Diese Nachricht führte heute im Kollegenkreis zu recht unterschiedlichen Reaktionen. Vom düster-schaurigen “Gar nicht gut für den Aktienkurs, gar nicht gut!” über “Who cares if the shithead lives or dies anyway?” zu Geschichten über den Guten Steve, der sonntags durch die Straßen von Palo Alto geradelt ist und Kindern zugelächelt hat. Der sich nur aus reiner Gutmütigkeit, weil er seiner Marketingabteilung halt mal nichts abschlagen konnte, zum Gott stilisieren ließ und das eigentlich selbst nie gewollt hat, weil er viel zu bescheiden war… Am liebsten war mir der Kollege, der einmal mit seinem Auto beinahe mit Steve Jobs Auto zusammengestoßen wäre – und sehr bedauert, dass er diese Fünfminutenberühmtheit verpaßt hat.
Kommen die Apple-Store-Geniusses morgen ihrem Tagwerk wohl mit schwarzen Armbinden nach? Und ist eine Key-Note-Speech-App geplant, damit Apple-Afficionados nicht ohne die Worte des Propheten leben müssen? Es liegt im Bereich des Wahrscheinlichen.
Vor dem Apple-Store in Palo Alto waren heute gar Blumenkränze aufgereiht…
Als gutes Gegengewicht gegen die Hymnen auf Steve, den visionären Propheten, empfiehlt ein belesener Freund die Grabrede von John Cleese für Graham Chapman.
Graham Chapman, co-author of the ‘Parrot Sketch,’ is no more.
He has ceased to be, bereft of life, he rests in peace, he has kicked
the bucket, hopped the twig, bit the dust, snuffed it, breathed his
last, and gone to meet the Great Head of Light Entertainment in the sky,
and I guess that we’re all thinking how sad it is that a man of such
talent, such capability and kindness, of such intelligence should now be
so suddenly spirited away at the age of only forty-eight, before he’d
achieved many of the things of which he was capable, and before he’d had
enough fun.
Well, I feel that I should say, “Nonsense. Good riddance to him, the
freeloading bastard! I hope he fries. ”
And the reason I think I should say this is, he would never forgive me
if I didn’t, if I threw away this opportunity to shock you all on his
behalf. Anything for him but mindless good taste. I could hear him
whispering in my ear last night as I was writing this:
“Alright, Cleese, you’re very proud of being the first person to ever
say ‘shit’ on television. If this service is really for me, just for
starters, I want you to be the first person ever at a British memorial
service to say ‘fuck’!”
You see, the trouble is, I can’t. If he were here with me now I would
probably have the courage, because he always emboldened me. But the
truth is, I lack his balls, his splendid defiance. And so I’ll have to
content myself instead with saying ‘Betty Mardsen…’
But bolder and less inhibited spirits than me follow today. Jones and
Idle, Gilliam and Palin. Heaven knows what the next hour will bring in
Graham’s name. Trousers dropping, blasphemers on pogo sticks,
spectacular displays of high-speed farting, synchronised incest. One of
the four is planning to stuff a dead ocelot and a 1922 Remington
typewriter up his own arse to the sound of the second movement of
Elgar’s cello concerto. And that’s in the first half.
Because you see, Gray would have wanted it this way. Really. Anything
for him but mindless good taste. And that’s what I’ll always remember
about him—apart, of course, from his Olympian extravagance. He was the
prince of bad taste. He loved to shock. In fact, Gray, more than anyone
I knew, embodied and symbolised all that was most offensive and juvenile
in Monty Python. And his delight in shocking people led him on to
greater and greater feats. I like to think of him as the pioneering
beacon that beat the path along which fainter spirits could follow.
Some memories. I remember writing the undertaker speech with him, and
him suggesting the punch line, ‘All right, we’ll eat her, but if you
feel bad about it afterwards, we’ll dig a grave and you can throw up
into it.’ I remember discovering in 1969, when we wrote every day at the
flat where Connie Booth and I lived, that he’d recently discovered the
game of printing four-letter words on neat little squares of paper, and
then quietly placing them at strategic points around our flat, forcing
Connie and me into frantic last minute paper chases whenever we were
expecting important guests.
I remember him at BBC parties crawling around on all fours, rubbing
himself affectionately against the legs of gray-suited executives, and
delicately nibbling the more appetizing female calves. Mrs. Eric
Morecambe remembers that too.
I remember his being invited to speak at the Oxford union, and entering
the chamber dressed as a carrot—a full length orange tapering costume
with a large, bright green sprig as a hat—-and then, when his turn
came to speak, refusing to do so. He just stood there, literally
speechless, for twenty minutes, smiling beatifically. The only time in
world history that a totally silent man has succeeded in inciting a
riot.
I remember Graham receiving a Sun newspaper TV award from Reggie
Maudling. Who else! And taking the trophy falling to the ground and
crawling all the way back to his table, screaming loudly, as loudly as
he could. And if you remember Gray, that was very loud indeed.
It is magnificent, isn’t it? You see, the thing about shock… is not
that it upsets some people, I think; I think that it gives others a
momentary joy of liberation, as we realised in that instant that the
social rules that constrict our lives so terribly are not actually very
important.
Well, Gray can’t do that for us anymore. He’s gone. He is an ex-Chapman.
All we have of him now is our memories. But it will be some time before
they fade.