python travel agent sketch

Monty Python's Travel Agent Sketch

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Monty Python's Flying Circus! presents From Episode 31: "The All-England Summerize Proust Competition" The Travel Agent Sketch (Fade up on close up of picture of Everest. Pull back to reveal travel agent's office.) Bounder: (MICHAEL) Mount Everest, forbidding, aloof, terrifying. The highest place on earth. No I'm sorry we don't go there. No. (By the time Bounder is saying his last sentence the camera has revealed the office and Bounder himself sitting at a desk. Bounder now replaces the telephone into which he has been speaking. After a pause the tourist -- Mr Smoke-Too-Much -- enters the office and approaches Mr Bounder's secretary.) Tourist: (ERIC) Good morning. Secretary: (CAROL) Oh good morning. (sexily) Do you want to go upstairs? Tourist: What? Secretary: (sexily) Do you want to go upstairs? (brightly) 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 speak to Mr Bounder about that. Mr Bounder, this gentleman is interested in the India Overland. (Tourist walks over to Bounder's desk where he is greeted by Bounder.) Bounder: Ah. Good morning. I'm Bounder of Adventure. Tourist: My name is Smoke-Too-Much. Bounder: What? Tourist: My name is Smoke-Too-Much. Mr Smoke-Too-Much. Bounder: Well, you'd better cut down a bit then. Tourist: What? Bounder: You'd better cut down a bit then. Tourist: Oh I see! Cut down a bit, for Smoke-Too-Much. Bounder: Yes, ha ha ... I expect you get people making jokes about your name all the time, eh? Tourist: No, no actually. Actually, it never struck me before. Smoke ...Too...Much! Bounder: Anyway, you're interested in one of our adventure holidays, eh? 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 spoolboy. I was attacked by a bat. Bounder: A cat? Tourist: No a bat. Bounder: Can you say the letter 'K'? Tourist: Oh yes. Khaki, king, kettle, Kuwait, Keble Bollege Oxford. Bounder: Why don't you use the letter 'K' instead of the letter 'C'? Tourist: What you mean ... spell bolour with a 'K'? Bounder: Yes. Tourist: Kolour. Oh, that's very good, I never thought of that. Bounder: Anyway, about the holiday. Tourist: Well I saw your adverts in the paper and I've been on package tours several times, you see, and I decided that this was for me. Bounder: Ah good. Tourist: Yes I quite agree with you, I mean what's the point of being treated like a sheep, I mean I'm fed up going abroad and being treated like a sheep, what's the point of being carted around in busses, surrounded by sweaty mindless oafs from Kettering and Boventry in their cloth caps and their cardigans and their transistor radios and their 'Sunday Mirrors', complaining about the tea, 'Oh they don't make it properly here do they not like at home' stopping at Majorcan bodegas, selling fish and chips and Watney's Red Barrel and calamares and two veg and sitting in cotton sun frocks squirting Timothy White's suncream all over their puffy raw swollen purulent flesh cos they 'overdid it on the first day'! Bounder: (agreeing patiently) Yes. Absolutely, yes, I quite agree... Tourist: And being herded into endless Hotel Miramars and Bellevueses and Bontinentals with their international luxury modern roomettes and their Watney's Red Barrel and their swimming pools full of fat German businessmen pretending to be acrobats and forming pyramids and frightening the children and barging in to the queues and if you're not at your table spot on seven you miss your bowl of Campbell's Cream of Mushroom soup, the first item on the menu of International Cuisine, and every Thursday night there's bloody cabaret in the bar featuring some tiny emaciated dago with nine-inch hips and some big fat bloated tart with her hair Brylcreemed