Rob Gilroy: Reviewing Python

So, this week I saw Monty Python live.

Giggle Beats asked me to review it, partly so it was covered by their website, and partly out of an act of jealously for not managing to get a ticket. If they couldn’t enjoy it, then why should I?

The problem is – where do you begin when reviewing living legends? You want to be honest and upfront about your thoughts but at the same time you have to take into account their back catalogue and influence.

After all; we’re talking about comedy gods! It’s like reviewing Jesus. I bet that was a tough gig – “Nice tricks but his after dinner speaking was a bit gloomy”. No one ever gave Jesus a bad review, for a start his dad knows where you live.

This was the difficulty I faced when writing this piece. Here are five people I completely respect and, despite their cash-grabbing ways and SAGA memberships, I wanted this to be good. More than good. I wanted it to be everything I thought it could be. Except shit.

So it was with some trepidation that I set off on my journey to London (the north being overlooked yet again following the Olympics and the Notting Hill Carnival). I didn’t go on my own though, I brought a friend.

Given the potentially dubious nature of the evening, he could equally have been mistaken for a hostage. While I hoped Stockholm Syndrome would kick in, especially if I softened him up by buying an overpriced programme, I couldn’t be sure we would still be on talking terms by the end.

We reached the area, which can only be described as an airplane hanger with an accompanying food court, and waited for the show to start. And start it did.

So, here’s the thing… I loved it. I know a lot of theatre critics wouldn’t be so open with their thoughts, they play it down with comments like ‘I thought it was a grotesque pantomime of its former self’ or ‘It has lost it’s postmodernist deconstruction of the establishment’ or ‘it’s not as good as Cats’. But here I am stating that I utterly, bloody loved it.

If you are not a Python fan, then this isn’t really for you. People have been quick to pour scorn on the idea, saying it could only be a disappointment, but you know what? I’ve spent weeks listening to people prattle on about International Soccer, grown up Ping Pong and French Bicycles – despite the fact they very rarely end on a high.

Well, this is my World Cup. This is my Wimbledon. This is my French Cycling Race. And it didn’t disappoint – it was fucking magnificent.

I will never again be sat with 20,000 people, furiously cheering as two septuagenarians strip off to reveal lingerie. I will never again bristle with excitement as a tall man gets angry about cheese. I will never again lose control of my senses as someone rips off their jacket to reveal a checkered shirt. (The last time I got that excited by a flash of gingham was when Rebekah Brooks was on trial.)

I was about 10 when I started watching and listening to Monty Python, within months I was re-enacting sketches at school talent shows. The discovery of every sketch was like finding a new language. And last night I discovered it all over again.

It might sound grand, twat-ish even, but I loved every minute. It was everything I thought it could be. Except shit.

Yes nostalgia played a big part, but if you go to this show resisting nostalgia then you’re probably the sort of person that would go for a colonic irrigation and clench.

OK, so it wasn’t perfect, some of the dance numbers were a little long and Terry Jones was reading from cards like your nan at Christmas, but I don’t care. This is Monty Python being Monty Python. It’s not a poor imitation, nor a bad tribute act, it is them; nudging, winking, spamming and complaining.

This is the last thing Monty Python will ever do (until they need more money) and I’m glad I was there. If you’d rather just enjoy the DVDs and L.Ps, that’s fine too. It’s not about being the biggest fan; it’s about celebrating six ridiculously funny men who still have the ability to make us laugh after all these years. Even the dead one.

Rather fittingly, this Monty Python experience started with a poorly pigeon. As I stood on the train platform eating my Upper Crust breakfast, I watched the poor little sod hobble around with a gammy leg.

I couldn’t help but think it was a sign of things to come – either that I was in for a brilliant time or that the reunion would be about as funny as a crippled bird. I am pleased to say, that even after 40 years, Monty Python still have a lot of life left in them.

And as for the limping pigeon? Who cares! I’m not St Francis of Assisi, the bastard tried to steal my croissant.