You look smart, Mr Blackadder.
Going somewhere nice?
- No, I'm off to the theatre.
- Don't you like it, then?
No, I don't! A lot of stupid actors strutting around
shouting, with their chests thrust out so far,
you'd think their nipples were attached
to a pair of charging elephants!
And the worst thing about it
is having to go with Prince Mini-Brain!
- Doesn't he like it, either?
- He loves it.
The problem is
that he doesn't realise it's made up.
Last year, when Brutus was about
to k*ll Julius Caesar, the Prince yelled out,
"Look behind you, Mr Caesar!"
I can't see the point in the theatre. All that sex
and v*olence - I get enough of that at home.
Except for the sex, of course.
I want you to give this palace a good clean. It's
so dirty, it'd be unacceptable to a dung-beetle
that had lost interest in its career
and really let itself go.
Come on, Blackadder,
or we'll miss the first act!
Coming, sir, as fast as I can!
Stick the kettle on, Baldrick.
Now, sir, give I this advice to thee:
Never, never, never trust thine enemy.
Agh!
Aaaaaagh!
Thy life is forfeit, sir...
Aaagh...
Thy life is forfeit, sir, and at an end,
like our poor play.
We hope it pleased you, friends.
Certainly not, you murdering rotter!
Guards, arrest that man!
- Your Highness, it's only a play.
- What about the poor fellow who's dead?
Saying "it's only a play" will not feed and clothe
the little ones he leaves behind. Call the militia!
Sir, he's not dead.
See, he stands, awaiting your applause.
Oh, I say, that's very clever.
He really isn't dead.
Bravo! Bravo!
- Blast, the Prince likes it!
- sh*t, we'll close tonight.
Work for the weavers! Smash the Spinning Jenny!
Burn the Rolling Rosalind! Destroy the Going Up
and Down a Bit and then Moving Along Gertrude!
And death to the stupid Prince
who grows fat on the profits!
I say, how exciting!
This play's getting better and better! Bravo!
It's not a play any more, sir.
Put the b*mb down
and make your way quietly to the exit.
Blackadder, your problem is, you can't tell
when something's real and when it's not.
I must say, Blackadder, that was a close shave.
Why on earth would an anarchist
possibly want to k*ll "you"?
- I think it might've been you he was after, sir.
- Hogwash! What on earth makes you say that?
Well, my suspicions were first aroused by his use
of the words "Death to the stupid Prince".
It was a bit rude, wasn't it?
These are volatile times, Your Highness. The
American Revolution lost your father the Colonies,
the French Revolution m*rder*d brave King Louis
and there are tremendous rumblings in Prussia,
although that might be something to do
with the sausages.
The whole world cries out, "Peace, freedom,
and a few less fat bastards eating all the pie".
Well, yes, quite, something must be done.
Any ideas?
Yes, sir. Next week
is your royal father's birthday celebrations.
I suggest that I write a brilliant speech
for you to recite,
to show the oppressed masses
how unusually sensitive you are.
Tell me about these "oppressed masses",
what are they so worked up about?
Because they are so poor,
they are forced to have children simply to provide
a cheap alternative to turkey at Christmas.
Disease and depravation stalk our land
like... two giant stalking things.
- And the working man is poised to overthrow us.
- Oh my God, and here he is!
- Don't be silly, sir. That's Baldrick, my dogsbody.
- He looks like an oppressed mass to me.
- Get him out of here at once!
- Shoo, Baldrick, carry on cleaning elsewhere.
By the end of tonight, I want that dining table
so clean I can eat my dinner off it.
Crikey, Blackadder, I'm dicing with death here.
The sooner I can show
how unusually sensitive I am, the better.
- Oh, I just had another brilliant thought.
- Another one, Your Highness?
Yes, another one, actually!
You remember that one I had about wearing
underwear on the outside to save on laundry bills?
Why don't we ask those two actors we saw tonight
to teach me how to recite your speech?
- Brilliant, eh?
- No, Your Highness, feeble.
What?
I would advise against it. It's a feeble idea.
Well, tish and pish to your advice, Blackadder!
Get them here at once!
I'm fed up with you treating me
as if I'm some kind of thickie.
It's not me that's thick, it's you!
I'm the bloody Prince and you're only a butler.
Now go and get those actors here this minute,
Mr Thicky-Black-Thicky-Adder-Thicky.
- Mrs Miggins, I'm looking for a couple of actors.
- Well, you've come to the right place, Mr B.
There's more Shakespearian dialogue in here
than there are buns.
All my lovely actors pop in on their way
to rehearsals for a little cup of coffee
and a big dollop of inspiration.
You mean they actually rehearse? I thought they
got drunk, stuck on a silly hat and trusted to luck.
