Rob Gilroy: The (Almost Full) Monty
This time next week I’ll have seen Monty Python live in London, Britain’s Stabbing Capital.
Obviously, that depends on whether their collective health can endure as the rigorous rehearsal process picks up.
Let’s face it; they are really old.
Prince Philip can barely handle personal appearances and all he does is wave and be charmingly xenophobic.
I’m not entirely comfortable with pinning my expectations on a group of frail nonagenarians – it really could go either way.
I’m not saying any of them will die before Tuesday’s show, but statistically it is highly possible, especially if they missed their flu jabs or are subjected to ritualistic care home beatings, like the ones you see on Panorama.
It’s a bit of a gamble. Like resting your Grand National hopes on a dead, asthmatic donkey.
That said, I’m still excited – I don’t think anything could dampen my anticipation of seeing them live.
Well, except maybe endless statements from the Python members about how the entire thing is a money-making scheme and will probably not be very good.
That sort of thing does tend to make you wobble.
The only reason people boarded the Titanic was because they thought it’d be a nice holiday.
If the captain had said, “Listen guys; the hull may not be strong enough to protect us from frozen water” then most of them would have tried getting a refund from Thomas Cook.
In the same way, if you board Ryanair you know that the winged metal tube you’re seated in is not suitable to handle a crash.
If the plane starts to plummet, you accept the fact it’s a result of your overly thrifty nature, and continue reading the inflight magazine. That’s if you’ve paid the extra £38 for the privilege.
The way I look at it is, if I lower my expectations and realise I’m not watching childhood heroes but money-grabbing geriatrics, then I can’t be disappointed.
At the very least I’m funding their obscure art house films, international travelling addictions and multiple failed marriages.
They do say you should help the aged.
Either way, it should still be a funny night. That’s if the material holds up. It could have aged terribly, almost as bad as the fogies themselves.
What was once funny to people back in the 30s, may no longer feel fresh and funny today.
It could be as outdated as their references – no one uses accountants any more, they died out along with lumberjacks and pet shops.
How could their sketches possible connect with me – a young, trendy up-and-come-er?
My life is all instant gratification, Twitter and overly explicit sexual images, I’ve never been to a marriage guidance councillor and spam is just an electronic annoyance.
I know its “anarchic” humour but the punk songs people used to do are long gone.
These days we pay a lot of money for coffee and leave reviews when we buy fungal foot powder – we don’t need anarchists anymore.
Will Monty Python still feel relevant? If I’m being honest with myself then no, they probably won’t.
Moira Stewart couldn’t stay relevant and she was reading the news. You can’t get more current than that.
So, yes it could be fun, if their jokes still work.
Yes I am excited, if I don’t let their endless negative comments and gold-digging ways dampen my feelings.
And yes, I could tell people that I have seen these comedy legends live, if they don’t all contract MRSA and drop dead over the weekend. Let’s face it; the odds are against me.
Still, a least I can enjoy a lovely trip to London. That’s if I don’t get stabbed.
