18

BRIGHT SIDE RETURNS

“Always look on the bright side of life” has probably been my subconscious motto throughout my life, but I never thought it would be a hit. And not just in the Top 10 charts. On January 20, 2009, it officially became the number one most requested song at British funerals, replacing Frank Sinatra’s “My Way.” It has remained there ever since. Beating out even Elvis. You’ve got to love the Brits. First of all, who would even have such a chart? And secondly, of course you don’t get paid for funerals, but hey, you take it where you can. It probably replaced “Spam, Spam, Spam” at Viking funerals.

As far as I was concerned, “Bright Side” was just the end song of a movie, but now it began to take on a life of its own. It began at Graham’s memorial. I was asked to sing it to close the event, as it was Graham’s favorite song, and it was one of the hardest things I have ever had to do. I was still singing it to Graham, but now for the final time. He had died with exquisite timing on October 4, 1989, the eve of Monty Python’s twentieth anniversary. We canceled a huge party we had planned, which wouldn’t have been what he wanted, but it was how we felt. It was a shock. This was one of us. Mike and Terry J. were with him at the end. John wept inconsolably. I was at home writing a song for him, “Life Will Get You in the End.” I finally finished it when George died.

A month before he died, Graham joined us filming Parrot Sketch Not Included: Twenty Years of Monty Python, a 72-minute celebration hosted by Steve Martin. I can still remember Steve’s shocked look of horror as he watched an emaciated Graham being carried in. Nobody had warned him. Graham had lost a lot of weight after two operations on his cancer but he was his usual cheery self, cracking jokes about his condition, and we all did a sketch together with Steve interviewing us as schoolkids. We did another shot where Steve asked to-camera where all the Pythons were today and then opened a closet. We were inside. It would be the last time we were all together. One final gag, and after it we took one final photo.

Monty Python. The Final Photo, 1989.

I had bumped into Graham at the Beverly Center in LA that January, and he had a big wide grin and looked hale and hearty and said he had a slight thing in his throat, nothing to worry about, but he was going back to London for a procedure. When I visited him at Cromwell Hospital after his second operation he looked in a very bad way, but he surprised me when he told me he was thinking of opening a longevity center! Perhaps he was joking. Maybe he was trying to cheer me up. Who knows, but it would be the last time I saw him.

On December 3, 1989, we all gathered in the packed Great Hall at St. Bartholomew’s Hospital for his memorial, where I had to sing “Always Look on the Bright Side of Life.” It was particularly hard to get through and I almost lost it. It was even harder because, thanks to John Cleese, the memorial had become a roast. He brilliantly broke the somber mood and turned solemn grief into relieving laughter with an outrageous parody of their “Dead Parrot” sketch.

“Graham Chapman is no more. He has ceased to be. Bereft of life, he rests in peace. He has rung down the curtain and joined the choir invisible. And I say good riddance to him, the freeloading bastard. I hope he fries. And I say that because if I hadn’t said something inappropriate he would never have forgiven me.”

It was one of John’s finest moments. It was inspired, it was fantastic, and he concluded by saying he would like to be the first to say “Fuck” at a British memorial. From that point on, the afternoon became uproarious. Michael spoke about how Graham was always late, and whenever he had to pick him up for rehearsal, various heads popped out of windows saying Graham would be down in about twenty minutes. Michael would sit fuming in his car for twenty minutes, until finally Graham would emerge for work. Michael ended his eulogy by saying, “I’m not very sentimental, but as I look around at all these great people, I like to think that Graham is here with us all today. Well, not now… but in about twenty minutes.”

How ironic that Graham, who was always late, left so early.

That really should have been it for the song, except that it wasn’t. Bizarrely, it was about to become a popular hit. I had become friendly with a neighbor, Gary Lineker, a brilliant footballer, the captain of England and Spurs and now the presenter of BBC’s Match of the Day.

One day in 1991, Gary said to me, “You know they’re singing your song on the terraces.” Apparently, football fans had taken to singing it when their sides were losing helplessly.

Always look on the bright side of life

Duh duh, duh duh duh duh duh duh…

Simon Mayo, a friend of Gary’s and a BBC Radio 1 DJ, began playing the song every morning on his breakfast show, so it was getting a lot of airplay. Because of this, Virgin Records rereleased it as a single on September 23, 1991, and to my surprise it began to rise up the pop charts. It was strangely exciting as each week it rose higher and higher. It eventually got to number three, where it peaked after I had been persuaded to sing it on Top of the Pops, a deliberately chaotic performance with John Du Prez leading the band. Simon Mayo said it was because I had sung it on Top of the Pops, and he may well have been right, but it did get to number one on the ITV charts, and, even more satisfying, it became number one in Ireland, which was great because the movie had been banned there, and the soundtrack album on Warner’s was withdrawn and pulled out of record stores after protests when it was first released. A fitting revenge.

Because it was such a hit, ITV asked me to sing it for the Queen on the Royal Variety Performance, an annual charity event, held that year at the Victoria Palace Theatre. I had grown up watching this show, which featured every top artist and the best comedians from Britain and America. Even the Beatles had been on it, and John Lennon had said cheekily, “The people in the cheaper seats, clap your hands. And the rest of you, if you’d just rattle your jewelry.” Tommy Cooper, a wonderfully funny British comedian, had died on it, collapsing backwards through the curtains at the end of his set to a huge laugh. Everyone thought he was joking. Shockingly, he was dead. A great way to go, though. So of course I said yes.

Traditionally on the show there was a classical moment from the opera or ballet, where the audience would nod off for a bit. I decided to use this to play a gag on them. David Frost introduced Ann Howard, my singer friend from the English National Opera, in an aria from Madame Butterfly, and the curtain rose to reveal a beautiful set with a little Japanese bridge on which stood Lieutenant Pinkerton in his naval whites. Ann was dressed in a kimono with a black wig and knitting needles in her hair, and at her feet was a Japanese maid lying prostrate in a kowtow. She began the famous aria:

One fine day we’ll notice…

I could feel the posh audience sinking down in their seats, beginning to take a nap. After a minute or two, Ann pulled out a Japanese sword to kill herself. At her feet, the little Japanese maid raised up.

“Stop,” I said, for I was playing the maid. I began to sing:

Some things in life are bad

They can really make you mad…

The audience went nuts. They laughed themselves silly. Nobody had seen this coming. I could see the Queen in the Royal Box laughing out loud.

And…

Always look on the bright side of life…

Ann Howard watched in stunned amazement as six sumo wrestlers came on whistling. I pulled off my kimono to reveal an English football kit, and we began to fill the stage with some of the classic acts I remembered from when I was a kid: the Tiller Girls (the British Rockettes) high-kicking across the front of the stage, followed by the Dagenham Girl Pipers playing their bagpipes.

“Why the Dagenham Girl Pipers?” Prince Philip said to me afterwards, still giggling.

“Because no Royal Variety Performance would be complete without the Dagenham Girl Pipers,” I replied.

We ended up with dancing men in top hats and tails, a full Welsh choir, and a British regimental band playing along loudly. Then I led the whole ensemble offstage and exited through the center of the stalls with the audience clapping and singing along. It was a lovely moment, and the gag worked even better than I had imagined. John Du Prez of course conducted and arranged the whole thing. Afterwards the Queen was still laughing when I was introduced to her, and what made it even better was that behind her was Lord Delfont, who had canceled Life of Brian.

“I told them, Bernie, I said, they’ll never make their money back…”