Monty Python's Flying Circus quotes

Excuse me, are you suggesting eating my mother?

Well, yeah. Not raw, cooked!

What?

Roasted, few french fries, broccoli, horsheradish sauce. [licks lips]

Well... I do feel a bit peckish.

Great!

Can we have some parsnips?

[calls out behind the desk] Get some parsnips!

I really don't think I should...

Look, we'll eat her, and if you're feeling a bit guilty about it afterwards, we'll dig a grave and you can throw up in it!

[knocks on Jean-Paul Sartre's room's door] Coo-ee! Jean-Paul? Jean-Paul! It's only us. Oh, pardon...c'est même nous.

[opens door] Oui.

Jean-Paul. Your famous trilogy Rues à Liberté: is it an allegory of man's search for commitment?

Oui.

I told you so.

Oh, coitus.

What do you want?

Well I was told outside...

Don't give me that you snotty-faced heap of parrot droppings!

What?

Shut your festering gob you tit! Your type makes me puke! You vacuous toffee-nosed malodorous pervert!

Look, I came here for an argument!

[apologetic] Oh, I'm sorry. This is abuse. No, you want room 12A next door.

I see, sorry!

Not at all. [the man exits] Stupid git.

Look, if I argue with you, I must take up a contrary position.

Yes, but that's not just saying "No it isn't."

Yes it is!

No it isn't!

You are hereby charged where you did willfully take part in a strange sketch. That is a skit, spoof, or humorous vignette of an unconventional nature, with intent to cause grievous mental confusion to the Great British public.

ARE YOU THE BRAIN SPECIALIST?

HELLO!

ARE YOU THE BRAIN SPECIALIST?

NO! NO I AM NOT THE BRAIN SPECIALIST. NO, NO I AM NOT...YES, YES I AM!

MY BRAIN HURTS!

WELL LET'S TAKE A LOOK AT IT, MR GUMBY! [starts to open trousers]

NO NO, THE BRAIN IN MY HEAD!

AHH! [hits Mr. Gumby's head a few times] IT WILL HAVE TO COME OUT!

OUT? OF MY HEAD?

YES! ALL THE BITS OF IT. NURSE! NUUURRSE! NUUUURSE! [nurse appears] NUUUURSE! NUUUURSE! [spots her and starts] NURSE, TAKE MR GUMBY TO A BRAIN SURGEON!

Yes, doctor.

WHERE'S THE LANCET? WHERE'S THE BLOODY LANCET! [rubs his head] MY BRAIN HURTS TOO!

There is only one thing in the world worse than being witty, and that is not being witty.

I wish I had said that.

You will, Oscar, you will.

Your Majesty, have you met James McNeill Whistler?

Yes, we played squash together.

There is only one thing worse than playing squash together, and that is playing it by yourself.

I wish I hadn't said that.

You did, Oscar, you did. [more laughter from the party]

Your Majesty is like a big jam doughnut, with cream on the top.

[confused] I beg your pardon?

Um...it-it was one of Whistler's!

I never said that!

[smugly] You did, James, you did.

Your Highness, you are also like a stream of bat's piss.

[insulted] What?!

[gesturing towards Wilde] It was one of Wilde's, one of Wilde's.

[shouting] It sodding was not! It was Shaw!

[taken aback] I-I merely meant, Your Majesty, that you shine out like a shaft of gold, when all around is dark.

[to Whistler] Right! Right?

[looking at Shaw] Smart arse.

Your Majesty is like a dose of clap.

Before you arrive is pleasure, and after is a pain in the dong.

[outraged] WHAT?!

...you bastards! Um, what I meant, Your Majesty...what I meant...

We've got him, Jim!

Come on, Shaw-ry!

Go on, Shaw-ry!

[stammering] I merely meant--

[shouting] COME ON, SHAW-RY!

Let's have a bit of the old wit then, Bern!

Come on, Shaw-ry!

Hello, Mrs Premise.

Hello, Mrs Conclusion.

Busy day?

Busy! I've just spent four hours burying the cat.

Four hours to bury a cat?

Yes, it wouldn't keep still. Wriggling about, howling its head off.

Oh - it wasn't dead then?

Well, no, no, but it's not at all a well cat. So, as we were going away for a fortnight's holiday, I thought I'd better bury it just to be on the safe side.

Quite right. You don't want to come back from Sorento to a dead cat. It'd be so anticlimactic. Yes, kill it now, that's what I say.

Yes.

We're going to have our budgie put down.

Really? Is it very old?

No. We just don't like it.

Father Pierre, why did you stay on in this colonial Campari-land where the clink of glasses mingles with the murmur of a million mosquitoes, where waterfalls of whisky wash away the worries of a world-weary Whicker, where gin and tonic jingle in a gyroscopic jubilee of something beginning with J? Father Pierre, why did you stay on here?

[putting on a pair of Whicker-style glasses] Well, mainly for the interviews.

Mrs. Nigger-Baiter's exploded!

Good thing, too.

She was my best friend!

Oh, don't be so sentimental, mother. Things explode everyday.

Tschaikowsky: Was he the tortured soul who poured out his immortal longings into dignified passages of stately music, or was he just an old poof who wrote tunes?

The BBC wishes to deny rumors that it is going into liquidation. Mrs. Kelly, who owns the flat where they live, has said that they can stay on till the end of the month... [is handed a piece of paper] and we've just heard that Huw Wheldon's watch has been accepted by the London Electricity Board and transmissions for this evening can be continued as planned. [coughs and pulls the blanket tighter round his shoulders] That's all from me so...goodnight.

Are you going to be in there all night?

It's just a bulletin, Mr. Kelly...and now back to the story.

Commence!

All right!

Well there's rat cake ... rat sorbet... rat pudding... or strawberry tart.

Strawberry tart?!

Well it's got some rat in it.

How much?

Three, rather a lot really.

... well, I'll have a slice without so much rat in it.