Oh God! Bills, bills, bills.
One is born, one runs up bills, one dies.
What have I got to show for it? Nothing.
A butler's uniform
and a slightly effeminate hairdo.
Sometimes I feel like a pelican - whichever way I
turn, I've still got an enormous bill in front of me.
Pass the biscuit barrel.
Let's see what's in the kitty shall we?
Nine pence. Oh God, what are we going to do?
Don't worry Mr B,
I have a cunning plan to solve the problem.
Let us not forget, that you tried to solve
the problem of your mother's low ceiling
by cutting off her head.
But this is a really good one.
You become a dashing highwayman,
then you can pay all your bills and, on top of that,
everyone'll want to sleep with you.
Baldrick, I could become a prost*tute
and pay my bills,
then everyone would want to sleep with me,
but I do consider certain professions beneath me.
And I fail to see why a thief should be idolised,
just because he has a horse between his legs.
My favourite's the Shadow. What a man! They say
he's halfway to being the new Robin Hood.
- Why only halfway?
- Well, he steals from the rich,
but he hasn't got round
to giving it to the poor yet.
Look, I've got a poster of him.
I have no desire to get hung
for wearing a silly hat.
If I want to get rich quick, all I have to do
is go upstairs and ask Prince Fathead for a rise.
The bank's open.
Good morning, sir.
May I say how immensely rich you're looking?
Was there anything you wanted? Anything at all?
Yes, I was wondering
if you could lend me a bit of cash.
But of course, sir, I... Cash?
Yes, I'm rotten stinking stoning stinking broke.
What about the , pounds
that Parliament voted you last week
to drink yourself to death with?
All gone I'm afraid. You see, I've discovered this
terrifically fun new game. It's called "cards".
You sit round the table with your friends,
and you deal out five "cards" each,
and then the object of the game is to
give away all your money as quickly as possible.
- Do you know it?
- Vaguely, sir, yes.
All the chaps say I'm terrific at it.
I was very bad at it. I always seemed to end up
with more money than I started with.
It's all down to practice.
I'm a natural apparently.
The only drawback
is that it's pretty damned expensive.
So I was wondering
if you could lend me a couple of hundred.
I'm afraid that's impossible. I'm as poor as a
church mouse that's just had an enormous tax bill
on the very day his wife ran off
with another mouse, taking all the cheese.
- What am I going to do?
- It's a difficult one.
Let's see now. You can't borrow money,
you're not going to inherit any money
and obviously you can't earn money.
Sir, drastic situations call for drastic measures.
If you can't make money, you'll have to marry it.
Marry? Never!
I'm a gay bachelor, Blackadder.
I'm a roarer, a rogerer, a gorger and a puker.
I can't marry.
I'm young, I'm firm buttocked, I'm...
- Broke?
- Well, yes, I suppose so.
And don't forget, sir, that the modern Church
smiles on roaring and gorging within wedlock,
and indeed rogering is keenly encouraged.
And the puking?
I believe still very much down to the
conscience of the individual churchgoer.
Well, tally-ho then, Blackadder.
Yes, you fix it up.
You know the kind of girls I like,
they've got to be lovers, laughers, dancers...
And bonkers.
That goes without saying.
- Oh God!
- Something wrong, Mr B?
I can't find a single person
suitable to marry the prince.
Please, keep trying, I love a royal wedding.
The excitement, the crowds, the souvenir mugs,
the worrying about
whether the bride's lost weight.
Unlikely with this lot. If the prince had stipulated
"must weigh a quarter of a ton" we'd be laughing.
Of the princesses in Europe,
are over , they're out,
are under , they're out,
and are mad.
They sound ideal.
They would be if they hadn't all got married
last week in Munich to the same horse.
- Which leaves us with two.
- And what about them?
Well, there's Grand Duchess Sophia of Turin -
we'll never get her to marry him.
- Why not?
- Because she's met him.
Which leaves?
- Caroline of Brunswick.
- What's wrong with her?
Get more coffee! Change it! Take me roughly
from behind! No, not like that, like this!
Trousers off! Tackle out! Walk the dog!
Where's my presents?!
Which one do you want me to do first?
No, that's what Caroline's like. She is famous
for having the worst personality in Germany.
And as you can imagine,
that's up against some pretty stiff competition.
- So you're stuck then.
- Yes, I'm afraid I am.
Unless...
Pass me the paper, Baldrick, quick.
Why has half the front page been cut out?
- I don't know.
- You do know, don't you?
Yes.
