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You're No Fun Anymore

[BREATHING HEAVILY]

Whoa!

MAN: It's...

MEN: It's...

It's...!

MAN: No, no. It's...

MEN: It's...

It's...

ANNOUNCER: Monty Python's Flying Circus.

Good evening. Tonight we're going to take a hard, tough, abrasive look at camel spotting.

-Hello. -Hello, Peter.

Now, tell me, what exactly are you doing?

Uh, well, I'm camel spotting.

I'm spotting to see if there are any camels that I can spot and put them down in my camel-spotting book.

Good. And, uh, how many camels have you spotted so far?

Uh, well, so far, Peter, up to the present moment,

I've spotted nearly... ooh...

-nearly one. -Nearly one?

-Uh, call it none. -Fine.

-And, uh, how long have you been here? -Uh, three years.

So in, uh, three years you've spotted no camels?

Yes, in only three years.

Uh, I tell a lie, four. Be fair, five.

I've been camel spotting for just the seven years.

Before that, of course, I was a yeti spotter.

A yeti spotter. That must have been extremely interesting.

Oh, it was extremely interesting.

Very, very, uh, quite--

It was dull.

Dull, dull, dull--

Oh, God, it was dull.

Sitting in the Waterloo waiting room.

Of course, once you've seen one yeti, you've seen them all.

-And have you seen them all? -Well, I've seen one.

Well, a little one. A picture of a-- I've heard about them.

Well, now, tell me, what do you do when you spot a camel?

Uh, I take its number.

Uh, camels don't have numbers.

Oh, well, you've got to know where to look.

Uh, they're on the side of the engine above the piston box.

What?

Uh, of course you've got to make sure it's not a dromedary, because if it's a dromedary, it goes in the dromedary book.

Well, how do you tell if it's a dromedary?

Uh, well, a dromedary has one hump, and a camel has a refreshment car, buffet and ticket collector.

Uh, Mr. Sopwith, aren't you in fact a train spotter?

-What? -Don't you in fact spot trains?

Oh, you're no fun anymore.

[♪]

SOLDIER: Oh, no, Rasheed, we can't go on meeting like this.

RASHEED: Oh, you're no fun anymore.

Oh, you're no fun anymore.

LASHER: Thirty-nine, forty.

All right, cut him down, Mr. Fuller.

Oh, you're no fun anymore.

Now, look, if anybody else pinches my phrase,

I'll throw them under a camel.

If you can spot one.

[SPITS, SNICKERS]

Aww.

Lady Chairman, sir, shareholders, ladies and gentlemen.

I have great pleasure in announcing that owing to a cutback on surplus expenditure of 12 million Canadian dollars, plus a refund of seven and a half million Deutschmarks from the Swiss branch, and in addition adding the debenture preference stock of 3.75 million to the director's reserve currency account of 7.5 million, plus an upward expenditure margin of 11,500 lira due to a rise in capital investment of 10 million pounds, this firm last year made a complete profit of a shilling.

A shilling, Wilkins?

Uh, roughly, yes, sir.

Wilkins, I am the chairman of a multimillion-pound corporation, and you are a very new chartered accountant.

Isn't it possible there may have been some mistake?

That's very kind of you, but I'm not ready to be chairman.

Wilkins. Wilkins, this shilling, is it net or gross?

-It's British, sir. -Yes.

Has tax been paid on it?

Yes, this is after tax. Owing to the rigorous bite of the income tax, five pence of a further sixpence was swallowed up in tax.

Five pence of a further sixpence?

-Yes, sir. -Five pence of a further sixpence?

That's right, sir.

Then where is the other penny?

Uh...

That makes you a penny short, Wilkins. Where is it?

-Uh... -Wilkins?

I embezzled it, sir.

What? All of it?

-Yes, all of it. -You naughty person.

[CRYING]

It's my first. Please be gentle with me.

I'm afraid it's my unpleasant duty to inform you that you're fired.

-Oh, please, please. -No, out!

Yes, there's no place for sentiment in big business.

Oh, you're no fun anymore.

I heard that. Who said that?

-Uh, he did! He did! -Oh, no, I didn't.

ALL: Ooh!

Right.

[TRAIN WHISTLE BLOWS]

ANNOUNCER: Here is the address to complain to.

The Royal Frog Trampling Institute,

16 Rayners Lane, London, W.C. Fields.

I'll just repeat that.

Tristram and Isolde Phillips,

7:30, Covent Garden, Saturday, near Sunday,

and afterwards at the Inigo Jones Fish Emporium.

They want to put the license fee up?

And now here is a reminder

about leaving your radio on during the night.

Leave your radio on during the night.

A little joke, a little jest.

Nothing to worry about, ladies and gentlemen.

Now we've got some science fiction for you, some sci-fi, something to send the shivers up your spine, send the creepy crawlies down your lager and limes.