Oh, no! There's ever so much hard work that goes
into the wonderful magic that is theatre today.
Still I don't expect you'd know much about that,
being only a little butler.
They do say, Mrs M,
that verbal insults hurt more than physical pain.
They are of course wrong, as you'll soon discover
when I stick this toasting fork in your head.
Ladies and gentlemen,
will you please welcome Mr David Keanrick.
- And the fabulous Mr Enoch Mossop.
- Hurrah! Gentlemen, gentlemen!
Settle down, settle down, settle down.
I'm sorry, no autographs.
- The usual, Mrs M.
- Coming up, my lovely.
Well, if I can just squeeze through
this admiring rabble.
Gentlemen, I've come with a proposition.
How dare you, sir. You think just because
we're actors we sleep with everyone.
I think, being actors,
you're lucky to sleep with anyone.
I come here on behalf of my employer,
to ask for some elocution lessons.
I fear, sir, that is quite impossible. We are
in the middle of rehearsing our new play.
We could not possibly betray our beloved audience
by taking time off.
Oh no, mustn't upset the punters.
Bums on seats, laddie, bums on seats.
And what play is this?
It is a piece we penned ourselves,
called "The Bloody m*rder of the Foul Prince
Romero and His Enormous-Bosomed Wife".
A philosophical work, then.
Indeed yes, sir.
The v*olence of the m*rder and the vastness of
the bosom are entirely justified artistically.
- Right, I'll tell the Prince that you can't make it.
- Prince?
Sorry, yes, didn't I mention that?
It's the Prince Regent. Shame you can't make it.
No, no, no, please, no. Please wait, sir.
Off, off!
- I think we can find some time, Mr Keanrick.
- Definitely, Mr Mossop.
No, you've got your beloved audience
to think about.
- Sod the proles! We'll come.
- Yes, worthless bastards to a man.
It's nice to see artistic integrity
thriving so strongly in the acting community.
This afternoon at four, then, at the Palace.
- Well, what do you think?
- Are you ill or something?
No, I'm simply trying to look more like an actor.
- I'm sure you don't need the false moustache.
- No?
Ow!
Egads, it's that oppressed mass again!
That is Baldrick spring cleaning.
Oh yes, so it is.
- Finish the job later, Baldrick.
- The cleaning or the being strangled?
Either suits me.
This is all getting a bit hairy, isn't it? Are you sure
we can even trust these acting fellows?
Last time, three of them m*rder*d Julius Caesar,
and one of them was his best friend Brutus.
As I've told you about eight times, the man
playing Julius Caesar was an actor called Kemp.
- Really?
- Yes.
Thundering gherkins! Brutus must have been
pretty miffed when he found out.
What?
That he hadn't k*lled Caesar after all,
just some poxy actor called Kemp.
Do you think he went to Caesar's place
after the play and k*lled him then?
Oh, God, it's pathetic!
- Is that the door?
- Don't worry, it's just the actors.
My uncle Baldrick was in a play once.
It was called Macbeth.
- And what did he play?
- Second codpiece.
Macbeth wore him in the fight scenes.
So he was a stunt codpiece?
Did he have a large part?
Depends who's playing Macbeth.
Incidentally, Baldrick, actors are very superstitious.
On no account mention the word "Macbeth"
this evening, all right?
It brings them bad luck
and it makes them very unhappy.
- Oh, so you won't be mentioning it either?
- No.
Well, not very often.
You should have knocked.
Our knocks, impertinent butler,
were loud enough to wake the hounds of hell.
- Lead on, McDuff.
- I shall.
Lest you continue in your quotation
and mention the name of the Scottish play.
Never fear, I shan't do that.
By the Scottish play,
I assume you mean Macbeth.
Hot potato,
off his drawers, pluck to make amends. Ow!
- What was that?
- We were exorcising evil spirits.
Being but a mere butler,
you will not know the great theatre tradition
that one does never speak
the name of the Scottish play.
What, Macbeth?
Hot potato, off his drawers,
pluck to make amends. Ow!
You mean you have to do that
every time I say "Macbeth"?
Hot potato, off his drawers,
pluck to make amends. Ow!
Will you please stop saying that!
Always call it "the Scottish play".
- You want me to say "the Scottish Play"?
- Yes!
Rather than "Macbeth"?
Hot potato, off his drawers,
pluck to make amends. Ow!
For heaven's sake, what is all this hullabaloo,
all this shouting and yelling blue m*rder?
It's like that play we saw the other day,
what was it called?
Macbeth, sir.
Hot potato, off his drawers,
pluck to make amends. Ow!
- No, no, it was called Julius Caesar.
- Ah yes, of course, Julius Caesar.