You've been cutting out the cuttings
about the elusive Shadow
to put in your
highwayman's scrapbook, haven't you?
I can't help it, Mr B. His life is so dark and
shadowy and full of fear and trepidation.
So is going to the toilet in the middle of the
night, but you don't keep a scrapbook on it.
I do.
Now, let's see, society pages.
You see, it needn't necessarily be a princess.
All the Prince wants
is someone pretty and rich.
Oh dear, that rules me out then.
Now, let me see.
"Beau Brummel in purple pants probe."
"King talks to tree. Phew! What a loony."
God, the Times has really gone downhill recently.
Aha! Listen to this:
"Mysterious northern beauty, Miss Amy Hardwood,
comes to London
and spends flipping great wodges of cash!"
That's our baby!
I don't know why I'm bothering to get dressed.
As soon as I get to the Naughty Hellfire Club
I'll be de-bagged
and radished for non-payment of debts.
- Radished, sir?
- They pull your britches down.
- And push a large radish right up your...
- Yes, all right, sir!
There's no need to hammer it home.
- As a matter of fact they do often have to...
- No! No!
- Your money worries are over, sir.
- Well, hurrah for that.
I have found you a bride. Her name is Amy,
daughter of the noted industrialist, Mr Hardwood.
Dammit, Blackadder,
you know I loathe industrialists.
Sad, balding, little proles
in their damn-your-eyes waistcoats.
All puffed up because they know where
to put the legs on a pair of trousers.
Believe me, sir, these people are the future.
This man probably owns half of Lancashire.
His family's got more mills
than you've got brain cells.
- How many mills?
- Seven, sir.
Quite a lot of mills then.
He has patented a machine called
"The Ravelling Nancy".
- What does it do?
- It ravels cotton, sir.
- What for?
- That I cannot say, sir.
I am one of these people who are quite happy
to wear cotton, but have no idea how it works.
She is also a beauty, sir.
Well, if she's gonna be my bird, she'd better be.
Right, so what's the plan?
I thought I could take her a short note
expressing your honourable intentions.
Yes, yes, I think so too.
All right then, take this down.
"From His Royal Highness the Prince of Wales
to Miss Amy Hardwood."
"Tally-ho, my fine saucy young trollop.
Your luck's in."
"Trip along here with all your cash,
and some naughty night attire,
and you'll be staring at my bedroom ceiling
from now till Christmas, you lucky tart."
"Yours with the deepest respect etc, signed George.
P.S. Woof! Woof!"
- Well, what do you think?
- It's very moving, sir.
Would you mind if I changed
just one tiny aspect of it?
- Which one?
- The words.
I'll leave the details to you, Blackadder.
Just make sure she knows I'm all man,
with a bit of animal thrown in.
Certainly, sir.
From his Royal Highness the Prince of Wales
to Miss Amy Hardwood:
"The upturned tilt of your tiny wee nosy,
smells as sweet as a great big posy."
- Fanciful stuff, madam, but from the heart.
- He says my nosy is tiny?
And wee, madam.
Well, he must be an awful clever clogs,
because you see, my nosy is tiny,
and so wee, that I sometimes think
the pixies gave it to me.
He continues:
"Oh, Lady Amy, Queen of all your sex".
I apologise for the word, madam,
but Prince George is a man of passion.
Don't worry,
I can get pretty cross myself sometimes.
I've heard a teensy rumour that the Prince
has the manners of a boy-cow's dingle dangle.
- What do you have to say to that?
- That is a lie, madam.
Prince George is shy and just pretends to be
bluff and crass and unbelievably thick and gittish,
whilst deep down he is a soft little marshmallowy,
pigletty type of creature.
Oh, I'm so glad.
You see, I'm a delicate tiny thing myself,
weak and silly and like a little fluffy rabbit.
So I could never marry a horrible heffalump,
or I might get squished.
Tell me,
when can I meet the lovely Prince?
You want to meet him?
If we're going to get married
I think I probably ought to.
I know! Tell him to come and serenade me
tonight. I'll be on my balcony in my jim-jams.
Certainly, madam.
Eh up! Who's this big girl's blouse, then?
Father, this is Mr Blackadder, he's come
a-wooing from the Prince.
- You have a beautiful and charming daughter.
- Indeed I do.
I love her more than any pig,
and that's saying summat!
It certainly is.
And let me tell you, I'd no more place her
in the hands of an unworthy man
than I'd place my John Thomas
in the hands of a lunatic with a pair of scissors.
An attitude that does you credit, sir.
