У меня есть друг, он комик и ярый христианин. Странно да? (с)
Возможно баян и кто-то уже подобное делал, но мне пофиг)
воскресенье, 08 июля 2012
У меня есть друг, он комик и ярый христианин. Странно да? (с)
У меня есть друг, он комик и ярый христианин. Странно да? (с)
Да, да, всё оттуда же
У меня есть друг, он комик и ярый христианин. Странно да? (с)
суббота, 07 июля 2012
У меня есть друг, он комик и ярый христианин. Странно да? (с)
Кто возьмётся перевести?)
"At that time the Gay Liberation Front had begun its struggle against sexual oppression: men were up in arms to be arm in arm, women wanted to be fathers and the other way round; closet doors were blasted off their hinges and I had bought them a defiant tea urn for their meetings. Denis Lemon and friends also at that time had held meeting at my flat in Belsize Park which was the beginning of Gay News. I myself was going through a Militant Homosexual phase. An ordinary pub in Chalk Farm seemed like a sensible place to be wearing flowered shirts and pink trousers like a badge. And a badge.
Later that evening the pinball still attracted us more than the sсript. In the middle of getting my highest score of the day I oveheard a remark from some people at the bar. The word ‘Jessie’ had been used. I looked over and saw two Glaswegian-style football supporters talking to a ‘local’. I walked over to the bar, excused myself for intruding and told them that I was a homosexual and didn’t much care for sniggering snide comments from ignorant people. Perhaps I could tell them a few things about their misconceptions. My friends at the pinball table stiffened, sensing imminent violence. Number one Glaswegian stared straight into my eyes and I stared back. After a long pause in which a fight to the last cell between his excitatory and inhibitory neurones hung in the balance, he said, ‘That was fuckin’ brave, that.’
‘Not really.’
‘No. That,’ he repeated to his friend, ‘was fuckin’ brave, you know just to say that, like that, and that. Fuckin’ great. I mean he didna know us, we coulda fuck’n killed ‘im — ‘a mean, what you havin’, mate?’
‘Well, I was just leaving…’
‘No come on, Jimmy…’
Everyone else in the pub agreed with my new friends that I had been ‘fuckin’ great’, sensibly preferring agreement to having their mouths filled with Caledonian forehead."
Graham Chapman, “A Liar’s Autobiography”
"At that time the Gay Liberation Front had begun its struggle against sexual oppression: men were up in arms to be arm in arm, women wanted to be fathers and the other way round; closet doors were blasted off their hinges and I had bought them a defiant tea urn for their meetings. Denis Lemon and friends also at that time had held meeting at my flat in Belsize Park which was the beginning of Gay News. I myself was going through a Militant Homosexual phase. An ordinary pub in Chalk Farm seemed like a sensible place to be wearing flowered shirts and pink trousers like a badge. And a badge.
Later that evening the pinball still attracted us more than the sсript. In the middle of getting my highest score of the day I oveheard a remark from some people at the bar. The word ‘Jessie’ had been used. I looked over and saw two Glaswegian-style football supporters talking to a ‘local’. I walked over to the bar, excused myself for intruding and told them that I was a homosexual and didn’t much care for sniggering snide comments from ignorant people. Perhaps I could tell them a few things about their misconceptions. My friends at the pinball table stiffened, sensing imminent violence. Number one Glaswegian stared straight into my eyes and I stared back. After a long pause in which a fight to the last cell between his excitatory and inhibitory neurones hung in the balance, he said, ‘That was fuckin’ brave, that.’
‘Not really.’
‘No. That,’ he repeated to his friend, ‘was fuckin’ brave, you know just to say that, like that, and that. Fuckin’ great. I mean he didna know us, we coulda fuck’n killed ‘im — ‘a mean, what you havin’, mate?’
‘Well, I was just leaving…’
‘No come on, Jimmy…’
Everyone else in the pub agreed with my new friends that I had been ‘fuckin’ great’, sensibly preferring agreement to having their mouths filled with Caledonian forehead."
Graham Chapman, “A Liar’s Autobiography”
У меня есть друг, он комик и ярый христианин. Странно да? (с)
У меня есть друг, он комик и ярый христианин. Странно да? (с)
Переводить не возьмусь, мало опыта. Но в принципе тут всё более- менее понятно.
"Only truly obsessed Python fans have heard of the infamous "lost" Series 3, Episode 10 of Python, which was supposed to contain the "Wee-wee" sketch, the "Revolting Cocktails," the "Big-Nosed Sculptor." An interesting moment in Python history, as for their first two seasons they had largely gotten away with doing their own material without BBC interference. Not so with Series 3, Episode 10. This episode was actually recorded and completed, but thanks to BBC censorship at the time almost the entire episode was declared unfit for broadcast and removed. Bits originally recorded for other episodes in the series were used to fill the gaps. This butchered version is the version that is broadcast, and still the version you see today. This amounts to about half an episode of "Monty Python's Flying Circus" you never got to see! The Pythons like to point out in interviews that John Cleese was actually on the side of the censors this time, he didn't think the "wee wee" sketch was in good taste, and allowed its removal.
