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John Cleese did present the following opening speech
at the Chapman tribute, two months after Graham’s death:�
“Graham Chapman, co-author of the ‘Parrot Sketch,’ is no more.
He has ceased to be, bereft of life, he rests
in peace, he has kicked the bucket, hopped the twig, bit the dust, snuffed it,
breathed his last, and gone to meet the Great Head of Light Entertainment in the
sky, and I guess that we’re all thinking how sad it is that a man of such
talent, such capability and kindness, of such intelligence should now be so
suddenly spirited away at the age of only forty-eight, before he’d achieved many
of the things of which he was capable, and before he’d had enough fun.
Well, I feel that I should say, “Nonsense.
�Good riddance to him, the �freeloading bastard! �I hope he fries. ” �
And the reason I think I should say this is,
he would never forgive me if I didn’t, if I threw away this opportunity to shock
you all on his behalf. �Anything for him but mindless good taste. �I could hear
him whispering in my ear last night as I was writing this:
“Alright,
Cleese, you’re very proud of being the first person to ever say ‘shit’ on
television. �If this service is really for me, just for starters, I want you to
be the first person ever at a British memorial service to say ‘fuck’!“
You
see, the trouble is, I can’t. If he were here with me now I would probably have
the courage, because he always emboldened me. But the truth is, I lack his
balls, his splendid defiance. And so I’ll have to content myself instead with
saying ‘Betty Mardsen…’
But Bolder and less inhibited spirits than me
follow today. Jones and Idle, Gilliam and Palin. Heaven knows what the next hour
will bring in Graham’s name. Trousers Dropping, blasphemers on pogo sticks,
spectacular displays of high-speed farting, synchronised incest.
One
of the four is planning to stuff a dead ocelot and a 1922 Remington typewriter
up his own arse to the sound of the second movement of Elgar’s cello concerto.
And that’s in the first half.
Because you see, Gray would have wanted it
this way. Really. Anything for him but mindless good taste. And that’s what I’ll
always remember about him—apart, of course, from his Olympian extravagance. He
was the prince of bad taste. He loved to shock. In fact, Gray, more than anyone
I knew, embodied and symbolised all that was most offensive and juvenile in
Monty Python. And his delight in shocking people led him on to greater and
greater feats. I like to think of him as the pioneering beacon that beat the
path along which fainter spirits could follow.
Some memories. I remember writing the
undertaker speech with him, and him suggesting the punch line, ‘All right, we’ll
eat her, but if you feel bad about it afterwards, we’ll dig a grave and you can
throw up into it.’ I remember discovering in 1969, when we wrote every day at
the flat where Connie Booth and I lived, that he’d recently discovered the game
of printing four-letter words on neat little squares of paper, and then
quietly
placing them at strategic points around our flat, forcing Connie and me into
frantic last minute paper chases whenever we were expecting important guests.
I remember him at BBC parties crawling around
on all fours, rubbing himself affectionately against the legs of gray-suited
executives, and delicately nibbling the more appetizing female calves. Mrs. Eric
Morecambe remembers that too.
I
remember his being invited to speak at the Oxford union, and entering the
chamber dressed as a carrot—a full length orange tapering costume with a
large, bright green sprig as a hat—-and then, when his turn came to speak,
refusing to do so. He just stood there, literally speechless, for twenty
minutes, smiling beatifically. The only time in world history that a totally
silent man has succeeded in inciting a riot.
I remember Graham receiving a
Sun newspaper TV
award from Reggie Maudling. Who else! And taking the trophy falling to
the ground and crawling all the way back to his table, screaming loudly, as
loudly as he could. And if you remember Gray, that was very loud indeed.
It is magnificent, isn’t it? You see, the
thing about shock… is not that it upsets some people, I think; I think that it
gives others a momentary joy of liberation, as we realised in that instant that
the social rules that constrict our lives so terribly are not actually very
important.
Well, Gray can’t do that for us anymore. He’s
gone. He is an ex-Chapman. All we have of him now is our memories. But it will
be some time before they fade.”