I'd rather paint my bottom blue
than give her to a man who didn't love her.
What self-respecting father could do more?
On the other hand, if he's a prince,
he can have her for ten bob and a pickled egg.
- I can see where your daughter gets her wit, sir.
- I thank you.
Although where she gets her good looks
and charm is perhaps more of a mystery.
- No one ever made money out of good looks.
- You obviously haven't met Lady Hamilton, sir.
I tell you, Baldrick,
I'm not looking forward to this evening.
Trying to serenade a light fluffy bunny of a girl
in the company of an arrogant half German yob
with a mad dad.
- He is the Prince of Wales.
- Have you ever been to Wales, Baldrick?
- No, but I've often thought I'd like to.
- Well don't, it's a ghastly place.
Huge gangs of tough sinewy men roam the valleys
terrifying people with their close harmony singing.
You need half a pint of phlegm in your throat
just to pronounce the place-names.
Never ask for directions in Wales, Baldrick, you'll
be washing spit out of your hair for a fortnight.
- So being Prince of it isn't considered a plus?
- I fear not, no.
But the crucial thing is that they must never
be left alone together before the marriage.
- Isn't that a bit unfair on her?
- It's not exactly fair on him either.
The girl is wetter
than a haddock's bathing costume.
But you know, Baldrick, the world isn't fair.
If it was,
things like this wouldn't happen, would they?
What's the plan?
Shin up the drain and ask her if she'll take
delivery of a consignment of German sausage?
No, sir.
As we rehearsed: Poetry first, sausage later.
Right. So, what do you think?
"Harold the Horny Hunter" should do the trick.
Remind me of it, sir.
"Harold the Horny hunter,
had an enormous horn."
It is absolutely excellent, sir.
However, might I suggest an alternative?
"Lovely little dumpling, how in love I am."
"Let me be your shepherdkins,
you can be my lamb."
I think we'll be very lucky if she doesn't just
come out onto the balcony and vomit over us.
Let's give it a whirl.
Just stand right here, sir.
Call for her romantically.
Oy! Come on out here,
you rollicking trolloping sauce bottle!
- George?
- Woof! Woof!
Is that you?
Yes, 'tis I, your gorgeous little love bundle.
Oh, George, I think you must be the snuggly
wuggliest lambkin in the whole of toy-land.
Yucch!
What was that?
Nothing, there was just
a little fly in my throaty. Yucch, yucch...
Do you want a hanky wanky
to gob the phlegmy wemmy woo into?
Phwoah! Crikey!
What was that?
Is there someone down there with you?
No, it was just the wind
whistling through the trees
and making a noise that sounded like
"phwoaaaah crikeeeeeey".
Oh, joy!
Then come, Prince Cuddly Kitten, climb up my ivy.
Sausage time!
- There is someone down there with you!
- Oh my God, so there is.
- A filthy intruder spying on our love.
- Hit him, George, hit him!
Very well.
Would you mind screaming, Your Highness.
Take that! And that!
And that!
Oh, you're so brave!
And I'm so worn out with all the excitement
that I'd better go sleepy bobos,
otherwise I'll be all cross in the morning.
- Nighty-night, Georgy Porgy!
- Nighty-wighty, Amy Wamy.
I think it worked, sir.
In the morning I shall go in and ask her father,
you go out and start spending his money.
I can't stand meanness
when it comes to wedding presents.
- And well done, sir, you were brilliant.
- Was I?
- But I'm in agony!
- Well, that's love for you.
Sir, I come as emissary of the Prince of Wales
with the most splendid news.
- He wants your daughter Amy for his wife.
- Well his wife can't have her!
Outrageous, sir,
to come here with such a suggestion!
Mind, sir, or I shall take off my belt
and by thunder me trousers will fall down!
No, sir, you misunderstand.
He wants to marry your lovely daughter.
Ah, ah... Can it be possibly true?
Surely love has never crossed
such boundaries of class?
What about you and Mum?
I grant thee,
when I first met her, I was the farmer's son
and she was just the lass who ate the dung,
but that was an exception.
And Aunty Dot and Uncle Ted.
Yes, he was a pig poker
and she was the Duchess of Argyle, but...
And Aunty Ruth was a milkmaid
and Uncle Isiah...
The Pope!
Yes, yes, all right. Don't argue.
Suffice to say if you marry, we need never be
poor or hungry again. Sir, we accept.
So obviously you'll be wanting
an enormous ceremony... What did you say?
Well, obviously, now we're marrying quality,
we'll never be poor or hungry again.
