For generations of American comedy fans, John Cleese has embodied a certain idea of Britain. His long face, angular features, and stiff, vaguely aristocratic bearing suggested the quintessential Englishman: formal, reserved, faintly pompous, easily befuddled, and perpetually irritated by the stupidity of everyone around him.

He rode that comic persona to international fame, first as a member of Monty Python, whose surreal sketches became a cult phenomenon on American public television in the 1970s, then in the troupe's hit films "Monty Python and the Holy Grail" and "Life of Brian." In 1988, he found mainstream Hollywood success with "A Fish Called Wanda," playing a stuffy English barrister opposite Jamie Lee Curtis and Kevin Kline. Back home, he was also Basil Fawlty, the permanently exasperated hotelier of the classic sitcom "Fawlty Towers."

In 2019, Cleese took to Twitter to declare that London was "no longer an English city," repeating an observation he had first made in 2011.

Now, at 87, Cleese has become a symbol of a very different Britain — one in which the absurdities he spent his career ridiculing have acquired new forms and where his criticism of Islam has prompted someone to report him to the government's counter-extremism program, Prevent.

For decades, Cleese made a living mocking the conventions of a Britain that was insular, socially conservative, and fiercely protective of its traditions. Its stuffy manners, rigid hierarchies, and reverence for authority provided endless material for Monty Python.

A very British blasphemy

In their first original feature film, "Monty Python and the Holy Grail," the Pythons sent up Arthurian legend, medieval superstition, and religious ritual. But when they turned their attention more directly to Christianity in "Life of Brian," they discovered something surprising: Jesus wasn't particularly funny. They had initially considered making a comedy about Christ himself, but the more they read about him, the less material they found. As fellow Python Michael Palin explained in 1979, there was very little in Jesus' life worth ridiculing.

Instead, they invented Brian, an ordinary fellow living in Roman-occupied Judea who is mistaken for the Messiah. The film satirized human gullibility, religious zealotry, and political factionalism. As Reg, the revolutionary leader, Cleese memorably spoofed left-wing factionalism. Asked if he belonged to the Judean People's Front, he replied: "F**k off! … Judean People's Front. We're the People's Front of Judea!"

Christian critics failed to see the distinction. In a notorious 1979 BBC debate, Cleese and Palin defended the film against Malcolm Muggeridge and Mervyn Stockwood, the Bishop of Southwark, who accused them of mocking Christ. The Pythons insisted they were making fun of people who misunderstood religious teaching.

The controversy proved enormously profitable. The film was banned in Ireland and Norway, while some British councils prohibited screenings. But protests only increased public interest. "Life of Brian" became Britain's fourth-highest-grossing film of 1979, and Cleese later joked that the protesters had made him rich.

Nearly half a century later, the stakes appear considerably higher. What was once a cultural controversy, fought out in cinemas, newspapers, and television studios, now threatens to become a matter for the state. The guardians of public morality have changed, and so have the means at their disposal.

Yelling at clouds?

To his critics, Cleese's increasingly outspoken views are simply the predictable grumblings of an old man drifting toward conservatism. In a 2019 Independent column, Caspar Salmon lamented that the comedian who once delighted in mocking English pomposity and small-mindedness had become reactionary himself. Comedy thrives on undermining the status quo, Salmon argued, but successful comedians can eventually become part of it.

It's a familiar accusation, but it overlooks something rather important: The status quo itself has changed beyond recognition.

Christianity remains fair game for British comedy, to say the least. The second season of the acclaimed BBC series "Fleabag" featured its sexually adventurous heroine falling for — and eventually seducing — a Catholic priest. But when the subject turns to Islam, the boundaries of acceptable ridicule become considerably more contentious.

These changing sensitivities have accompanied a staggering demographic transformation. In 2001, White British residents accounted for 59.8% of London's population. By the 2021 census, that figure had fallen to 36.8%. Over the same period, the capital's Muslim population more than doubled, from approximately 607,000 in 2001 to 1.32 million in 2021, rising from 8.5% to 15% of Londoners.

Cleese has been marking the changes for years. In 2019, he took to Twitter to declare that London was "no longer an English city," repeating an observation he had first made in 2011.

For his crime of noticing, he was slammed by the usual suspects. Mayor Sadiq Khan likened him to Basil Fawlty, while fellow comedian Dom Joly called his remarks — you guessed it — "very racist."

Opposing 'Anglophobia'

Cleese has rejected the predictable charges of Islamophobia, insisting that his objections are cultural rather than racial, and wondering whether practices including stoning, halal slaughter, wife-beating, and Sharia courts could themselves be considered a form of "Anglophobia."

