Look up the date April 2, 1972, and you’ll find nothing happened in England. Not a single thing. Not a thing of significance and not a thing of insignificance. How, one might wonder, could an entire country go quiet for an entire twenty-four-hour period?
Well, the Queen was and continues to this day to be a fairly large deal, and on April 2, 1972, only one entity was as hugely influential on British culture as Her Majesty: their worships, Monty Python.
There weren’t many on hand that day, but some of the few who were came forward recently to share the tale so many never wondered about.
And I was the one to talk to them about it.
“You’d have thought the midday meeting would have been full of funny walks and dead birds and organ transplants,” said Chris Cheshire, a squire who was squiring that day, forty years after the world-famous comedy troupe graced the halls of Buckingham Palace. “The marble floors of the foyer in which we stood were unimaginably polished, and the half-lion/half-gargoyle tapestries hung from the walls, ready to be entertained by the funny lads. But it was uncomfortably quiet. It was Her Majesty the Queen Regent, holder of titles and lands across the Commonwealth, who made the first fart joke . . .”
“My dear Pythons, which of you unleashed that putrid stink bomb unto my royal air?” the Queen asked the group of fancily dressed gentlemen, her nose held pronouncedly high in the air.
“Your Royally High Majesty, while I can’t deny our lot has been known, on occasion, to lift a leg and deliver a fair toot, I don’t believe it was anyone from this troupe who, as you say, ‘unleashed that putrid stink bomb’ in your majestically royal presence,” the tallest of the Pythons gently explained.
“Well, my dear half-giant, who, other than those in your group, may have done so? I’m fairly certain you’re not suggesting it was I, Your Royal Majesty, who may have done such a thing?”
John Cleese, who had been nominated by the group earlier that day to be the voice of the Pythons, looked around the room, desperately seeking a scapegoat. His instinct was to blame the serving staff, but each squire he saw had tears in his eyes, a sign that the fear of what the Queen might do to them meant they were not a good candidate to wear the blame.
“It was me, Your Grace, Heads Side of All Coins in the Commonwealth. I, John Cleese, soiled your royal halls with a stench so vile it must surely have incapacitated all the Welsh corgis in the world.”
“The Queen was quite fond of having other people cover for her, shall we say, fartiness,” Squire Cheshire told me as I plied him full of gin. “One time, the Pope himself took credit for a fart of hers. Imagine that, the Pope covering for Her Royal Majesty, Rider of Horses and Carriages.“
Interesting indeed, but I wanted to know more about what happened that unfateful day . . .
“I was under the impression you gentlemen performed a comedy show of sorts,” the Queen said to the Pythons.
“Oh yes, Your Royal Majesty, Wearer of Crowns and Diamonds, we do indeed. But I’m afraid that once we’re off the stage or off camera, we’re quite boring,” John Cleese explained. “In fact, I’m most excited to visit your castle because I hear you have an excellent collection of British insects.”
The Queen stared, astonished at how boring these gentlemen were. She had heard they once sold a dead parrot and performed an organ harvest in someone’s living room. But here they stood, discussing insect collections.
“You gentlemen better make me laugh or I will have you sent to the Tower. And maybe have your heads.”
The Python gentlemen looked at one another, unsure as to her level of seriousness, keeping in mind that she had just farted in front of them.
John Cleese remained the spokesman for the group.
“Your Most Regal Woman, the Queen, would that we could make you laugh. Alas, we are not that funny and I fear that were we to break into a skit, you’d find us all the more repulsive and perhaps lock us in the Tower even more hastily than were we to just stand here staring at you.”
You’re beginning to see how such a day might have gone unreported.
“The Queen was flummoxed,” Squire Cheshire recounted. “Her fart trick tended to break the ice and make people feel more at home. With these guys it seemed to turn them into someone she didn’t think they were. Does that make sense?”
It did not, but he went on remembering the day anyway . . .
“Maybe you’d find it funny if I had my squire cut off your head and play croquet with it,” the Queen said.
