The Dennis Moore Sketch
From Monty Python's Previous Record & TV Series
England, 1747 (Sounds of a coach and horses, galloping)
Cleese: Stand and deliver!
Chapman: Not on your life
(SHOT) ... aagh! (Girl screams)
Cl: Let that be a warning to you all. You move at your peril, for I have two pistols
here. I know one of them isn't loaded any more, but the other one is, so that's one of you
dead for sure...or just about for sure anyway. It certainly wouldn't be worth your while
risking it because I'm a very good shot. I practise every day...well, not absolutely every
day, but most days in the week. I expect I must practise, oh, at least four or five times
a week...or more, really, but some weekends, like last weekend, there really wasn't the
time, so that brings the average down a bit. I should say it's a solid four days' practice
a week...At least...I mean...I reckon I could hit that tree over there. Er...the one just
behind that hillock. The little hillock, not the big one on the...you see the three trees
over there? Well, the one furthest away on the right... (fade)
(Fade up again)
Cl: What's the... the one like that with the leaves that are sort of regularly veined
and the veins go right out with a sort of um...
Cl: Serrated edges.
Id: A willow!
Id: That's nothing like a willow.
Cl: Well it doesn't matter, anyway. I can hit it seven times out of ten, that's the
Id: Never a willow.
Cl: Shut up! It's a hold-up, not a Botany lesson. Now, no false moves please. I want
you to hand over all the lupins you've got.
Cl: Yes, lupins. Come on, come on.
Id: What do you mean, lupins?
Cl: Don't try to play for time.
Id: I'm not, but... the *flower* lupin?
Cl: Yes, that's right.
Jo: Well we haven't got any lupins.
Cl: Look, my friends. I happen to know that this is the Lupin Express.
Girl: Oh, here you are.
Cl: In a bunch, in a bunch!
Cl: Come on, Concorde! (Gallops off)
Chorus (sings): Dennis Moore, Dennis Moore, galloping through the sward,
Dennis Moore, Dennis Moore, and his horse Concorde.
He steals from the rich, he gives to the poor,