Monty Python's Brand New Papperbok
The page written for people who dislike anagrams 1
The announcement for people who like figures of speech 1
HOW YOUR BODY WORKS by A. NOTHER DOCTOR 1
FEAR NO MAN (Advertisement) 2
Travel Agent 3
The page written for people who dislike anagrams
Transcribed 2/1/88 from "Monty Python's Brand New Papperbok"
Hello, and welcome to a page written entirely for people who dislike anagrams. Hi, anagram-haters everywhere! Down with
all words or phrases formed with the letters of another! This page is specially dedicated to all who hate and despise the
pathetic practice of shuffling letters to form different meanings. Let us make one thing clear from the start, there will be no
anagrams on this page at all. None whatsoever. So any anagram lovers can just turn to their own page, where they will find
their pathetic practice sufficiently catered for. We want none of you here. For too long we anti-anagrammatists have had to
put up with the smugness of those who possess the reprehensible ability to perceive concealed meanings hidden in words or
phrases. Now no more; this page is guaranteed free from anagrams. So just you put your feet up and relax without worrying
whether you are reading concealed anagrams or not. Don't you just hate those bores who can crack an anagram faster than
they can pour the irate? I'm sorry. That wasn't an anagram. It was a typing error. It should of course have read 'I rate her
pout'. Oh dear. I'm sorry again. That wasn't a typing error. It was a printer's slip. The phrase 'heat our tripe' should have read
'I rape her tout'. Oh golly. Sorry. I'm afraid that owing to a mistake in the proof-reading the phrase 'rip her eat out' has been
wrongly corrected to 'ripe teat hour'. It should of course have read 'at trip out here'. Oh crikey. I'm terribly sorry but the
phrase 'our pi theatre' which we wrongly informed you was 'the route pair' should have been printed 'rather I toupe'' and not
'ripe hate hour'. Oh no. Drat the bally thing. I'm most frightfully sorry but the phrase 'Report the A.U.I.' has been wrongly
given as 'therapeutior', when it should quite obviously have read 'opiate hurter'.
Anagrams - A statement
It looks very much as though this page written especially for people who dislike anagrams has been sabotaged. It appears that
someone has infiltrated the text at a crucial stage and tampered with the words, so that certain phrases have been red teal (7).
We apologise to all haters of anagrams for the annoyance. It's all very ira tit gin r (10). But there you ear (3). What can neo
od? (3-2). We are taking legal pests (5) to tup (3) the matter right but until then we can only loose a pig (9). The Tiredo (6).
The announcement for people who like figures of speech
Transcribed 2/1/88 from "Monty Python's Brand New Papperbok"
Because of the Anagrams dispute it has been decided to devote the rest of this space to a page specially written for people
who like figures of speech, for the not a few fans of litotes, and those with no small interest in meiosis, for the infinite
millions of hyperbole-lovers, for those fond of hypallage, and the epithet's golden transfer, for those who fall willingly into
the arms of the metaphor, those who give up the ghost, bury their heads in the sand and ride roughshod over the mixed
metaphor, and even those of hyperbaton the friends. It will be too, for those who reprehend the malapropism; who love the
wealth of metonymy; for all friends of rhetoric and syllepsis; and zeugmatists with smiling eyes and hearts. It will bring a
large absence of unsatisfactory malevolence to periphrastic fans; a wig harm bello to spoonerists; and in no small measure a
not less than splendid greeting to you circumlocutors. The World adores prosopopeiasts, and the friendly faces of
synechdotists, and can one not make those amorous of anacoluthon understand that if they are not satisfied by this, what is
to happen to them? It will attempt to really welcome all splitters of infinitives, all who are Romeo and Juliet to antonomasia,
those who drink up similes like sparkling champagne, who losenothing compared with comparison heads, self-evident
axiomists, all pithy aphorists, apothegemists, maximiles, theorists, epigrammatists and even gnomists. And as for the lovers
of aposiopesis -- ! It will wish bienvenu to all classical adherents of euphuism, all metathesistic birds, golden paranomasiasts
covered in guilt, fallacious paralogists, trophists, anagogists, and anaphorists; to greet, welcome, embrace asyndeton buffs,
while the lovers of ellipsis will be well-met and its followers embraced, as will be chronic worshippers of catachresis and
supporters of anastrophe the world over.
**** end of file ANAGRAM PYTHON 5/13/88 ****
HOW YOUR BODY WORKS by A. NOTHER DOCTOR
Transcribed 2/28/88 from Monty Python's Brand New Papperbok
The human body is indeed a wonderul thing. Its infinitely complex way of functioning would take a computer, working flat
out, day and night, excluding Bank Holidays and Christmas, 3,971 years to work out. The slightest flicker of the eyelid, the
smallest movement of the big toe, involves such extraordinarily complex processes that the average man, working flat out,
excluding Bank Holidays and Christmas, but *including* weekends, would take 84,643 light years to work it out. If you can
imagine an Airedale terrier jumping in and out of a watering can once every 7 minutes for 12 years you have some idea how
long that would take. And that's only one light year.
Even the most simple process that the body can perform -- like paying the doctor -- would take a piece of asbestos over 9
billion years to work out. If you can imagine a man at a cocktail party congratulating the hostess on the avocado dip 40,000
times every second for 2 1/2 hours twice a week for 28,000 years you can begin to realise what an extraordinarily wonderful
thing the human body is.
To put it even more simply, if you can imagine a doctor leaving his lucrative Harley St. practice to a younger partner, and
cruising round the world 4 times a year, drinking 3 bottles of champagne with a friend's wife every afternoon, and writing an
article on How Your Body Works once every 96 days, you'll get some idea of why I was struck off the register. Good
**** end of file BODY PYTHON 2/28/88 ****
FEAR NO MAN (Advertisement)
From Monty Python's Brand New Papperbok
FEAR NO MAN!