So where is this material today? It's generally believed lost, long since erased, but no one seems really sure ... for all we know it could still be lying mislabeled somewhere at the BBC ... every once in a while we hear that someone claims to have seen it. People like Graham's life partner David Sherlock. Could somebody please confirm or deny this ... Might Terry Jones even have a copy?
At any rate, we're not likely to see these lost sketches soon. But Jason Hazeley picked up the official BBC shooting scripts for the lost episode, and gave them to those wonderful sarcastic folks at Some of the Corpses Are Amusing. This is their page, not mine, and I will take no credit for their VERY perceptive commentary on the scripts. Massive thanks to Jason Hazely and SOTCAA for making this available to fans like me on the web.
So here they are, for the first time. The full original shooting sсript sequences of 'Big Nose Sculptures', 'Revolting Cocktails' and 'Wee Wee Winetasting', originally intended for Series 3, Show 10." (с)
Продолжение и описание скетча здесь orangecow.org/pythonet/sketches/lostsketches.ht...
"Only truly obsessed Python fans have heard of the infamous "lost" Series 3, Episode 10 of Python, which was supposed to contain the "Wee-wee" sketch, the "Revolting Cocktails," the "Big-Nosed Sculptor." An interesting moment in Python history, as for their first two seasons they had largely gotten away with doing their own material without BBC interference. Not so with Series 3, Episode 10. This episode was actually recorded and completed, but thanks to BBC censorship at the time almost the entire episode was declared unfit for broadcast and removed. Bits originally recorded for other episodes in the series were used to fill the gaps. This butchered version is the version that is broadcast, and still the version you see today. This amounts to about half an episode of "Monty Python's Flying Circus" you never got to see! The Pythons like to point out in interviews that John Cleese was actually on the side of the censors this time, he didn't think the "wee wee" sketch was in good taste, and allowed its removal.
So where is this material today? It's generally believed lost, long since erased, but no one seems really sure ... for all we know it could still be lying mislabeled somewhere at the BBC ... every once in a while we hear that someone claims to have seen it. People like Graham's life partner David Sherlock. Could somebody please confirm or deny this ... Might Terry Jones even have a copy?
At any rate, we're not likely to see these lost sketches soon. But Jason Hazeley picked up the official BBC shooting scripts for the lost episode, and gave them to those wonderful sarcastic folks at Some of the Corpses Are Amusing. This is their page, not mine, and I will take no credit for their VERY perceptive commentary on the scripts. Massive thanks to Jason Hazely and SOTCAA for making this available to fans like me on the web.
So here they are, for the first time. The full original shooting sсript sequences of 'Big Nose Sculptures', 'Revolting Cocktails' and 'Wee Wee Winetasting', originally intended for Series 3, Show 10." (с)
Продолжение и описание скетча здесь orangecow.org/pythonet/sketches/lostsketches.ht...
У меня есть друг, он комик и ярый христианин. Странно да? (с)
Вот такую фотку нашла) Грэм, Дэвид и куча баб XD
У меня есть друг, он комик и ярый христианин. Странно да? (с)
пятница, 06 июля 2012
Не сделал химию - диссоциировал с урока.
Неудачные дубли "Грааля".
От смеха Грэма в первом видео я свалился под стол
От смеха Грэма в первом видео я свалился под стол
четверг, 28 июня 2012
У меня есть друг, он комик и ярый христианин. Странно да? (с)
У меня есть друг, он комик и ярый христианин. Странно да? (с)
пятница, 22 июня 2012
Не сделал химию - диссоциировал с урока.
Сперто с тумблера dirtybritconfessions и montypythonconfessions.
Это всё так правдиво, так совпадает с моими грязными мыслишками
Особенно первое:
и последнее:
Это всё так правдиво, так совпадает с моими грязными мыслишками
Особенно первое:
и последнее:
четверг, 21 июня 2012
Не сделал химию - диссоциировал с урока.
Из фильма о создании спектакля "Микадо".
понедельник, 18 июня 2012
Не сделал химию - диссоциировал с урока.
Текст, который произносит персонаж Айдла в скетче про туристическое агентство.
