I think the election special is hilarious and Eric Idle in the travel agent sketch. Friend of my dads saw him do that live (as he does at the Hollywood Bowl) and he did not drop a beat:
Why, why, what's the point of going abroad if you're just going to be treated like a sheep? Carted around in buses surrounded by sweaty mindless oaves from Kettering and Boventry. Their bloth baps and their bardigans and their transistor radios, bomplaining about the tea — "Oh, they don't make it properly, do they?" And stopping at endless Majorcan bodegas selling fish and chips and Watney's Red Barrel and calamaries and two veg, and sitting in their cotton sun frocks, squirting Timothy White's sun cream all over their puffy, raw, swollen, purulent flesh 'cos they overdid it on the first day, and being herded into endless Hotel Miramars and Bellevueses, Bontinentals with their international luxury modern roomettes and swimming pools full of draught Red Barrel and fat German businessmen pretending to be acrobats and forming pyramids and frightening the children and barging into 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 in the menu of International Cuisine. Every Thursday night there's bloody cabaret in the bar featuring some tiny, emaciated dago with nine-inch hips and some fat bloated tart with her hair Brylcreemed down and big **** 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 local Roman remains, where you can buy cherryade and melted ice cream and bleedin' Watney's Red Barrel. And one night they take you to a typical restaurant with local atmosphere and color and you sit next to a party of people from Rhyl who keep singing "I love the Costa Brava! I love the Costa Brava!" And you get cornered by some drunken greengrocer from Luton with an Instamatic camera and last Tuesday's Daily Express and he drones on and on and on about how Ian Smith should be running the country and how many languages Margaret Powell can speak and then she throws up all over the cuba libres. And spending four days on the tarmac at Luton Airport on a five-day package tour with nothing to eat but dry British Airways-type sandwiches. And you can't even get a glass of Watney's Red Barrel because you're still in England and the bloody bar closes every time you're thirsty. And the kids are crying and vomiting and breaking the plastic ashtrays. They keep telling you it'll only be another hour, but you know damned well your plane is still in Iceland and has to come back and take a party of Swedes to Yugoslavia before it can load you up at 3 a.m. in the morning. And then you sit on the tarmac for four hours because of unforeseen difficulties, i.e. the permanent strike of air traffic control over Paris. When you finally get to Malaga airport, everybody's queueing for the bloody toilet and queueing for the bloody armed customs officers and queueing for the bloody bus that isn't there, waiting to take you to the hotel that hasn't yet been built. 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, there's no water in the pool, there's no water in the bog, there's no water in the tap, there's only a bleeding lizard in the bidet, and half the rooms are double-booked, and you can't sleep anyway, 'cause of the permanent 24-hour drilling of the foundations of the hotel next door. Meanwhile, the Spanish National Tourist Board promises you the raging cholera epidemic is merely a mild outbreak of Spanish Tummy, rather like the previous outbreak in 1616 even the bloody rats are dying from it! Meanwhile, the bloody Guardia are busy arresting 16-year-olds for kissing in the streets. And finally, on the last day in the airport lounge, everybody's buying little awful horrid donkeys with their names on, and bullfight posters with their own names on, like Antonio ----, Mr Brian Pules of Norwich. And then finally when you get to bloody Luton, you're ---- around for another four hours, while they find a plane that has to take you back to Manchester. And when you finally get to Manchester, there's only another bloody bus you have to wait 16 hours for...
Topic: The Monty Python Thread (Read 6518 times)