All the lads have contributed to it.

It's a little number entitled: "Science Fiction Sketch."

[APPLAUDS]

NARRATOR: The universe consists of a billion, billion galaxies.

Seventy-seven billion miles across.

And every galaxy is made up of a billion, zillion stars.

And around these stars circle a billion planets.

And of all of these planets, the greenest and the pleasantest

is the planet Earth,

in the system of Sol, in the galaxy known as the Milky Way.

And it was to this world that creatures of an alien planet came

to conquer and destroy the very heart of civilization.

It was a day like many another,

and Mr. and Mrs. Samuel Brainsample

were a perfectly ordinary couple,

leading perfectly ordinary lives.

The sort of people to whom nothing extraordinary ever happened

and not the kind of people to be the center

of one of the most astounding incidents

in the history of mankind.

So let's forget about them and follow instead the destiny of this man.

Harold Potter, gardener and tax official,

first victim of creatures from another planet.

[♪]

[BAGPIPE MUSIC PLAYING]

NEWS VENDOR: Read all about it! Read all about it!

Man turns into Scotsman!

Mrs. Potter, you knew Mr. Potter quite well, I believe?

Oh, yes, quite well. He was me husband.

Yeah, and, uh, he never showed any inclination towards being a Scotsman before this happened?

No, no. Not at all. He was not that sort of person.

He didn't, uh, wear a kilt or play the bagpipes?

No, no, no, no.

He never got drunk at night or brought home black puddings?

No, no. Not at all.

He didn't have an inadequate brain capacity?

No, no. Not at all.

I see. So by your account,

Harold Potter was a perfectly ordinary Englishman without any tendency towards being a Scotsman whatsoever?

Absolutely, yes.

Mind you, he did always watch Doctor Finlay on the television.

A-ha!

Well, that's it, you see. That's how it starts.

-I beg your pardon? -Well, you see,

"Scottishness" starts with little things like that and works up.

You see, people don't just turn into a Scotsman for no reason at all.

No further questions!

[BAGPIPE MUSIC PLAYING]

[PLAYING JAZZ MUSIC]

Ho!

Left-hut!

[BAGPIPE MUSIC PLAYING]

-Charles? -Darling.

Charles?

Darling, darling.

Charles, there's something I've got to tell you.

What is it, darling?

It's Daddy. He's turned into a Scotsman.

What? Mr. Llewellyn?

Yes, Charles. Help me, please help me.

But what can I do?

Well, surely, Charles, you're the chief scientist at the Anthropological Research Institute at Butley Down.

An expert in what makes people change from one nationality to another.

So I am.

This is right up my street.

Oh, good.

Now, first of all, why would anyone turn into a Scotsman?

Um, for-- for business reasons?

No, no. Only because he has no control over his own destiny.

Look, I'll show you.

-WOMAN: I see! -Yes.

So this means that some person, or persons unknown, is turning all these people into Scotsmen.

Oh, what kind of heartless fiend could do that to a man?

I don't know. I don't know.

All I know is that these people are streaming north of the border at the rate of thousands every hour.

If we don't act fast, Scotland will be choked with Scotsmen.

Ooh!

[BAGPIPE MUSIC PLAYING]

NARRATOR: Soon Scotland was full of Scotsmen.

The overcrowding was pitiful.

Three men to a caber.

[INDISTINCT MUMBLING]

[DOG BARKS IN DISTANCE]

For the few who remained, life was increasingly difficult.

[WHISTLE BLOWS]

[WHISTLE BLOWS]

Charles! Thank goodness I've found you. It's Mummy.

Hello, Mummy.

No, no. Mummy's turned into a Scotsman.

Oh, how horrible.

Will they stop at nothing?

I don't know, do you think they will?

I meant that rhetorically.

What does "rhetorically" mean?

It means I didn't expect an answer.

Oh, I see.

Oh, you're so clever, Charles.

Did Mummy say anything as she changed?

Yes. She did, now you come to mention it.

Well, what was it?

Oh, she said: "Them."

[♪]

Is that someone at the door?

No, it's just the incidental music for this scene.

Oh, I see.

"Them." Wait a minute.

A whole minute?

No, I meant that metaphorically.

Them. Them. She was obviously referring to the people who turned her into a Scotsman.

If only we knew who "they" were and why "they" were doing it.

Who are "them"?

NARRATOR: Then, suddenly, a clue turned up in Scotland.

Mr. Angus Podgorny, owner of a Dunbar menswear shop,

received an order for 48 million kilts

from the planet Skyron in the galaxy of Andromeda.

Angus, how are you going to get 48 million kilts into the van?

I'll have to do it in two goes.

Uh, do you not ken that the galaxy of Andromeda is 2,200,000 light years away?

-Is that so? -Aye.