down and a big arse presenting Flamenco for Foreigners. Bounder: (beginning to get fed up) Yes, yes, now... Tourist: And then some adenoidal typists from Birmingham with diarrhoea and flabby white legs and hairy bandy-legged wop waiters called Manuel, and then, once a week there's an excursion to the local Roman ruins where you can buy cherryade and melted ice cream and bleedin' Watney's Red Barrel, and then one night they take you to a local restaurant with local color and coloring and they show you there and you sit next to a party of people from Rhyl who keeps singing 'Torremolinos, Torremolinos', and complaining about the food, 'Oh! It's so greasy isn't it?' and then you get cornered by some drunken greengrocer from Luton with an Instamatic and Dr Scholl sandals and Tuesday's 'Daily Express' and he drones 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 all over the Cuban Libres. Bounder: Will you be quiet please. Tourist: And sending tinted postcards of places they don't know they haven't even visited, 'to all at number 22, weather wonderful our room is marked with an "X". Wish you were here.' Bounder: Shut up. Tourist: 'Food very greasy but we have managed to find this marvellous little place hidden away in the back streets.' Bounder: Shut up! Tourist: 'Where you can even get Watney's Red Barrel and cheese and onion...' Bounder: Shut up!!! Tourist: '...crisps and the accordionist plays "Maybe its because I'm a Londoner"' and spending four days on the tarmac at Lutton airport on a five-day package tour with nothing to eat but dried Watney's sandwiches... Bounder: Shut your bloody gob! I've had enough of this, I'm going to ring the police. (He dials and waits. Cut to a corner of a police station. One policeman is knitting, another is making a palm tree out of old newspapers. The phone rings.) Knitting Policeman: Oh...take it off the hook. (they do so) (Cut back to the travel agent's office. The man is still going on, the travel agent looks crossly at the phone and puts it down. Then picks it up and dials again.) Bounder: Hello, operator, operator...I'm trying to get the police... the police yes, what? (takes his shoe off and looks inside) nine and a half, nine and a half, yes, yes...I see...well can you keep trying please... (Through all this the tourist is going on:) Tourist: ...and there's nowhere to sleep and the kids are vomiting and throwing up on the plastic flowers and they keep telling you it'll only be another hour although your plane is still in Iceland waiting to take some Swedes to Yugoslavia before it can pick you up on the tarmac at 3 a.m. in the bloody morning and you sit on the tarmac until six because of 'unforeseen difficulties', i.e. the permanent strike of the Air Traffic Control in Paris, and nobody can go to the lavatory until you take off at eight, and when you get to Malaga airport everybody's swallowing Enterovioform tablets and queuing for the toilets and when you finally get to the hotel there's no water in the taps, there's no water in the pool, there's no water in the bog and there's only a bleeding lizard in the bidet, and half the rooms are double-booked and you can't sleep anyway... (The secretary comes in and looks into the camera.) Secretary: Oh! Sorry to keep you waiting...will you come this way please... (The camera follows her as she leads us out of the office, with agent and client still rabbiting on, down a short passage to a documentary interview set where the two participants are sitting waiting. We follow her into the set.) Secretary: Here they are. (she turns to the camera again, which moves a little towards her, as if waiting to be summoned) Just here will do fine! Goodbye. --------------------------------------------------------------------------------