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 with their transistor radios and their Sunday Mirror’s, 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 Watneys Red barrel and calamares and two veg and sitting in thier cotton frocks squirting Timothey White’s suncream all over their puffy raw swollen puralent flesh ‘cos they overdid it on the first day. And being herded into endless Hotel Miramars and Bellevistas 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 in the queues and if your not at your table spot on seven you miss the bowl of Campbells “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 brylcreamed 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 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 Watneys 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 the country and how many languages Enoch Powell can speak and then he throws up all over the Cuba Libres. And sending tinted postcards of places they dont realise they havent even visted to “All at no 22. Weather wonderful. Our room is marked with an ‘X’…food very greasy but we’ve found a charming liitle local place hidden away in the back streets where they serve Watneys 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 sandwhiches and you can’t even get a drink of Watneys Red Barrel because your still in England and the bloddy bar closes every time your 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 in the morning and you sit on the tarmac ‘till 6 because of ‘unforeseen difficulties’, i.e. the permanant strike of Air Trafic Control in Paris - and nobody can go to the lavatory until you take off at 8, and when you get to Malaga airport everybodys 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 “Hotel del Sol” by paying half your holiday money to a licensed bandit in a taxi you find there is no water in the pool, and no water in the taps, theres 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 your plagued by apalling apprentice chemists from Ealing prentending to be hippies, and middle class stock-brokers wives busily buying identical holiday villas in surburban development plots just like Esher, in case the Labour Goverment 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 of London and decimated Europe; and meanwhile the bloody Guardia are busy arresting 16 year olds for kissing in the streets and shooting anyone under 19 who doesn’t like Franco. And then on the last day in the airport lounge everyones comparing sunburns, drinking Nasty Spumate, buying duty-free ‘cigarillos’ and using up their last pesetas on horrid dolls in spanish national costume and awfull 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 everyones talking about coming again next year and you swear you never will, although there you are tumbleing bleary-eyed out of a tourist- tight antique Iberian airplane after a ….
”
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 with their transistor radios and their Sunday Mirror’s, 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 Watneys Red barrel and calamares and two veg and sitting in thier cotton frocks squirting Timothey White’s suncream all over their puffy raw swollen puralent flesh ‘cos they overdid it on the first day. And being herded into endless Hotel Miramars and Bellevistas 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 in the queues and if your not at your table spot on seven you miss the bowl of Campbells “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 brylcreamed 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 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 Watneys 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 the country and how many languages Enoch Powell can speak and then he throws up all over the Cuba Libres. And sending tinted postcards of places they dont realise they havent even visted to “All at no 22. Weather wonderful. Our room is marked with an ‘X’…food very greasy but we’ve found a charming liitle local place hidden away in the back streets where they serve Watneys 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 sandwhiches and you can’t even get a drink of Watneys Red Barrel because your still in England and the bloddy bar closes every time your 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 in the morning and you sit on the tarmac ‘till 6 because of ‘unforeseen difficulties’, i.e. the permanant strike of Air Trafic Control in Paris - and nobody can go to the lavatory until you take off at 8, and when you get to Malaga airport everybodys 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 “Hotel del Sol” by paying half your holiday money to a licensed bandit in a taxi you find there is no water in the pool, and no water in the taps, theres 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 your plagued by apalling apprentice chemists from Ealing prentending to be hippies, and middle class stock-brokers wives busily buying identical holiday villas in surburban development plots just like Esher, in case the Labour Goverment 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 of London and decimated Europe; and meanwhile the bloody Guardia are busy arresting 16 year olds for kissing in the streets and shooting anyone under 19 who doesn’t like Franco. And then on the last day in the airport lounge everyones comparing sunburns, drinking Nasty Spumate, buying duty-free ‘cigarillos’ and using up their last pesetas on horrid dolls in spanish national costume and awfull 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 everyones talking about coming again next year and you swear you never will, although there you are tumbleing bleary-eyed out of a tourist- tight antique Iberian airplane after a ….
”
Не сделал химию - диссоциировал с урока.
Я вижу это так: Майклу не нравится, что Эрик так держит собачку, потому что ему хочется, что бы Э
рик держал так ЕГО
рик держал так ЕГО
пятница, 15 июня 2012
У меня есть друг, он комик и ярый христианин. Странно да? (с)
Рискнула попробовать что-то сделать. Это только эксперимент, замечания принимаются. Ну и буду рада если кто-то что-то утащит ^_^
размер 120x120
размер 120x120
Какого дьявола ты убил дьявола?!
среда, 13 июня 2012
У меня есть друг, он комик и ярый христианин. Странно да? (с)
Подогревая всеобщее любопытство, я пришла с порцией скринов для всех.
Много и есть очень большие размеры
Много и есть очень большие размеры
суббота, 09 июня 2012
Какого дьявола ты убил дьявола?!
Как я понимаю, чтобы нас находили, у нас должен быть тэг "monty python". 
Сейчас проверим. Дайри-поиск, бессмысленный и беспощадный...
Сейчас проверим. Дайри-поиск, бессмысленный и беспощадный...