And you've never been further than Berwick-on-Tweed.

Aye.

But think of the money, dear.

18.10 a kilt. That's...

900,000,000, and that's without sporrans.

Ah, I think you ought not to go, Angus.

Ah, we would be able to afford writing paper with our names on it.

We would be able to buy that extension to the toilet.

Yeah, but he hasn't signed the order yet, has he?

-Who? -Oh, the man from Andromeda.

Oh, well...

He wasn't, uh, really a man, do you ken?

Not really a man?

He was as strange a thing as ever I saw or ever I to hope to see, God willing.

He were a strange, unearthly creature.

A quivering, glistening mass.

Angus Podgorny, what do you mean?

He wasn't so much a man as a blancmange.

-A blancmange, eh? -WOMAN: Yes, that's right.

Uh, I was just having a game of doubles with Sandra and Jocasta, Alec and David--

Hang on.

-What? -There's five.

-What? -Five people.

How do you play doubles with five people?

Uh, well, we were--

Sounds a bit funny, if you ask me, playing doubles with five people.

Oh, well, we often play like that.

Jocasta plays on the side receiving service.

-Oh, yes? -Yes. It helps to speed the game up and make it a lot faster and it means Jocasta isn't left out.

Look, are you asking me to believe that the five of you was playing doubles when on the very next court there was a blancmange playing by itself?

-That's right, yes. -Well, answer me this then:

Why didn't Jocasta play the blancmange at singles while you and Sandra and Alec and David had a proper game of doubles with four people?

Because Jocasta always plays with us. She's a friend of ours.

Call that friendship?

Messing up a perfectly good game of doubles?

It's not messing it up, officer.

We like to play with five.

Look, it's your affair if you want to play with five people, but don't go calling it doubles.

-Well, no-- -Look at Wimbledon, right?

If Fred Stolle and Tony Roche played Charlie Pasarell and Cliff Drysdale and Peaches Bartkowicz, they wouldn't go calling it doubles.

But what about the blancmange?

That could play Ann Haydon Jones and her husband Pip.

Oh, a blancmange gave you an order for 48 million kilts?

Aye.

And you believed it?

Aye, I did.

Oh, you're a stupid man, Angus Podgorny.

Oh, look, woman, how many kilts did we sell last year?

Nine and a half, that's all.

So when I get an order for 48 million, I believe it.

You better believe it.

Even if it's from a blancmange?

Oh, woman, if a blancmange is prepared to come

2,200,000 light years to purchase a kilt, they must be fairly keen on kilts.

So cease your prattling, woman, and get sewing.

This could be the biggest breakthrough in kilts since the provost of Edinburgh sat on a spike.

Mary, we'll be rich. We'll be rich.

Oh, but Angus, he hasn't given you an earnest of his good faith.

Ah, maybe not, but he had give me this.

Oh, what is it now?

An entry form for the British Open Tennis Championships at Wimbledon town, signed and seconded.

Oh, but Angus, you ken full well that Scots folk don't know how to play the tennis to save their lives.

Aye, but I must go though, dear.

I didn't want to seem ungrateful.

Oh, Angus, I will not let you make a fool of yourself.

-But I must. -Oh, no, you'll not.

-Oh, Mary, Mary-- -[HINGES SQUEAK]

Oh, Mary, look out. Look out!

Oh-- Ah! It's the blancmange!

[SCREAMS]

-[SQUISHY SOUNDS] -[WET CHEWING]

Oh, uh, now this is where Mr. Podgorny could have saved his wife's life.

If he had gone to the police and told them that he'd been approached by unearthly beings from the galaxy of Andromeda, we'd have sent a man 'round to investigate.

As it was, he did a deal with a blancmange and the blancmange ate his wife.

So if you're going out, or going on holiday, or anything strange happens involving other galaxies, just nip 'round to your local police station and tell the sergeant on duty, or his wife, of your suspicions.

And the same goes for dogs.

So, I'm sorry to have interrupted your exciting science fiction story, but then, crime's our business, you know.

So carry on viewing, and my thanks to the BBC for allowing me to have this little chat with you.

Good night. God bless. Look after yourselves.

Do sit down, Mr. Podgorny.

I-- I think what's happened is terribly, terribly funny--

Tragic.

You must understand that we have to catch the creature that ate your wife and if you could just help us answer a few questions we may be able to help save a few lives.

I know this is the way your wife would have wanted it.

Aye, I'll do my best, sergeant.

"Detective inspector."

Detective inspector.

Now, then, the facts are these:

You received an order for 48 million kilts from a blancmange from the planet Skyron in the galaxy of Andromeda.

You'd just shown your wife an entry form for Wimbledon which you'd filled in, when you turned around and saw her legs disappearing into a blancmange.

-Is that correct? -Yes, sir.

-Are you mad? -No, sir.