Not Macbeth.
Hot potato, off his drawers,
pluck to make amends. Ow!
- Are you sure you want these people to stay?
- I asked them, didn't I, Mr Thicky Butler.
Your Royal Highness, may I say
what a great honour it is to be invited?
- Why certainly.
- Thank you.
What a great honour
it is to be invited here
to make merry, in the halls
of our King's loins' most glorious outpouring.
Ugh!
Now, Your Highness,
shall we begin straight away?
- Now, I've got this...
- Before we inspect the script,
let us have a look at stance.
The ordinary fellow stands like,
well, as you do now.
Whereas your hero... stands thus.
Right, sort of like this...
Excellent, Your Highness. Even more so...
Like that?
- What was that noise?
- It wasn't me.
We are used to standing in this position.
It came from over here.
- Anarchist!
- Cleaner!
So you've had a wash, that's no excuse!
- That is Baldrick spring cleaning.
- But look, he's got a b*mb!
It's not a b*mb, sir, it's a sponge.
So it is.
Get it out of here at once before it explodes.
Now, stance. I'm sorry about that.
I think we really had something there.
Yes, Your Highness. Your very posture
tells me "Here is a man of true greatness".
Either that, or
"Here are my genitals, please kick them".
Sir, I really must ask that this ill-educated oaf
be removed from the room.
Get out! Your presence here is as useful as fine
bone china at a tea-party for drunken elephants.
Is that right? Well, yes, get out Blackadder,
and stop corking our juices.
Certainly, Your Highness.
I'll leave you to dribble in private.
- Something wrong, Mr B?
- I've had it up to here with that Prince.
- One more insult, and I'll hand in my notice.
- Does that mean I'll be butler?
Not unless some kindly surgeon cuts your head
open with a spade and sticks a new brain in it.
I don't know why I put up with it.
Every year at the Guild of Butlers' Christmas Party
I have to wear the red nose for winning the
"Who's got the stupidest master" competition.
All I can say is, he'd better watch out!
One more foot wrong and the contract between us
will be as broken as this milk-jug.
- But that milk-jug isn't broken.
- You really do walk into these things.
Excellent. And now, sir, at last, the speech.
Right.
No, Your Royal Highness.
What have you forgotten?
If I stand any more heroically than this,
I'm in danger of
seriously disappointing my future Queen.
No, Your Highness,
not the stance, the "roar".
- You want me to roar?
- Of course we wish you to roar.
All great orators roar before commencing
their speeches. It is the way of things.
Mr Keanrick, from your Hamlet, please.
Ooooooo, to be or not to be.
From your Julius Caesar.
Ooooooo, friends, Romans, countrymen...
From your leading character,
in a play connected with Scotland.
That's Macbeth, isn't it?
Hot potato, off his drawers,
pluck to make amends. Ow!
Let's all roar together, shall we?
One, two, three...
Oooooooo!
Excellent, Your Highness.
Now, shall we try putting it all together?
Rooooaaarr! Unaccustomed as I am...
No, no, no.
Alas, I fear you mew it like a frightened tree.
May I see the speech?
Who wrote this drivel?
Is there a problem with the speech?
Well, yes, there is a problem, actually.
The problem is that you wrote it,
Mr Hopelessly-Drivelly-
Can't-Write-For-Toffee-Crappy-Butler-Weed!
Whoops!
Shall I get their supper, sir?
Yes, preferably something that has first passed
through the digestive system of the cat.
- And you'll have to take it up yourself.
- Why?
Because I'm leaving, Baldrick.
I'm about to enter the job market.
Right, let's see. Situations vacant:
Mr and Mrs Pitt are looking for a baby-minder
to take Pitt the Younger to Parliament.
Some fellow called George Stevenson
has invented a moving kettle,
wants someone to help with the marketing.
Oh, there's a foreign opportunity here.
Treacherous, malicious,
unprincipled cad, preferably non-smoker,
wanted to be King of Sardinia.
No time wasters, please.
Apply to: Napoleon Bonaparte, PO Box , Paris.
Right! We're on our way!
Oh, sir, about costume... Any thoughts?
Well, enormous trousers, certainly,
and perhaps an Admiral's uniform, because
we know what all the nice girls love, don't we?
I'll tell you what,
why don't I go and try them on for you?
Help yourselves to wine. You'll need a stiff drink
when you see the size of these damn trousers.
- Oh, my dear, what a ghastly evening!
- You're so right, love.
Look, while he's gone,
why don't we have a quick read-through of
"The m*rder of Prince Romero
and His Enormous-Bosomed Wife"?
Act , Scene ?
"Spring has come, with all its gentle showers.
Methinks it's time to hack the Prince to death."
