Graham Chapman was a loony. You can tell that from this book. After all it took four men to write his autobiography. Pretty fair, since it took about four men to live his life. There was the quiet pipe-smoking tweed jacketed doctor, who could elucidate complicated medical facts to the layman while calmly diagnosing and dispensing medicines; there was the quiet pipe-smoking writer, who could sit all day painting his nails with gestetner fluid occasionally interjecting the oddest comments, squawks, shouts of “Betty Marsden” and injunctions to sing “Only Make Believe” in a squeaky voice; there was the quiet pipe-smoking homosexual, who could calmly bring a party of Japanese boys down for breakfast in an extremely bourgeois German suburban hotel, causing the manageress conniptions and ending in a request that he move to a more suitable establishment; and there was the quiet pipe-smoking alcoholic, who could reduce any drinks party to a shambles by consuming half a distillery and then crawling round the floor kissing all the men and groping all the women. But he wasn’t all fun.