I'm a Lumberjack ...

This sketch appeared originally in Monty Python's Flying Circus, Series 1, Show 6, "The Ant - An Introduction." We have made some changes to reflect later performances and also a few just for fun. The casting here is a bit odd as the cast did pretty much change with each performance. The original mountie chorus consisted of the Fred Tomlinson Singers, John Cleese, and Graham Chapman, but they were joined by Eric Idle and the Terrys for And Now for Something Completely Different. In the Hollywood Bowl Michael Palin was replaced by Eric Idle, and Connie Booth by Carol Cleveland, and the mountie chorus consisted of the remaining Pythons and Neil Innes. We have selected the Michael Palin versions as our own. Many of the images on this page come courtesy of Monty Python's Flying Circus in Australia, one of my all-time favorite Python sites. Thus they will only work when their page is working. You can link to their site from the Links page of PythoNET. In addition, there is a song which goes with this sketch, and if you want to sing along you should get the MIDI. And now, the Lumberjack sketch.

Customer : Morning.

Barber : (flinching slightly) Ah ... g-good morning sir, good morning. I'll be with you in a minute.

(The customer settles, smiling, into the barber's chair. Our barber carries on washing. He seems to be over-thoroughly washing and rewashing his hands and lower arms. The customer, waiting too long, tries a bit of small talk.)

Customer : Nice day, isn't it?

(The barber turns and smiles humorlessly at his customer. He is still washing.)

Barber : Y-yes.

(He looks back down.)

Customer : Good day for a bit of sport.

(The barber looks back up, wild-eyed.)

Barber : Y-yes, yes. I-I like the outdoor life. Hunting, shooting, fishing... Getting out there with a gun, slaughtering a few of God's creatures - that's the life. Charging about the moorland, blasting their heads off...

(At last he has finished washing. He dries his hands thoroughly, turns and comes over to the customer, and we see that there are very obvious blood stains on his coat and his lapel is torn off. One stain seems to be the mark of a bloodstained hand which has slipped down the length of it. He picks up a sheet and shakes it out, and there is a clatter of iron and heavy objects falling on the floor. He throws it around the customer. As he knots the sheet at the back he seems about to pull it tight and strangle the customer. His face sweats, a murderous look flashes in his eyes. Then with a supreme effort he controls himself. The customer smiles reassuringly up at him.)

Barber : How... how would you like it, sir?

Customer : Just short back and sides, please.

Barber : H-how do you do that?

Customer : Well, ah, it's just... ordinary short back and sides...

Barber : It's not a ... razor cut? (suddenly) Razor, razor, cut, CUT, BLOOD, SPURT, ARTERY, MURDER... (controlling himself) Oh thank God, thank God. (sigh of relief) It's just a scissors...

Customer : Yes... (He laughs, thinking the barber must be having a little joke.)

Barber : You wouldn't rather just have it combed, would you sir?

Customer : I beg your pardon?

Barber : You wouldn't rather forget all about it?

Customer : (still playing along) No, no, no, I want it cut.

(At the word 'cut' the Barber winces.)

Barber : Cut, cut, CUT, BLOOD, SPURT, ARTERY, MURDER, HITCHCOCK, PSYCHO... Right sir ... well ... (swallows hard) I'll just get everything ready. In the meanwhile perhaps you could fill in one of these?

(He hands him a bit of paper and a pen.)

Customer : All right, fine, yes.

(Our barber heads over to a small cabinet and opens it; on the inside of the door there is a large medical chart with the heading 'Main Arteries.' His shaking hand traces the arteries and he looks occasionally back at the customer.)

Customer : Excuse me, er...

Barber : What?

Customer : Where it says 'next of kin' shall I put 'mother'?

Barber : Yes, yes ... yes.

(He scribbles a bit and hands the form over to his faithful hairstylist.)

Customer : Right, there we are.

Barber : Thank you.

(He gets scissors and comb ready and comes up behind the customer and spreads his arms out, snipping the air as barbers do before cutting.)

Barber : Right!

(But he can't bring himself to start cutting. After one or two attempts he goes to the cupboard again, gets a bottle of Red Eye out and takes a hard swig. He comes up behind the customer again, and stands there for a moment. With a deep breath he pulls out the scissors and makes a single snip, several inches above his client's actual head.)

Barber : Ha, ha, ha ... there, I've finished.

Customer : What?

Barber : I've finished cutting... cutting... cutting your hair. It's all done.

Customer : You haven't started cutting it!

Barber : I have! I did it very quickly, your honor... Sir! Sir...

Customer : (getting rather testy) Look here, old fellow! I know when a chap's cut my hair and when he hasn't. So will you please stop fooling around and get on with it?

Barber : (dejectedly) Yes. Yes, I will, I'm going to cut your hair, sir.

(The barber bends down to the floor and drags out a tape recorder which he places behind the chair, talking as he does so.)

I'm going to start cutting your hair, sir, start cutting... NOW!

(He switches on the tape recorder and cowers down against the wall as far from the chair as he can get, trembling.)

Tape Recorder : Nice day, sir.

Customer : Yes, flowers could do with a drop of rain though, eh?

(snipping sounds)

Tape Recorder : Did you see the match last night, sir?

