[Four well‐​dressed men sit­ting to­geth­er at a va­ca­tion re­sort. “Farewell to Thee” be­ing played in the back­ground on Hawai­ian gui­tar.]

Michael Palin. Ahh . . . Very pass­able, this, very pass­able.

Gra­ham Chap­man. Noth­ing like a good glass of Château de Chas­sili­er wine, ay, Josi­ah?

Ter­ry Gilliam. You’re right there, Oba­di­ah.

Er­ic Idle. Who’d a’ thought thir­ty years ago we’d all be sit­tin’ here drink­ing Château de Chas­sili­er wine?

MP. Aye. In them days, we’d a’ been glad to have the price of a cup o’ tea.

GC. A cup o’ cold tea.

EI. With­out milk or sug­ar.

TG.Or tea!

MP. In a filthy, cracked cup.

EI. We nev­er used to have a cup. We used to have to drink out of a rolled up news­pa­per.

GC. The best we could man­age was to suck on a piece of damp cloth.

TG. But you know, we were hap­py in those days, though we were poor.

MP. Aye. Be­cause we were poor. My old Dad used to say to me, “Mon­ey doesn’t buy you hap­pi­ness.”

EI. ’E was right. I was hap­pi­er then and I had noth­in’. We used to live in this ti­i­iny old house, with greaaaaat big holes in the roof.

GC. House? You were lucky to have a house! We used to live in one room, all hun­dred and twen­ty‐​six of us, no fur­ni­ture. Half the floor was miss­ing; we were all hud­dled to­geth­er in one cor­ner for fear of falling!

TG. You were lucky to have a room! We used to have to live in a cor­ri­dor!

MP. Ohh­hh we used to dream of livin’ in a cor­ri­dor! Woul­da’ been a palace to us. We used to live in an old wa­ter tank on a rub­bish tip. We got wok­en up every morn­ing by hav­ing a load of rot­ting fish dumped all over us! House!? Hmph.

EI. Well when I say “house” it was on­ly a hole in the ground cov­ered by a piece of tar­polin, but it was a house to us.

GC. We were evict­ed from our hole in the ground; we had to go and live in a lake!

TG. You were lucky to have a lake! There were a hun­dred and six­ty of us liv­ing in a small shoe­box in the mid­dle of the road.

MP. Card­board box?

TG. Aye.

MP. You were lucky. We lived for three months in a brown pa­per bag in a sep­tic tank. We used to have to get up at six o’clock in the morn­ing, clean the bag, eat a crust of stale bread, go to work down mill for four­teen hours a day week in‐​week out. When we got home, out Dad would thrash us to sleep with his belt!

GC. Lux­u­ry. We used to have to get out of the lake at three o’clock in the morn­ing, clean the lake, eat a hand­ful of hot grav­el, go to work at the mill every day for tup­pence a month, come home, and Dad would beat us around the head and neck with a bro­ken bot­tle, if we were lucky!

TG. Well we had it tough. We used to have to get up out of the shoe­box at twelve o’clock at night, and lick the road clean with our tongues. We had half a hand­ful of freez­ing cold grav­el, worked twen­ty‐​four hours a day at the mill for fourpence every six years, and when we got home, our Dad would slice us in two with a bread knife.

EI. Right. I had to get up in the morn­ing at ten o’clock at night, half an hour be­fore I went to bed, [pause for laugh­ter] eat a lump of cold poi­son, work twen­ty‐​nine hours a day down mill, and pay mill own­er for per­mis­sion to come to work, and when we got home, our Dad would kill us, and dance about on our graves singing “Hal­lelu­jah.”

MP. But you try and tell the young peo­ple to­day that . . . and they won’t be­lieve ya.

All. Nope, nope . . .