From Monty Python to Money Problems?! John Cleese at 85 Is Still Performing—But Not for Laughs

Ladies and gentlemen, gather ‘round, because the curtain has risen on the saddest, funniest, most Monty-Python-esque sketch of all time: the real-life tragicomedy of John Cleese.

Yes, the towering genius of absurdist humor, the man who once commanded global laughter with dead parrots and Ministry of Silly Walks, is now performing stand-up shows in dimly lit venues at the age of 85—not for fun, not for the thrill, not even for one last grasp at glory—but because, as one insider puts it bluntly, “the man needs the cash. ”

If that sentence doesn’t hit you like a custard pie to the face, maybe this will: the legendary comedian, who once redefined comedy itself, is apparently struggling to make rent while pondering how many ex-wives it takes to financially dismantle a comedy empire.

Spoiler alert: the answer is four.

And they’ve all left with their slices of the Cleese pie, leaving him with crumbs, bills, and an undying need to keep cracking jokes just to stay afloat.

Now, before you collapse in tears or laughter—or both—it’s important to understand that this isn’t some made-up Monty Python sketch.

This is John Cleese’s actual life.

Once upon a time, he was the golden boy of British comedy, part of a ragtag troupe of intellectual clowns who took the world by storm.

Monty Python wasn’t just a show, it was a revolution—sketches about lumberjacks, silly walks, and existential philosophy changed the cultural landscape forever.

Then came Fawlty Towers, one of the greatest sitcoms in history, a masterclass in timing, rage, and genius that cemented Cleese as not just funny, but god-tier funny.

The man had money, women, international acclaim, and a mustache that terrified anyone unlucky enough to check into his fictional hotel.

But fame, as Cleese himself might say, is a cruel mistress, and she came armed with alimony checks and a brutal punchline.

By his own admission, Cleese’s four divorces didn’t just dent his fortune—they bulldozed it.

One Hollywood divorce settlement reportedly drained him of $20 million, and though he told interviewers he was “happy to be rid of it,” his bank account clearly wasn’t.

Friends say Cleese jokes about it publicly but cries privately, often reminding them that it’s hard to keep a sense of humor when your accountant keeps sending you red-highlighted warnings.

“If I’d stayed single, I’d probably own Buckingham Palace by now,” Cleese allegedly quipped during one particularly bleak dinner party.

“Instead, I’ve got a one-bedroom flat in Bath and a half-used bus pass. ”

As if financial woes weren’t enough, loneliness has crept into the script.

Many of his closest friends—fellow Pythons, old colleagues, and long-time companions—have passed away.

The group that once gave us surreal sketches about knights who say “Ni” has been whittled down to a small, fragile handful.

Cleese, once surrounded by a circus of brilliance, now finds himself mostly alone, scribbling jokes and reminiscing about an era when the world seemed endlessly absurd instead of painfully cruel.

And yet, through it all, he still drags himself onto the stage.

Why? Because he’s John Cleese, and that’s what John Cleese does.

Critics are calling it “the saddest comedy tour ever,” but fans pack into theaters anyway, desperate to see their hero one last time.

“It’s like watching Shakespeare play Hamlet with a walker,” one fan whispered after a recent gig.

Another said, “He’s still funny, but now I laugh and cry at the same time, like when your granddad tells a dirty joke at Christmas and then forgets your name. ”

Audiences roar when Cleese delivers classic rants about bureaucracy, death, and the absurdity of existence, but beneath the laughs, there’s a haunting undertone: is this the swan song of a man who once ruled comedy, now forced to dance for his supper?

Fake experts have, of course, weighed in on the situation.

Dr. Penelope Grimshaw, a professor of “Celebrity Misfortune Studies” at a university no one has ever heard of, told us, “John Cleese embodies the cruel cycle of fame.

He soared too high, too fast, and now the very industry that worshiped him is forcing him to pass around a metaphorical hat. ”

Meanwhile, financial analyst Trevor Bixby put it more bluntly: “Four divorces.

That’s it.

That’s the analysis.

Don’t get married, kids. ”

The irony here is delicious, in a cruel, schadenfreude-laced way.

John Cleese made a career mocking the absurdities of life, and now life has turned him into its biggest joke.

Imagine Basil Fawlty himself, scrambling to pay off debts, raging at the universe, and booking stand-up tours not for artistic passion but because the gas bill is overdue.

It’s as if he has become his own character—a man trapped in an endless loop of frustration and comedic misery, except this time it’s not a sitcom.

It’s reality.

And reality, unlike the BBC, doesn’t pay residuals.

Of course, fans will argue that Cleese still has his dignity, and in a way, he does.

At 85, he still refuses to soften his humor.

His jokes are still sharp, his timing still impeccable, his bitterness still oddly comforting.

But make no mistake: this isn’t the triumphant farewell of a legend.

It’s the slow fade of a man who changed the world but can’t change the fact that bills keep coming.

His legacy is intact, sure, but legacies don’t pay for heating oil in the middle of a British winter.

Some insiders claim Cleese is actually enjoying the bleakness, leaning into it as material.

“He’s weaponizing his misfortune,” one tour promoter revealed.

“People want to hear about his divorces, his loneliness, his fading fame—it’s like stand-up therapy, except we’re the therapists and he’s paying us in ticket sales. ”

Others, however, worry that he’s simply too proud to admit how bad things have gotten.

“John’s the kind of man who would rather make a joke about being broke than ask for help,” an old colleague confessed.

“It’s very English.

Very Cleese.

Very tragic. ”

What makes this whole saga sting is that John Cleese isn’t just any comedian.

He’s the man who redefined the art form, the man who gave us “The Dead Parrot Sketch,” the man who inspired generations of comics from Rowan Atkinson to Tina Fey.

To see him reduced to this—old, broke, and performing out of necessity—is like watching Picasso forced to paint caricatures at a boardwalk for quarters.

It’s cruel.

It’s heartbreaking.

And it’s weirdly fitting for a man who always believed comedy should reveal life’s harshest truths.

So where does this leave John Cleese? On stage, under bright lights, still working, still laughing, still fighting back against the absurdities of life the only way he knows how.

He may not have millions in the bank, he may not have his old troupe by his side, he may not even have the energy to pull off a proper silly walk anymore—but he has his voice, his bitterness, and an audience that refuses to let him vanish quietly.

In the end, maybe this is the final Monty Python sketch: an 85-year-old legend, broke and alone, standing on a stage, poking fun at his own downfall, and reminding us that even when life is cruel, it’s still funny.

And maybe, just maybe, that’s the most fitting ending of all.

Because let’s face it: John Cleese is the punchline now.

And he knows it.

And damn it, he’s still making us laugh.