Customer : Yes. Good game, I thought.

(snipping sounds, and the hum of an electric razor)
Tape Recorder : I thought Hurst played well, sir.

Customer : (straining to hear) I beg your pardon?

(tape-recorded razor stops)

Tape Recorder : I thought Hurst played well!

Customer : Oh yes ... yes ... he was the only one who did though.

Tape Recorder : Could you put your head down a little, sir?

Customer : Sorry, sorry. (he bows his head)

Tape Recorder : I prefer to watch Palace nowadays. (electric razor starts up again) Oh! Sorry! Was that your ear?

Customer : No no ... I didn't feel a thing... (Suddenly he sees the tape recorder behind him) ...Hey!

(The customer rises out from his seat angrily, ripping the sheet off himself. He turns round and sees the cowering barber.)

Customer : Look, what's going on?

Tape Recorder : Yes, it's a nice spot, isn't it.

Customer : Look, I came here for a haircut!

Barber : (pathetically) It looks very nice, sir.

Customer : (angrily) It's exactly the same as when I first came in!

Tape Recorder : Right, that's the lot then.

(The Barber switches the machine off and shuffles over to his customer, head lowered.)

Barber : All right, I confess. I haven't cut your hair ... I hate cutting hair. I have this terrible un-un-uncontrollable fear whenever I see hair. When I was a kid I used to hate the sight of hair being cut. My mother said I was a fool! She said the only cure for it was to become a barber. So I spent FIVE GHASTLY YEARS at the Hairdressers' Training Centre at Totnes!

(He grabs the customer's coat and stares pathetically into his eyes)

Can you imagine what it's like... cutting the SAME HEAD for five years?

(He lets go and stares into space.)

I didn't want to be a barber anyway. I wanted to be... a lumberjack!

(A visonary glow suffuses his face and he begins to walk slowly out of the darkened shop.)

Leaping from tree to tree as they float down the mighty rivers of British Columbia! The Fir! The Larch! The Redwood! The mighty Scots Pine!

(He tears off his barber's jacket to reveal a tartan shirt and lumberjack trousers underneath. The singing of a choir begins to rise up in the background...)

The plucky little Aspen! The great limping rude tree of Nigeria!

(He darts out of the shop and in the next shot he is in full lumberjack regalia, standing in the midst of a mighty Canadian forest.)

The smell of fresh-cut timber! The crash of mighty trees!

(As he leaps he takes the hand of a frail adoring blonde, the heroine of many a mountaineering film, or perhaps the rebel maid. She clings to his side and looks adoringly into his eyes. The choir is loud now and there is music as well.)

With my best gal by my side, we'd sing, SING...

(A fanfare is struck and the Lumberjack launches into song.)

Oh, I'm a lumberjack, and I'm okay!
I sleep all night and I work all day.

(A small chorus of Canadian mounties has by now joined in.)

Mounties : He's a lumberjack, and he's okay!
He sleeps all night and he works all day.

Lumberjack : I cut down trees, I eat my lunch,
I go to the lavatory.
On Wednesdays I go shoppin'
and have buttered scones for tea.

Mounties : He cuts down trees, he eats his lunch,
he goes to the lavatory.
On Wednesdays he goes shoppin'
and has buttered scones for tea.

All: He's a lumberjack, and he's okay.
He sleeps all night and he works all day!

Lumberjack : I cut down trees, I skip and jump,
I like to press wild flowers.
I put on women's clothing
and hang around in bars!

Mounties : He cuts down trees, he skips and jumps,
he likes to press wild flowers.
He puts on women's clothing
and hangs around in bars?!

(A brief, confused pause.)

All: ...He's a lumberjack, and he's okay!
He sleeps all night and he works all day!

Lumberjack : I cut down trees, I wear high heels,
suspenders and a bra!
I wish I'd been a girlie,
just like my dear papa!

Mounties : He cuts down trees, he wears... high heels?
Suspenders... and a bra?!

(The music cuts off as the mounties stop singing and begin instead to yell at the Lumberjack.)

Wants to be a girlie?!

...Poofter! Bloody poofter!

One Mountie : Pinko commie fairy faggot...

(The Lumberjack assumes a majestic pose but it is of little use. He looks worriedly back and forth.)

His Girl: Oh, Bevis! And I thought you were so RUGGED!!

(She runs off crying, and the Mounties begin to pelt the Lumberjack with tomatoes, booing. He wipes them off his face as best he can, but they keep coming. Eventually he shuffles dejectedly out of the scene.)

(Longish pause. The Mounties, still in group formation, shake their heads. Then one of them looks up at the camera and points.)

Mounties : (suddenly) He's a lumberjack, and he's okay!
He sleeps all night and he works all day!
He's a lumberjack, and he's okaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaay...

(This last note they hold for over half a minute)

Sleeps all night and he works all day!

Dear Sir,

I wish to complain on the strongest possible terms about the previous entry in this webpage about the lumberjack who wears womens' clothes. Some of my best friends are lumberjacks, and only a few of them are transvestites.

Yours faithfully,
Brigadier Sir Charles Arthur Strong (Mrs.)

P.S. : I have never kissed the editor of the Radio Times.

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