Institute Salmontooth, 4.
Card shows score tied at 4–4.
JC: Thank you, Joan, and so on to Round 1. Tell the difference. David – what is the difference between a monsoon and a mongoose?
MF: Um, well, a monsoon is a long plastic pole you hang out of windows at an angle to keep the birds away, and a mongoose is a box you lock books up in for Easter.
JC: No, I can only give you a half for that, but I can offer it to you, Marcia.
TBT: Pork?
JC: No, no, you’re guessing, aren’t you? Well, a monsoon is a wind, and a mongoose isn’t.
In the context of the familiarity of the TV interview format, we also wrote a two-hander where the interviewer has an odd reaction to certain words.
Interviewer: Good evening. Tonight we’re taking a look at beekeeping, and here to tell us all about it we have in the studio a man who has been keeping bees for over forty years, Mr Reginald Prawnbaum. Good evening, Mr Prawnbaum.
Prawnbaum: Good evening.
Interviewer: Tell me, what first interested you in the bee world, Mr Prawnbaum?
Prawnbaum: Well, even as a child I used to . . .
Interviewer: Shh!
Prawnbaum: I’m sorry, shouldn’t I have said that?
Interviewer: No, of course you should. Pay no attention. When I say, ‘Shh’, it’s just a nervous mannerism I’ve picked up. If I want you to keep quiet I will say, ‘Shoosh.’ You were saying?
Prawnbaum: Oh, I see. Well, even as a child I used to wander around . . .
Interviewer: Shh!
Prawnbaum: . . . in the fields near my house, watching bees fly from flower to flower . . .
Interviewer: Shh!
Prawnbaum: . . . and, er, taking note of the flowers that they visited.
Interviewer: Shoosh!
Prawnbaum: Was that wrong?
Interviewer: I’m so sorry. Did I say, ‘Shoosh’? I mean, ‘Shh’. Do go on, it’s most interesting.
Prawnbaum: And so I have grown to love the little, er . . .
Interviewer: Shh!
Prawnbaum: . . . creatures. You know nature really has produced a little masterpiece in the life of the bee.
Interviewer: Quark! I’m sorry I’m afraid that’s a reflex action too. I squawk whenever someone mentions the word ‘life’. Quark! You see, even when I mention it myself. I should have told you. Please go on.
Prawnbaum: Oh, very well. Bees, as you know, are divided into . . .
Interviewer: Shh!
Prawnbaum: Different categories . . .
Interviewer: Shh!
Prawnbaum: . . . The queen bee and the worker bee, whose life span . . .
Interviewer: Quark!
Prawnbaum: . . . whose living expectancy is only one year.
Interviewer: Shh!
Prawnbaum: The worker bees, on the other hand, have a much longer . . .
Interviewer: Shoosh!
Prawnbaum: Do you want me to stop?
Interviewer: Yes, you were about to say ‘life’. Quark!
And so on. I rate this as one of the ten best sketches I have written in my entire life. Quark! If you don’t agree . . . Shoosh!fn4
You see what I mean about the ‘logic’? Here’s one more, where Marty slowly drives me mad when he enters an old-fashioned train compartment, where I am sitting alone.
Marty Feldman: Excuse me, is this seat occupied?
He points to the seat next to JC in the otherwise empty, spacious carriage.
John Cleese: No.
MF puts case overhead and sits down as close as possible to JC and fidgets. Pause.
MF: Excuse me, would you mind if I changed places with you?
JC: What?
MF: Could I sit there?
JC: Yes, I suppose so.
JC stands and moves to the opposite seat. MF moves his overhead case, then sits across from JC.
MF: Do you mind if I smoke?
JC: No, not at all.
Pause.
MF: . . . I wish I had a cigarette.
JC: . . . What?!
MF: I wish I had a cigarette.
JC: Do you want a cigarette?
JC holds out a cigarette for him.
MF: Oh, oh, oh – no, I don’t think I will.
JC: Please take one.
MF: No, no, I mustn’t, no.
JC: Take one.
MF: No, no, really.
JC: All right.
JC puts them back in his pocket. Pause.
MF: I wish I hadn’t refused that cigarette. How I wish I hadn’t refused the cigarette that nice gentleman had offered me, because I . . .
JC offers again.
MF: Oh, thank you! (takes one) Thank you very much!
JC pulls out a lighter and prepares to light it, but discovers MF has put the cigarette in his pocket.
JC: Aren’t you going to smoke it?
MF: Oh, no. See, if I smoke it now, I won’t have one for after.
JC: After what?
MF: After I smoke this one. lf I had two cigarettes now, it would be plain sailing.
JC: Have another cigarette.
MF: Thank you!
JC: Keep the pack!
MF sits for a moment and then starts talking quite quietly.
MF: Once upon a time there was a fairy prince, and his name was Arthur Aldridge. And he got on a train, and a magic wizard gave him some cigarettes. Magic cigarettes . . .
JC: What are you talking about?
MF: I’m telling myself a story. To pass the time . . .
JC: Well, will you please tell it quietly?
MF now tells the story to himself. We are aware only of his lips moving. Then . . .
MF: . . . happily ever after. The end.
He starts looking carefully all round the carriage. After a pause . . .
MF: I spy, with my little eye, something beginning with B. Or J. B or J.
JC: How could it begin with a B or a J?
MF: For various reasons, none of which I am at liberty to divulge. B or J. Easy . . .
JC: What’s the answer?
MF: Ectoplasm.
JC: Ectoplasm?
MF: Mr B. J. Ectoplasm. He works in my office.
JC: But I can’t see him!
MF: You can if you have an appointment.
While some of the 1948 Show skits were still fairly conventional, we were slowly getting bolder about being wilder and sillier. But it was a slower process than one might think. In the first series we did at least seven sketches that had been performed in
Cambridge Circus. There were even a couple of reworkings of sketches from Footlights days: a martial arts skit which Tim, Gra and I had done in the 1962 revue, and Gra’s one-man wrestling bout. Using well-tested material here and there boosted our confidence at a time when we were still unsure of ourselves.
We also did a fair amount of physical comedy, which had been largely absent from the various Frost programmes. Here the humour was in the action: Marty constantly falling asleep while appealing for funds to help fellow-sufferers from narcolepsy; policemen chasing a burglar in a library as quietly as possible; a minister falling apart during a TV party political broadcast (later rewritten for Monty Python); a dentist having so much trouble with getting at a back tooth that he has to climb into the patient’s mouth (created on a separate set, of course); and – a very surreal idea of Marty’s – an escaped criminal taking refuge under an opera singer’s vast skirt while she’s singing an aria. (‘We know you’re in there, Murphy!’ say the armed police who surround him. ‘Come and get me, you dirty rats!’)
The team got on well during the six shows of the first series: we laughed a lot, there were no heated, edgy arguments of the upcoming Cleese–Jones variety, we all liked our director, Ian Fordyce, and the staff were sweet and helpful. It also helped that I was becoming more relaxed as a performer about making mistakes. I remember, for example, tripping up on the following four-line quickie (written by Eric Idle) that I was performing straight to camera:
Are you bright, hard-working, ambitious, intelligent and quick-witted, with a good personality and a smart appearance? Do you get on well with people and find that they look on you as a natural leader? Do you feel that you’re being held back in your present position and that with a go-ahead firm, you’d get right to the top? Cocky little devil, aren’t you?