I'll make you a MASTER of LLAP-Goch, ...the Secret Welsh ART of SELF DEFENCE that requires NO INTELLIGENCE,
STRENGTH or PHYSICAL courage. The FANTASTIC SECRETS of the SECRET world-famous method of SELF
DEFENCE, kept secret for centuries because of their DEADLY POWER to MAIM, KILL, SMASH, BATTER,
FRACTURE, CRUSH, DISMEMBER, CRACK, DISEMBOWEL, CRIPPLE, SNAP and HARM are now revealed to YOU
in the English Language by a LLAP-GOCH master AT HIS OWN RISK, PROVIDED you promise to MAIM, CRUSH,
DISEMBOWEL and so on ONLY in SELF DEFENCE. (This is just to cover ourselves, as you will understand.)
WHY "At his own risk?"
BECAUSE if his fellow masters of LLAP-GOCH DISCOVER his IDENTITY, they will PUNISH HIM SEVERELY for
revealing the DEADLY secrets he had promised to keep SECRET, without giving them a piece of the ACTION, and also
BECAUSE of the TERRIBLE risk of PUNISHMENT he runs under the Trades Description Act.
WHAT is LLAP-GOCH?
IT is THE most DEADLY form OF SECRET self-DEFENCE that HAS ever been widely advertised and available to
WHY ALL the CAPITALS?
Because THE most likely kind OF person TO answer THIS sort OF advertisement HAS less trouble under-STANDING
words if they ARE written in BIG letters.
WHAT is LLAP-GOCH again?
It is an ANCIENT Welsh ART based on a BRILLIANTLY simple I-D-E-A, which is a SECRET. The best form of
DEFENCE is ATTACK (Clausewitz) and the most VITAL element of ATTACK is SURPRISE (Oscar HAMMERstein).
Therefore, the BEST way to protect yourself AGAINST any ASSAILANT is to ATTACK him before he attacks YOU... Or
BETTER... BEFORE the THOUGHT of doing so has EVEN OCCURRED TO HIM!!! SO YOU MAY BE ABLE TO
RENDER YOUR ASSAILANT UNCONSCIOUS BEFORE he is EVEN aware of your very existence!
No longer need you feel WEAK, helpless, INDECISIVE, NOT fascinating and ASHAMED of your genital dimensions. No
more need you be out-manoeuvred in political debate!! GOOD BYE HUMILIATION, wisecracking bullies, Karate experts,
boxing champions, sarcastic vicars, traffic wardens; entire panzer divisions will melt to pulp as you master every situation
without INADEQUACY. PROTECT YOUR LOVED ONES. You will no longer look pitiful and spotty to your GIRL
FRIENDS when you leave some unsuspecting passerby looking like four tins of cat food! They will admire your MASTERY
and DECISIVENESS and LACK OF INADEQUACY and will almost certainly let you put your HAND inside their
BLOUSE out of sheer ADMIRATION. And after seeing more of your expert disabling they'll almost definately go to bed
with you, although obviously we can't ABSOLUTELY guarantee this, still it's extremely likely and would make learning
LLAP-GOCH really worthwhile although legally we can't PROMISE anything.
Why WELSH Art?
LLAP-GOCH was developed in Wales because for the average Welshman, the best prospects of achieving a reasonable
standard of living lie with the acquisition of the most efficient techniques of armed robbery.
HOW do I learn?
No, you mean "How do YOU Learn." I know already.
HOW do You Learn?
You receive ABSOLUTELY FREE your own special personal LLAP-GOCH Picture Book with hundreds of
PHOTOGRAPHS and just a very few plain, clear and simple, easy to understand words. Only a FOUR-SECOND WORK-
OUT Each Day! And you will be ready to HARM people!
* DEVELOP UP TO 38" BICEPS
* GROW UP TO 12" TALLER
* LOSE UP TO 40" OF FAT IN YOUR FIRST WORK-OUT!
* PROLONG YOUR LIFE BY UP TO 1,000 YEARS
* GO TO BED WITH UP TO ANY LUDICROUS NUMBER OF GIRLS YOU CARE TO THINK OF PROVIDING YOU
REALIZE THIS STATEMENT IS QUITE MEANINGLESS AS THE PHRASE "UP TO" CLEARLY INCLUDES THE
WHAT Does it Cost?
This, like LLAP-GOCH, is a SECRET but you will find out sooner or later, don't worry. MAIL DARING HAIR-RAISING
MONEY-SAVING HALF-PRICE NO-RISK FREE-TRIAL COUPON NOW!
O.K. Hounourable Master, I accept your daring, hair-raising, mindboggling, blood-curdling, no-risk, half-price, free-trial offer
to reveal the secrets of LLAP-GOCH in a plain wrapper at once. Yes Master, I never again want to be 'Weak In The Knees'
and 'Chicken Out' and 'Wet My Pants' when insulted and attacked. I agree never to abuse the principles of LLAP-GOCH or
consult a lawyer. I am over 4. I have an extra Y chromosome. Bill me later. I understand that if I am not completely satisfied I
have been had.
NAME _________________ AGE __ ADDRESS _____________
CITY _______________ STATE ____________ ZIP _______
Please also enroll me under your special Car Insurance Scheme. I understand that I do not have to sign anything to make this
completely binding to me.
**** end of file LLAPGOCH PYTHON 5/10/87 ****
From the third series of Monty Python's Flying Circus
From his copy of "Monty Python's Brand New Papperbok"
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 Continentales 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 diarrhoea 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 colour 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 realise 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 plagues 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...
**** end of file TOUR PYTHON 3/28/88 ****
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