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Monty Python on the irritations of package tourism

A 1972 Monty Python sketch called “ Travel Agent ” contains a classic scene where the Eric Idle character goes on an over-the-top rant about package tourism, at the expense of Michael Palin’s travel-agent character. Many of the references are dated now — and the whole scene is drenched in hyperbole — but many of the frustrations of overly structured group-travel still ring true. Here’s the rant in full:

“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 Coventry in their cloth caps and their cardigans and their transistor radios and their Sunday Mirrors , complaining 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 calamares 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.” And being herded into endless Hotel Miramars and Bellvueses and Continentals 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.” And adenoidal typists from Birmingham with flabby white legs and diarrhea trying to pick up hairy bandy-legged wop waiters called Manuel and once a week there’s an excursion to the local Roman remains 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 color 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 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 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. And sending tinted postcards, of places they don’t realize they haven’t even visited, to: “All at number 22, weather wonderful, our room is marked with an ‘X’. Food very greasy but we’ve found a charming little local place hidden away in the back streets where they serve Watney’s Red Barrel and cheese and onion crisps and the accordionist plays ‘Maybe it’s because I’m a Londoner’.” And spending four days on the tarmac at Luton airport on a five-day package tour with nothing to eat but dried BEA-type sandwiches and you can’t even get a drink of Watney’s Red Barrel because you’re still in England and the bloody bar closes every time you’re thirsty and there’s nowhere to sleep and the kids are crying and vomiting and breaking the plastic ash-trays and they keep telling you it’ll only be another hour although your plane is still in Iceland and has to take some Swedes to Yugoslavia before it can load you up at 3 a.m. in the bloody morning and you sit on the tarmac till six because of “unforeseen difficulties”, i.e. the permanent strike of Air Traffic Control in Paris — and nobody can go to the lavatory until you take off at 8, and when you get to Malaga airport everybody’s swallowing “enterovioform” and queuing for the toilets and queuing for the armed customs officers, and queuing for the bloody bus that isn’t there to take you to the hotel that hasn’t yet been finished. And when you finally get to the half-built Algerian ruin called the Hotel del Sol by paying half your holiday money to a licensed bandit in a taxi you find there’s no water in the pool, there’s no water in the taps, there’s no water in the bog and there’s only a bleeding lizard in the bidet. And half the rooms are double booked and you can’t sleep anyway because of the permanent twenty-four-hour drilling of the foundations of the hotel next door — and you’re plagued by appalling apprentice chemists from Ealing pretending to be hippies, and middle-class stockbrokers’ wives busily buying identical holiday villas in suburban development plots just like Esher, in case the Labour government gets in again, and fat American matrons with sloppy-buttocks and Hawaiian-patterned ski pants looking for any mulatto male who can keep it up long enough when they finally let it all flop out. And the Spanish Tourist Board promises you that the raging cholera epidemic is merely a case of mild Spanish tummy, like the previous outbreak of Spanish tummy in 1660 which killed half London and decimated Europe — and meanwhile the bloody Guardia are busy arresting sixteen-year-olds for kissing in the streets and shooting anyone under nineteen who doesn’t like Franco. And then on the last day in the airport lounge everyone’s comparing sunburns, drinking Nasty Spumante, buying cartons of duty free “cigarillos” and using up their last pesetas on horrid dolls in Spanish National costume and awful straw donkeys and bullfight posters with your name on “Ordoney, El Cordobes and Brian Pules of Norwich” and 3-D pictures of the Pope and Kennedy and Franco, and everybody’s talking about coming again next year and you swear you never will although there you are tumbling bleary-eyed out of a tourist-tight antique Iberian airplane…”

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Firing Squad

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Firing Squad is the sixth segment of the episode " The Cycling Tour ."

Synopsis [ ]

Back at the hotel, Mr. Pither ( Michael Palin ) checks in on Gulliver ( Terry Jones ) but is told by the desk clerk ( Terry Gilliam ) that he has gone to Moscow. Pither sees three secret-looking policemen ( Graham Chapman , Eric Idle , John Cleese ) behind him, who not-so-nonchalantly reveal that they are planning to take him to Moscow where Trotsky is, but tell him they're taking him to a clambake.

In Moscow at the 42nd international clambake, a Soviet general (Cleese) introduces Mr Pither, and announces he'll be carrying on in English to save time. He also introduces Trotsky, and Gulliver, dressed up identical to Trotsky, walks to the front, greeting his audience and gives a strange seductive performance. Pither deduces he's had another change of personality, this time as Eartha Kitt. The Soviet general accuses him of tricking them into believing this is Trotsky, so they throw him into a cell, severely damaging his Mars bar.

He is then brought out to an exercise yard, where several Russians are lined up in front of him, holding rifles. Their commanding officer (Cleese) offers Mr. Pither a cigarette and blindfold but he politely declines. As the commanding officer prepares to give the order, a messenger (Chapman) arrives with a telegram. The commanding officer reads it, ordering him to carry on with the execution. Unfortunately, when the soldiers fire, they somehow miss, one soldier ( Eric Idle ) claiming Pither moved. The commanding officer then orders them to practise before sending Mr. Pither back to his cell (where he discovers his Crunchie is surprisingly intact).

He is almost about to eat his Crunchie when he is brought back out into the exercise yard, only for the soldiers to end up shooting themselves, and is sent back into his cell with the commanding officer determined to get him next time. While the soldiers practise, Mr. Pither falls asleep before finding himself at a house, where his mother (Idle) wakes him up. Upon seeing her, Mr. Pither is relieved the whole thing was a dream, but his mother tells him that he is dreaming and is still in the cell. Mr. Pither soon wakes up in his cell where the commanding officer is determined to have him executed, after learning his men were aiming in the wrong position. Mr. Pither then shows him where the rifle's sight is where he should look down before he is dragged out.

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