"The UK has always been based at the deepest level on Christian values, regardless of dogma," he posted on X in March. "Despite the many mistakes made by churches, for centuries British people have been influenced by Christ's teaching. If these values are replaced by Islamic ones, this will not be Britain any more."

In another post, he wrote: "I personally prefer a culture that does not approve of FGM [female genital mutilation], Child Marriage and Killing Infidels."

This distinction has not been enough to keep Cleese in the good graces of Britain's reigning cultural commissars. Indeed, these were among the posts cited in the complaint that landed him in his current predicament.

That complaint, publicized by the Muslim news website 5Pillars, accused Cleese of a sustained pattern of anti-Muslim rhetoric. His social media posts, the complainant alleged, portrayed Muslims collectively as violent and criminal, potentially contributing to radicalization and communal tensions.

The irony is that Prevent was originally established to combat Islamist radicalization. It has since expanded to other forms of extremism. Now a program conceived to prevent Islamist terrorism has received a complaint about a comedian criticizing aspects of Islam.

Cleese responded with characteristic good humor. "One of the proudest moments of my life," he wrote on X. "I would like to thank everyone concerned."

The episode comes amid a broader effort by the British government to define and combat hostility toward Muslims. In March, it adopted a new definition of anti-Muslim hostility. Although non-statutory and explicitly protecting criticism and even ridicule of Islam, critics fear it could be used to suppress legitimate debate through institutional pressure — effectively creating a new blasphemy taboo without passing a blasphemy law.

Don't mention the war

The changes Cleese objects to aren't confined to immigration or religion. Even his own comedy has fallen foul of modern sensitivities.

In 2020, BBC-owned UKTV temporarily removed "The Germans," one of the most celebrated episodes of "Fawlty Towers," from its streaming service because of offensive language. Cleese publicly attacked BBC management, calling its decision-makers "cowardly and gutless and contemptible." The episode was subsequently reinstated with a content warning.

For Cleese, the absurdity was obvious. Major Gowen was supposed to be an old fool, and the audience was laughing at his prejudices, not being invited to share them. That such a distinction needed explaining to television executives was itself worthy of a Monty Python sketch.

For Cleese, the absurdity was obvious. Basil Fawlty was supposed to be an idiot. The audience was laughing at his prejudices, not being invited to share them. That such a distinction needed explaining to television executives was itself worthy of a Monty Python sketch.

Cleese can sometimes seem like the last bastion of resistance to the BBC's crusade to appoint itself the nation's chief comedy censor. In September 2026, the corporation cut 11 sketches from "That Mitchell and Webb Look" for its release on iPlayer, including sketches satirizing racism. The same month, it emerged that the BBC had also removed an entire episode of the children's educational sketch show "Horrible Histories" featuring slavery in ancient Rome and the exploitation of Victorian child workers. Those cuts, the BBC clarified, had actually been made seven years earlier to comply with its guidelines for children's programming.

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This pathological fear of offending extends into everyday life. A 2021 survey found that more than half of Britons under 30 had stopped talking to someone over their political opinions. And according to research published by the BBC in 2026, 37% of 16- to 24-year-olds said they couldn't be friends with someone who held different views.

Against this backdrop, Cleese's transformation from self-described "slightly left of centre" Liberal Democrat to public supporter of Rupert Lowe's Restore Britain party looks less like the predictable crankiness of old age than a response to a country that has changed around him.

To his credit, Cleese has refused to retreat into comfortable retirement as a national treasure. In 2023, he hosted "The Dinosaur Hour," a GB News talk show filmed in a 12th-century castle, complete with wandering cats, actors dressed as nuns, and other Monty Python-esque absurdities.

The title was a joke at his own expense. Cleese pitched the show to the unfashionable and out of touch, a demographic he cheerfully counted himself among. Given complete creative freedom, he spent the hour discussing everything from politics and the press to creativity and religion with guests including Stephen Fry, Trevor McDonald, and Lionel Shriver.

Although "The Dinosaur Hour" ended after 10 episodes, Cleese has hardly withdrawn from the fray. In 2026, he returned to British theaters with a tour celebrating the 50th anniversary of "Monty Python and the Holy Grail," introducing screenings and fielding questions from audiences. He has already announced more dates for 2027, under the suitably Cleese-like title "Still Not Dead (Yet)."

In a country where police made more than 12,000 arrests under laws governing offensive and malicious communications in 2023 alone, it's refreshing to see a near-nonagenarian with the gumption to give the establishment a kick up the arse — two replacement hips and an artificial knee be darned. Those of us Britons born after Monty Python's heyday could stand to follow his example.