Monty Python star Terry Jones was a comedy messiah AND a very naughty boy

BRITISH comedy has lost one of its greatest innovators.

Terry Jones, who died aged 77 following a five-year battle with dementia, turned Monty Python’s Flying Circus into something completely different.

He dispensed with traditional punchlines, cutting instead from one absurd idea to another, which gave the BBC sketch show its uniquely surreal slant from the moment it was first broadcast in 1969.

Revelling in “silliness”, he often dressed up as middle-aged women, most memorably Brian's battleaxe mum in hit movie Life Of Brian, complete with the famous line: "He's not the messiah - he's a very naughty boy."

His classic sketches include regular appearances as a nude man playing an organ, a ­waitress only offering spam to customers and morbidly obese diner Mr Creosote, who explodes after eating a “wafer-thin mint”.

But Jones was just as ­unconventional in his private life as he was on-screen.

This “very naughty boy” enjoyed an open marriage with his first wife, Alison Telfer, before going on to have a child with Swedish-born academic Anna Soderstrom, who was 41 years his junior.

Despite Anna being younger than the children from his first relationship, they wed eight years ago and she was by his side when Jones passed away.

The “donnish” comedian shunned the showbiz life, preferring to study medieval history in his spare time at home in London.

While fellow Pythons Michael Palin and John Cleese became acting stars, Jones opted to write books and direct films.

Palin, who met Jones as a student at Oxford and later wrote sketches with him for The Two Ronnies in the 1970s, last night paid tribute to his close pal who died on Tuesday.

He said: “He was far more than one of the funniest writer-performers of his generation. He was the complete Renaissance comedian — writer, director, presenter, historian, brilliant children’s author, and the warmest, most wonderful company.”

Just one week after Jones was born in Colwyn Bay, North Wales, his father Alick was shipped off to India with the RAF. World War Two was raging — and he would not see his dad for another four years.

Months later the family moved to Claygate, Surrey, where Alick — who was an old-fashioned tyrant in the home — became a bank clerk.

At seven, Jones wrote in an essay that he was going to be an actor when he grew up. But after leaving Royal Grammar School in Guilford he chose to study history at Oxford University.

While performing with the university’s Oxford Revue comedy group, he met Palin and their talents were soon spotted by TV producers. They appeared together on the sketch shows Twice A Fortnight and Do Not Adjust Your Set before going on to form Monty Python.

Jones, Palin, Cleese, Graham Chapman, Eric Idle and Terry Gilliam tore up the rule book, initially baffling viewers with their wacky sketches. The audience at the recording of the first episode, Jones recalled, were OAPs “who thought they were coming in to see a circus”.

He added: “Graham and I were doing the flying sheep sketch and there was not a lot of reaction to it. Just ­bewildered pensioners.”

Its audience on BBC2 was small at first, but word spread about this radical new comedy. Last night Cleese told how Jones wrote “sketches unlike any of us others”, such as the joke which could kill anyone with laughter, and was “absolutely at his best when he was over-the-top”.

Complaints about rude words and bad taste led to BBC chiefs censoring scripts, and after four series the show ended in 1974. There were also tensions between the six Pythons, all vying to get their own material on screen.

Jones joked: “I only ever threw a chair at John once... I think.” He also admitted to not getting along with Chapman off-screen — but the Pythons’ in-fighting did not stop them making movies together.

Jones co-directed Monty Python And The Holy Grail with Gilliam. The historical spoof was funded by rock bands Pink Floyd, Led Zeppelin and Genesis — but the budget was so tight it could not stretch to horses for the knights.

So the Pythons turned it into a gag, with servants mimicking the clopping sound of hooves with coconut shells.

Life Of Brian, Jones’s second stint as movie director, seemed doomed when EMI Films pulled out two days before shooting was due to begin because of the ­controversial “religious” storyline. Beatle George Harrison rode to the rescue, mortgaging his home to raise funds.

The film, which sees the title character mistaken for the Messiah, went on to be banned in Norway and by several British local councils. It is now considered by many to be the greatest British comedy movie of all time.

Cleese said: “If I had to give a class on how to shoot comedy I would show Life Of Brian.” After Chapman died of cancer in 1989 the Pythons went their own ways, occasionally collaborating on movies.

In 1987 Jones directed Personal Services about brothel madam Cynthia Payne. He followed it two years later with Erik The Viking, starring Tim Robbins, which was based on his books for children.

But his home life contained material unsuitable for a ­family audience. He met first wife Alison at Oxford after she threw up in the front row while he was on stage. They only hooked up after graduating and ­married in 1970. The couple had two children — Sally, 45, and Bill, 43.

In 1995 Jones confessed they had an “open marriage” and admitted that he often felt jealous of Alison’s lovers. His research biochemist wife was furious that he had gone public about their unusual set-up but forgave him.

What she could not tolerate, though, was Jones admitting he had fallen in love with Anna in 2005 due to her tender age. Anna was a 21-year-old student when she met the then 62-year-old star at a book signing.

Alison demanded Jones leave their home in Camberwell, South London, and he moved in with Anna in Hampstead, North London. In 2009 Anna gave birth to Terry’s daughter Siri.

He said at the time: “I’ve a reasonable chance of living another 20 years, so Siri will be in her twenties.”

Tragically, those hopes were dashed when he showed signs of memory loss in 2013 — a year after marrying Anna — and was diagnosed with ­frontotemporal dementia.

The condition, which gradually robbed Jones of his speech, brought the divided family back together. An old friend told Alison: “You should have lunch with him and see him while he can still communicate.”

Soon afterwards she started caring for Jones every other weekend, taking him for walks and going swimming. He died at his North ­London home with Anna by his side.

His family said in a statement: “His wife, children, extended family and many close friends have been ­constantly with Terry as he gently slipped away. We have all lost a kind, funny, warm, creative and truly loving man.”

Jones did not die wealthy. Even the 2014 sell-out Python reunion shows at the O2 in London were not enough to pay off his mortgage. But he leaves behind a priceless legacy — laughter that will live on for all time.

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