- Are you poor and hungry at the moment?
- Oh yes!
We've been living off lard butties
for five years now.
I'm so poor
I use my underpants for drying dishes.
- So you're skint?
- Aye.
In that case, the wedding's off. Good day.
But what about George's lovey-wovey poems
that won my hearty-wearty?
All writteny-witteny by me-wee
I'm afraidy-waidy. Goodbye.
Sir, you know I told you to go out and spend a lot
of money on wedding presents, well apparent...
Yes?
Nothing.
Crisis, Baldrick, crisis!
No marriage, no money, more bills!
For the first time I've decided to follow a
suggestion of yours. Saddle Prince George's horse.
You're not becoming a highwayman, are you?
No, I'm auditioning for the part of Arnold the Bat
in Sheridan's new comedy.
Oh, that's all right then.
Baldrick, have you no idea what irony is?
Yeah, it's like goldy and bronzy,
only it's made of iron.
Never mind, never mind.
Just saddle the Prince's horse.
That'll be difficult, he wrapped her
round that gas lamp in the Strand last night.
Saddle my horse then.
What do you think you've been eating
for the last two months?
Well go out into the street and hire me a horse.
Hire you a horse? For ninepence?
On Jewish New Year in the rain?
A bare fortnight after the dreaded horse plague
of Old London Town?
With the blacksmith's strike in its fifteenth week
and the Dorset Horse-Fetishists fair tomorrow?
Right, well get this on then.
It looks as though you could do with the exercise.
Honestly, Papa. Ever since mother d*ed
you've tried to stop me growing up.
I'm not a little girl, I'm a grown woman.
In fact I might as well tell you now, Papa:
I'm pregnant, and I'm an opium fiend,
and I'm in love with a poet called Shelley,
who's a famous whoopsy.
And mother didn't die, I k*lled her!
Well, never mind.
Stand and deliver!
Oh no - disaster.
It's the Shadow - we're doomed, doomed.
Good evening, Duke, and the lovely
Miss Cheapside. Your cash-bags, please.
You'll never get away with this!
You'll be caught and damn well hung.
- I think he looks...
- Madam, please.
Not the jest about me looking
pretty well hung already, we have no time.
- Now, sir, turn out your pockets.
- Never, sir!
A man's pockets are his own private kingdom.
I'll protect them with my life.
Got something embarrassing in there, have you?
A particularly repulsive handkerchief, hm?
One of those fellows who has a big blow
and then doesn't change it for a week?
- Aha!
- Highwayman, I also have a jewel.
I fear however, that I have placed it here,
beneath my petticoat, for protection.
Well in that case I think I'll leave it.
I'm not sure I fancy the idea of a jewel
that's been in someone's pants.
A single kiss of those soft lips is all I require.
Never, sir!
A man's soft lips are his own private kingdom,
I shall defend them with my life.
I'm not talking to you, grandad.
Oh, I am overcome. Take me with you
to live the life of the wild rogue,
cuddling under haystacks
and making love in the branches of tall trees.
Sadly I must decline - I fear my horse would
collapse with you on top of him as well as me.
I could try.
- No, Quicksilver, you couldn't.
- That's not fair then.
I had you on my back for ten miles,
and I don't even get a kiss out of it.
All right, very well then...
- All fair now?
- Not really, no.
No pleasing some horses. Hi ho, Quicksilver!
Papa, you did nothing to defend my honour.
Oh, shut your face, you pregnant junkie f*g-hag.
Well, Baldrick, a good night's work, I think.
It's time to divide the loot. I think
it's only fair that we should share it equally.
Which I suppose is highwayman's talk
for you get the cash, I get the snotty hankie.
No, we did this robbery together,
so you get half the cash.
Thank you, Mr B.
This robbery, on the other hand, I'm doing alone.
Hand it over, your money or your life.
- There you see, all fair and above board.
- As long as I haven't been cheated I don't mind.
Hands up! I'm the Shadow, and I never miss.
Oh no.
- You, the one that looks like a pig.
- He's talking to you, Baldrick.
Scedaddle!
So... who have we here.
A well set up fellow indeed. Sir, a kiss.
- Sorry, I'm not sure I heard that correctly.
- Oh dear. Maybe your ears need unblocking.
Oh, a kiss! Of course. Then perhaps a light supper,
some dancing, who knows where it might lead.
- Good Lord, it's you!
- Of course!
- But your voice?
- Clever, isn't it?
- Does your father know you're out?
- He had to go.