Well, that's a relief, because if you were, your story would be less plausible.

Now, then, do you recognize this?

Oh, yes. That's the one that ate my Mary.

-[SOBS] -Good.

His name's Riley, Jack Riley.

He's that most rare of criminals: a blancmange impersonator and cannibal.

But what about the 48 million kilts and the galaxy of Andromeda?

I'm afraid that's just one of his stories.

You must understand that a blancmange impersonator and cannibal has to use some pretty clever stories to allay suspicion.

-Then you mean-- -Yes.

-But-- Yes. -How? Well--

-Not! Why? -I'm afraid so.

-Who knows. Could be. I know. -You think--? But--

-I know. Yes -She was--

-Oh! -[♪]

Good Lord, what's that?

Ah, Riley. Come to give yourself up, have you, Riley?

-Eh, Riley? Riley? -[CHEWING, LIP-SMACKING]

Riley. It's not Riley!

It's an extraterrestrial being!

[SCREAMS]

So everyone in England is being turned into Scotsmen, right?

Yes.

Now, which is the worst tennis-playing nation in the world?

Um, Australia.

-No. Try again. -Australia?

No, try again but say a different place.

Oh, I thought you meant I said it badly.

-Of course you didn't say it badly. Now, hurry! -Um... Uh...

-Czechoslovakia. -No, Scotland.

-Of course. -Now...

Now, these blancmanges, apart from the one that killed Mrs. Podgorny, have all appeared in which London suburb?

Finchley.

No, Wimbledon.

Now do you begin to see the pattern?

With what sport is Wimbledon commonly associated?

NARRATOR: For viewers at home,

the answer is coming up on your screens.

Those of you who wish to play it the hard way,

stand upside down with your head in a bucket of piranha fish.

Here is the question once again.

With what sport is Wimbledon commonly associated?

-Cricket. -No.

-Pelote? -No.

Wimbledon is most commonly associated with tennis.

Of course. Now I see.

Yes, it all falls into place.

The blancmanges are really Australians trying to get the rights of the pelote rules from the Czech publishers!

No, not quite.

But, uh, just look in here.

Oh...

Yes.

So these blancmanges--

Blancmange-shaped creatures come from the planet Skyron in the galaxy of Andromeda.

They order 48 million kilts from a Scottish menswear shop, turn the population of England into Scotsmen, well-known as the worst tennis-playing nation on Earth, thus leaving England empty during Wimbledon fortnight.

Empty during Wimbledon fortnight.

What's more, the papers are full of reports of blancmanges appearing on tennis courts up and down the country practicing.

This can only mean one thing.

MAN (READING):

They mean to win Wimbledon!

[♪]

Well, here at Wimbledon, it's been a most extraordinary week's tennis.

The blancmanges have swept the board, winning match after match.

Here are a few of the results:

Billie Jean King eaten in straight sets,

Laver smothered whole after winning the first set, and Pancho Gonzalez, serving as well as I've ever seen him with some superb volleys and decisive return volleys off the backhand, was sucked through the net at match point and swallowed whole in under two minutes.

And so, here on the final day, there seems to be no players left to challenge the blancmanges, and this could be their undoing, Dan, as the rules of Wimbledon state quite clearly that there must be at least one human being concerned in the final.

Well, the blancmange is coming out onto the pitch now and--

There's a human with it!

It's Angus Podgorny, the plucky little Scottish tailor

upon whom everything depends.

And so it's Podgorny versus blancmange

in this first ever Intergalactic Wimbledon.

And it's blancmange to serve.

And it's a good one!

15 - Love.

[GRUNTS, SNORTS]

And Podgorny fails to even hit the ball,

but this is no surprise as he hasn't hit the ball once throughout this match.

So it's 72 match points to the blancmange now.

Podgorny prepares to serve again.

[BLANCMANGE SLURPS, GRUNTS]

This is indeed a grim day for the human race, Dan.

But what's this?

Two spectators have rushed onto the pitch

with spoons and forks.

What are they going to do?

They mean to eat the blancmange.

Oh...

-[SLURPS] -BOTH: Mm.

[GRUNTS]

And they're eating the blancmange.

Yes. The blancmange is leaving the court.

It's abandoning the game. This is fantastic!

Mm! Mm!

NARRATOR: Yes, it was Mr. and Mrs. Samuel Brainsample who,

after only a brief and misleading appearance

in the early part of the film,

returned to save the Earth.

But why?

Oh, well you see, we love blancmanges.

Uh, my wife makes them.

She makes blancmanges that size?

Oh, yes, you see, we're from the planet Skyron in the galaxy of Andromeda, and they're all that size there.

We tried to tell you at the beginning of the film, but you just panned off us.

So the world was saved.

And Angus Podgorny became the first Scotsman

to win Wimbledon...

fifteen years later.

[♪]