Baldrick, I would like to say how much I will
miss your honest and friendly companionship.
Ah, thank you, Mr B.
But as we both know, it'd be an utter lie.
I will therefore confine myself to saying simply,
"Sod off", and if I ever meet you again,
it'll be twenty billion years too soon.
Goodbye,
you lazy, big-nosed, rubber-faced bastard.
I fear, Baldrick, that you will soon be eating
those badly chosen words.
I wouldn't bet you a single groat that you
could survive five minutes here without me.
Come on, Mr B, it's not as though we're gonna get
m*rder*d or anything the minute you leave, is it?
Hope springs eternal, Baldrick.
Coming!
- Let's k*ll the Prince.
- Who shall strike first?
Let me, and let this dagger's point
prick out his soft eyeball
and sup with glee upon its exquisite jelly.
Have you the stomach?
I have not k*lled him yet, sir, but when I do,
I shall have the stomach and the liver, too,
and the floppily-doppilies in their horrid glue.
What if a servant should hear us in our plotting?
Then shall we have servant sausages for tea.
And servant rissoles shall our supper be.
m*rder! m*rder! The Revolution's started!
- What?!
- A plot, a plot to k*ll you!
Ah, so you've come clean at last, have you,
you bloody little poor person.
Not me - the actors downstairs,
they're anarchists!
I heard them plotting. They're gonna
poke out your liver, turn me into rissole,
and then suck on your
exquisite floppily-doppilies.
- What are we going to do?
- Mr Blackadder says,
"when the going gets tough,
the tough hide under the table".
- Blackadder, of course! Where is he?
- He's in Sardinia.
- What? Why?
- You were rude to him, so he left.
Oh no! What a mad, blundering, incredibly
handsome young nincompoop I've been.
What are we to do? If we go downstairs,
they'll chop us up and eat us alive.
We're doomed, doomed!
Good evening, Your Highness.
Four minutes and seconds, Baldrick.
You owe me a groat.
Thank God you're here!
We desperately need you!
Who, me, sir?
Mr Thicky-Black-Thicky-Adder-Thicky?
Oh tish!
Mr Hopelessly-Drivelly-
Can't-Write-For-Toffee-Crappy-Butler-Weed?
Yes, well...
Mr Brilliantly-Undervalued-Butler
who hasn't had a raise in a fortnight?
Take an extra thousand...
...guineas per month?
All right. What's your problem?
The actors have turned out to be
vicious anarchists! They intend to k*ll us all!
- What, are they going to bore us to death?
- No, s*ab us! Baldrick overheard them.
- Are you sure they meant it, sir?
- Quite sure.
- How far apart were their legs?
- This far.
- And their nipples?
- That far.
- They meant it, all right.
- All right, sir, I'll see what I can do.
To t*rture him, I lust.
Let's singe his hair,
and up his nostrils...
...hot bananas thrust.
- Rehearsals going well, gentlemen?
- Begone!
A mere butler with the intellectual capacity
of a squashed apricot can be of no use to us.
Indeed yes, sir. Your participation is as irritating
as a potted cactus in a monkey's pyjamas.
Well, in that case,
I won't interrupt you any longer.
Sorry to disturb, gentlemen.
Blackadder, thank God you're safe!
Well, what happened?
Sir, there was no need to panic.
It was all perfectly straightforward.
They're traitors, sir. They must be arrested,
brutally tortured and ex*cuted forthwith.
Bravo!
But Your Highness,
there's been a terrible mistake.
That's what they were bound to say, sir.
It was a play, sir, a play! Look, all the words
you heard were written down on that page.
Text book stuff again, you see. The criminals'
vanity always makes them make one tiny mistake.
Theirs was to have their entire conspiracy
printed and published in plain manuscript.
- Take them away!
- Mercy, we beg for mercy!
I have got only one thing to say to you... Macbeth!
Hot potato, off his drawers,
pluck to make amends.
Well done, Bladder! How can I ever thank you?
You can start by not calling me "Bladder", sir.
Macbeth!
Of course, Bladder. No sooner said than done.
No hard feelings?
No, sir. It's good to be back in the saddle.
Did I say saddle? I meant harness.
Bravo! So we're the best of friends
as ever we were. Hurrah!
In fact, now that the evil Mossop and Keanrick
have got their comeuppance,
the Drury Lane Theatre is free. I thought we might
celebrate by staging a little play that I've written.
Excellent idea! And with my new-found acting
skills, might there be a part in it for me?
I was hoping that you might play the title role.
What a roaringly good idea!
What's the play called?
"Thick Jack Clot Sits in the Stocks
and Gets Pelted with Rancid Tomatoes"
Excellent!