- You mean he's dead?
- Yes. Dead as that squirrel.
Which squirrel?
Oh, that squirrel.
Of course! You k*lled him for ruining your chances
of marrying Prince George.
I despise the Prince.
Don't you know it's you I want.
I want a real man.
A man who can sew on a button.
A man who knows where the towels are kept.
And "yes", I crave your fabulous sinewy body.
Well, you're only human.
Here's the plan, brown eyes,
you rob the Prince of everything he's got,
right down to the clothes he's standing in.
I'll get my stash and meet you here.
Then we run away to the West Indies.
Well, I don't know, I'll have to think about it.
I've thought about it, it's a brilliant plan.
See you here tomorrow.
Right, I'm off.
But what about the danger?
Look, the reward is going up day by day.
I laugh in the face of danger.
I drop ice-cubes down the vest of fear.
Things couldn't be better, Baldrick.
She'll get me abroad and make me rich.
Then I'll probably drop her
and get two hundred concubines to share my bed.
Wouldn't that be rather prickly?
Concubines, Baldrick, not porcupines.
I still can't believe you're leaving me behind.
Don't worry - when we're established on our
plantation in Barbados, I'll send for you.
No more sad little London for you, Balders.
You'll stand out in life as an individual.
- Will I?
- Of course, all the other slaves will be black.
Oh, Mr Blackadder, what's all this I hear
about you buying a bathing-costume
and forty gallons of coconut oil.
Are you going abroad then, sir?
- Yes, I'm off.
- Oh, sir, what a tragic end to all my dreams.
And I'd always hoped you would marry me
and that together
we might await the slither of tiny Adders.
Mrs M, if we were the last three humans on earth
I'd be trying to start a family with Baldrick.
Here I am, all packed and ready to go.
Darling, I'm so pleased to see you.
And I've got a little surprise for you.
Close your eyes and open your mouth.
Hand over the loot, goat brains.
Ha ha ha! I always said the bedrock of a good
relationship is being able to laugh together.
- Good. Well done. So, which way to Barbados?
- You're not going to Barbados.
Get away from the cart, Mr Slimy,
or I'll fill you so full of lead
we could sharpen your head and call you a pencil.
This is turning into a really rotten evening.
You'd better make the most of it - it's your last.
And it's a pity, because it's usually
against my principles to sh**t dumb animals.
- Except squirrels?
- Yes. Bastards.
I hate them with their long tails
and their stupid twitchy noses.
I shall return at midnight to collect the loot -
when I'll fill you so full of holes
I could market you as a new English cheese.
Oh God, what a way to die.
sh*t by a tr*nsv*stite
on an unrealistic grassy knoll.
- Morning, Mr B.
- Baldrick!
Thank you for introducing me
to a genuinely new experience.
- What experience is that?
- Being pleased to see you.
- What are you doing here, you revolting animal?
- I've come for the Shadow's autograph.
- You know, I'm a great fan of the Shadow.
- Yes. Just untie me, Baldrick.
Has he gone? What a pity.
I wanted him to autograph my new poster.
Look, his reward's gone up
to ten thousand pounds.
Good Lord, ten thousand pounds -
that gives me an idea.
Take this cart-load of loot back to the palace
and meet me back here at midnight
with ten soldiers, a restless lynch-mob
and a small portable gallows.
Ha ha! Brekkers!
I could eat fourteen trays of it this morning
and still have room for a dolphin on toast.
Any particular reason
for this gluttonous levity, sir?
Well, what do you think, Blackadder?
I'm in love. I'm in love. I'm in love.
Oh, Amy, bless all ten of your tiny pinkies.
Now, let's see what's in the paper.
Oh my God! She's been arrested and hanged.
Really?
- It turns out she was a highwayman.
- These modern girls.
Apparently someone tipped off the authorities
and collected the ten thousand pounds reward.
What a greasy sneak.
If only I could get my hands on him.
- You can't trust anyone these days.
- It says here that she had an accomplice.
But they don't know who it was.
Oh, Amy, Amy, Amy, I shall never forget you.
Never ever never ever...
- Right, what's for breakfast?
- Kedgeree, sir.
Great. I didn't need to get married anyway.
I've got pots of money.
- Really?
- The most extraordinary thing happened.
I was a bit peckish during the night,
so I nipped downstairs to the biscuit barrel.
And do you know what I found inside?
Ten thousand pounds I never knew I had.
I've got so much money now
I don't know what to do with it.
- How about a game of cards, sir?
- Excellent idea!