“No, Your Walker on Highly Polished Marble Floors, I don’t think we’d like that in the least. In fact, I think that might put us in an even gloomier mood than we appear to be in now.”
“Well, poop on a quetzal,” the Queen said, dropping her shoulders in resignation. “I thought you gentlemen were going to come here, play it up a bit and leave me in stitches.”
“You’ve seen the organ transplant skit, then, have you?” John Cleese yelled, his eyes lighting up.
“I have. I even had the Duke pick up some iodine so that we might do it properly.”
“Her Royal Crown Wearer was pretty furious,” Squire Cheshire whispered to me, as if just mentioning the memory aloud might set off the Queen’s not-notorious temper. “But she was so confused by the lack of disrespect that she hadn’t the foggiest notion what to do . . .”
“Well, in that case, let’s get your kidney out!” John Cleese yelled to the ceiling before spinning on his heels and high-stepping to the end of the line of Pythons, where Terry Jones had amazingly pulled out a bone saw and a pair of blue hospital scrubs from his tuxedo.
“First we’ll have to take a look at your stomach,” John Cleese said to the Queen as he motioned for her to hike up her dress. “We’ll need a rough idea of where your kidneys are. Michael, what side of the body are the kidneys on?”
“It depends on which direction she’s facing, doctor,” Michael Palin informed him.
“She’s facing me.”
“I’d say the left side, then, doctor.”
“You’d say the left side, or you know the left side?”
“I’d say the left side, doctor. I’ve never seen a kidney.”
“Right, then. Up with the dress.”
“Oh, fun,” the Queen giggled.
“Knife,” John Cleese demanded.
“Knife,” Terry Jones produced.
“Laughing gas,” John Cleese added.
“I don’t need any!” the Queen yelled.
“She doesn’t need any,” Terry Jones repeated.
“Well, cut her open and get that kidney out,” John Cleese yelled at Graham Chapman and Eric Idle, who had also managed to produce saws and doctor’s robes.
“I should have done this years ago,” the Queen squealed as she was unprofessionally prepared for a surgery that would likely end her life.
“Before the kidney comes out, you need to verbally agree to a few things,” John Cleese said. Then, without waiting for acknowledgement, he spewed off: “You acknowledge we are not doctors and have never used a bone saw before, you are aware we have no blood on hand to replace the quarts you are going to lose, and you are also aware that we might mistakenly remove your intestines.”
“Yes, now get it out!” the Queen yelled, pointing to the part of her body where she assumed her kidneys rested.
“I didn’t think it was the best idea for her Royal Wearer of Solid Colour Dresses to allow the Python gentlemen to cut her open with their rusty saw and harvest her organs,” Squire Cheshire explained to me, also whispering that the Queen was fond of the occasional high-noon swig of alcohol and may not have had the best organs to be harvested. “So I told her so. I said, ‘Queen, please do not have your organs cut out. I’m afraid we don’t have the proper medicines to keep you from developing a fever post-operation . . .’”
“Ah,” John Cleese said. “So you weren’t prepared for us, were you?” he asked the Queen, ignoring the courtesies and titles.
“Well, I . . . I just . . . I didn’t know what you were going to do. I thought we might have a game of philosopher soccer or discuss cheeses. I couldn’t prepare for everything.”
“Not our problem, unfortunately, ma’am,” John Cleese explained as he disrobed and handed his bone saw back to Terry Jones. “Next time you invite us to your castle, please be prepared for anything. Until then, we must bid you adieu.”
“This is an English castle! We do not use words like adieu!”
“Adieu!” John Cleese said, and just like that, the Pythons took their leave.
“The Python gentlemen were gone and I was standing with a naked Ruler of Subjects Over Oceans Far and Wide,” Squire Cheshire concluded.
So, in effect, nothing happened at the castle that day. Which is why you’ve never heard the story of the visit the Pythons made to the Queen. Did they ever visit again?
Maybe someday we’ll find out.
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