(There in the Night) Something Comical This Way Came

Finding My Calling and My Crew on a British Train Platform

It was late at night. I don’t recall the exact station. Perhaps it was in Durham while heading back to Newcastle for school, or it could have been the Hammersmith after a concert at The Odeon.

All I know, I was alone — perhaps with pints still circumnavigating my blood stream. There I was — slightly afraid of a group of young men in black leather jackets, military boots, and black pants. They were drinking cans of ale. Their laughter echoed off the concrete walls. They were either hooligans or The Clash, reunited to play for their biggest fan.

Was that true? About never being scared?

No —I was, twice. The first time was while walking down Knightsbridge in London, and I was approached by two seemingly friendly Scottish gents — and that story resembles a condensed and safer version of Oliver Twist.

The other time I was walking solo through Soho in London. A creepy guy reached out, grabbed my arm, and asked, “Do you want a boy?”

Repulsed but scared, I both wanted to vomit and dispatch him — Liam Neeson style. But I said, “No,” and hurriedly walked away from this Bill Sikes with missing teeth, not wanting to be tagged for the sex trade.

So there I was, looking at my watch, waiting sensibly for the train, inching my way further and further away from the dangerous hooligans.

No wonder these gents were having such a good time!

Then I discovered: they were reciting comedy skits from Monty Python!

I inched closer — wanting to listen to their timing. Timing is so essential in comedy. I just hoped they were the Spanish Inquisition because I could really use a comfy chair and some soft cushions.

After one skit, they started with the “Witch Scene” from The Holy Grail. Like someone who has memorized The Koran, I can quote that film — and almost every skit from Python, like chapter and verse. From birth, I was baptized on Python. It all came from my Uncle Ron and Uncle Steve.

I inched even closer — hoping — or perhaps — even daring — to help assist in the comedy. Would such a scene like this take place in New Jersey — where I’m from? Or Arkansas?

“We found a witch. May we burn her?”

“How do you know whether she is a witch?”

“She looks like one!”

These guys were good

I inched closer. They hadn’t noticed me, which I thought had been a good thing, not wanting to be knifed and divested of my pounds and my dignity. In England and in Europe, at least I didn’t really have to worry about being shot by criminals or the police.

They continued along with the scene — including — “build a bridge out of her” — “very small rocks” — “and the nose” — “and the hat” — “she turned me into a newt “— “I got better.” —

And when King Arthur intruded on the “trial,” having watched from the wings while the crowd of morons and No Nothings hunger for blood against an innocent woman, I called out, “A duck!”

The Clash looked my way. Were they shocked? I don’t recall, really. All I remember is that they laughed, and said, “Very good! Very good!”

Then another asked me, “Who are you who are so wise in the ways of science?”

“I am Arthur, King of the Britons!”

Then one guy said, “Oh, boy — a Yank! And he knows our religion.”

“Your religion?” I asked.

“Yeh, mate. Monty Python is our religion. Can’t trust the Anglican Church of England anymore.”

I moved closer. I was still a little frightened. After all, Hitler loved cats. And serial killers can still quote classic British comedy, right? But then one of the guys offered me a can of something — I’m not sure, but I told them cheers, but I already had enough.

And then they rather welcomed me — and wanted to know how a Yankee knew his Python.

These were the best nights

When I was young, my Uncle Ron and Uncle Steve would babysit me in Southwest Philly while my mom and dad were out.

I would stay up late, which was never allowed at home, and watch The Three Stooges, Fawlty Towers, Benny Hill, and Monty Python on PBS. “The Flying Circus” wouldn’t come on until later — it was, after all, adult — and it’s actually where I saw my first female breasts.

I think it’s where I learned comedy. It’s also where I first fell in love with satire like Python’s “The Upper-Class Twit of the Year” and “The Ministry of Silly Walks.”

You can make people laugh, and get angry at the posh, in-bred upper-class twits, and corrupt and wasteful government agencies, right?

This love affair with British comedy — and American comedy — continued throughout the late 70s. By 1979, I was 11. I had The Holy Grail on VHS after taping the show from TV. And I loved The Life of Brian. I think my dad took me to see that.

Then, when The Meaning of Life came out, the “men” of the family went to the movies and they took me with them. There was a baby shower — and this was back when women did showers and men went drinking or watched Monty Python.

That whole episode for me, with the men in the family that I so respected and loved and worshipped, men of intelligence, musical genius, and forever youth, laughed out loud at things I understood in 1983 — at the still young age of fourteen, but there were other things — I still didn’t get.

In satire, you have to be “in on the joke,” like “Every Sperm is Sacred,” Python’s scathing takedown on the Roman Catholic position on contraceptives. I laughed because they laughed. And when Eric Idle, I think, is being pursued by a band of naked women over a cliff — well, what good fun, right?

If there was a Rite of Passage for me into manhood, it was watching that film with my uncles and grandfather.

And by the time my wife and I had children, I had the entire Python catalog on DVD — and Fawlty Towers, too, and all the films. I had their albums — like The Final Rip Off, and Live from the Hollywood Bowl, and when I was first in London in 1989 with my friend Tim, only twenty years old, I bought two Python books, and Tim and I would do comedy skits on the Tube. And the passengers would laugh at us — like when we were reciting The Poems of Ewan McTeagle:

“To my own beloved Lassie, a poem on her 17th birthday. Lend us a couple of bob till Thursday, I’m absolutely skint. But I’m expecting a postal order, And I can pay you back as soon as it comes. Love, Ewan”

“Can I have 50 pounds to mend the shed? I’m right on my uppers. I can pay you back when this postal order comes From Australia. Honestly. Hope the bladder trouble’s getting better. Love, Ewan.”

For our entire month's stay during winter break in London, the running refrain between Tim and me was “What’s 20 quid to the bloody Midland Bank?”

Satire is an acquired taste. And for many adults — some just don’t understand it. Parody yes, but true satire, no.

Back on the train platform that night, they asked me for a sketch

Would they know it? They seemed impressed with my very condensed “history of Python” biography. I suggested “Fish License.” I guess they expected — Oh! No! Not Again! “Dead Parrot.”

“Hello, I would like to buy a fish license, please.”

“A what?”

“A fish license for my pet fish called Eric.”

“How did you know my name was Eric?”

“No, no, my fish’s name is Eric. Eric the Fish. He’s a halibut.”

There may have been a line or two we all forgot, but by the time my train arrived, we were singing the song “Eric the Half a Bee.” Their train was either going the other direction, or they were just loitering, sharing the communion wine and psalms of Monty Python.

I had never been more stunned in such a quick reversal — from scared to not wanting to leave. This was in 1990. And it taught me that whole lesson about covers and books — and how much people across cultures can share and appreciate.

It was my boot camp

As a satirist and humorist today, I swear the comedy of Python, along with Mark Twain and Stanley Kubrick and The Coen Brothers, all much later, was where I got my comedy chops. And when my students ask me about that strange poster on the wall, I tell them about John Cleese and “The Ministry of Silly Walks” and show them the skit, and then have them write an essay about implied and explicit thesis and authorial intention. What is their actual target?

I am, after all, a teacher. And boy — isn’t there so much to satirize about teachers, right?

When I cut the lawn or wash dishes, guess what curated mix I may be studying and loving on Spotify: Monty Python is My Religion.

And guess what my Uncle Ron named his first child? Eric.

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