Blackadder the Third (series 3)

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Blackadder: Well, Mrs Miggins, at last we can return to sanity. The hustings are over, the bunting is down, the mad hysteria is at an end. After the chaos of a general election, we can return to normal.
Mrs Miggins: Has there been a general election, Mr Blackadder?
Blackadder: Indeed there has, Mrs Miggins.
Mrs Miggins: I didn't hear of it.
Blackadder: Of course you didn't. You're not eligible to vote.
Mrs Miggins: Why not?
Blackadder: Because virtually no one is - women... peasants... [gestures to Baldrick] Chimpanzees... lunatics... lords.
Baldrick: That's not true - Lord Nelson's got a vote.
Blackadder: He's got a boat, Baldrick. Marvellous thing, democracy. Look at Manchester - population: sixty-thousand, electoral roll: three.
Mrs Miggins: I may have a brain the size of a sultana...
Blackadder: Correct.
Mrs Miggins: ...But it hardly seems fair to me.
Blackadder: Of course it's not fair, and a damn good thing too - give the like of Baldrick the vote and we'll be back to cavorting with druids, death by stoning and dung for dinner.
Baldrick: I'm having dung for dinner tonight.
Mrs Miggins: So, who are they electing when they have these elections?
Blackadder: Oh, the same old shower. Fat Tory landowners who get made MPs when they reach a certain weight. Raving revolutionaries who think just because they do a day's work that somehow gives them the right to get paid. Basically, it's a right old mess: toffs at the top, plebs at the bottom and me in the middle making a fat pile of cash out of both of them.
Mrs Miggins: You'd better watch out, Mr Blackadder - things are bound to change.
Blackadder: Not while Pitt the Elder's Prime Minister, they aren't. He's about as effective as a cat flap in an elephant house. As long as his feet are warm and he gets a nice cup of milky tea in the sun before his morning nap, he doesn't bother anyone until his potty needs emptying.

Blackadder: Your Highness, if I may make so bold, a major crisis has arisen in your affairs.
Prince George: Yes, I know, Blackadder, I've been pondering it all morning.
Blackadder: You have, sir?
Prince George: Yes. Socks - run out again! Why is it that no matter how many millions of pairs of socks I buy, I never seem to have any?
Blackadder: Sir, with your forgiveness, there is another, even weightier problem.
Prince George: They just disappear! Honestly, you'd think someone was coming in here, stealing the damn things and then selling them off!
Blackadder: [chuckles] Impossible, sir - only you and I have access to your socks.
Prince George: Yes, that's true. Still, for me, socks are like sex - tons of it about, but I never seem to get any.
Blackadder: If we could return to the business at hand, I read fearful news in this morning's paper.
Prince George: Oh no. Not another little cat caught up in a tree?
Blackadder: No, sir, there is a vote afoot in the new parliament to strike you from the Civil List.
Prince George: [dismissively] Oh, yes, yes, yes. But what are they gonna do about my socks?
Blackadder: Sir, if this bill goes through, you won't have any socks.
Prince George: Well, I haven't got any socks at the moment!
Blackadder: ...Or trousers, shirts, waistcoats or pantaloons - they're going to bankrupt you.
Prince George: They can't do that! Why, the public love me! Only the other day, I was out in the street and they sang "We hail Prince George! We hail Prince George!"
Blackadder: "We hate Prince George", sir - "We hate Prince George".
Prince George: Was it really?
Blackadder: I'm afraid so, sir. However, all is not lost. Fortunately, the numbers in the Commons are exactly equal - if we can get one more MP to support us, then we are safe.
Prince George: Well, hurrah! Any ideas?
Blackadder: Yes, sir. There is one man who might just be the ace up our sleeve: a rather crusty, loud-mouthed ace named Sir Talbot Buxomly.
Prince George: Never heard of him.
Blackadder: That's hardly surprising, sir. Sir Talbot has the worst attendance record of any member of parliament. On the one occasion he did enter the House of Commons, he passed water in the Great Hall, and then passed out in the Speaker's Chair. But if we can get him to support us, then we are safe.
Prince George: What's he like?
Blackadder: Well, according to Who's Who, his interests include flogging servants, shooting poor people, and the extension of slavery to anyone who hasn't got a knighthood.
Prince George: Excellent! Sensible policies for a happier Britain.
Blackadder: However, if we want his support, he will need some sort of incentive.
Prince George: Such as?
Blackadder: Well, you could appoint him a High Court Judge.
Prince George: Is he qualified?
Blackadder: He's a violent, bigoted, mindless old fool.
Prince George: Sounds a bit over-qualified. Well, get him here at once.
Blackadder: Certainly, sir. I shall return before you can say 'antidisestablishmentarianism'.
Prince George: Well, I wouldn't be too sure about that! [tries to announce the word spoken by Blackadder] Antidistibilitsmin... anti-misty-linstimbl... [two days later] Anti-disinctly-minty-money...
Blackadder: [enters, accompanied by Sir Talbot Buxomly] Your Highness, Sir Talbot Buxomly, MP.
Prince George: Ah, Buxomly! Roaring happy to have you here. How are you, Sir?
Sir Talbot Buxomly: Heartily well, Your Highness! I dined hugely off a servant before I came into town.
Prince George: Uh... you eat your servants?
Sir Talbot Buxomly: No, sir - I eat off them - why should I spend good money on tables when I have men standing idle?
Prince George: Why indeed? Now, I'm sure you've heard of Mister Pitt's intentions-
Sir Talbot Buxomly: Young scallywag!
Prince George: Ah, so you don't approve of his plans to abolish me, then?
Sir Talbot Buxomly: I do not, sir! Damn his eyes! Damn his britches! Damn his duck pond!
Prince George: Well, hurrah for that.
Sir Talbot Buxomly: I care not a jot that you are the son of a certified sauerkraut-sucking loon. It minds not me that you dress like a mad parrot and talk like a plate of beans negotiating their way out of a cow's digestive system. It is no skin off my rosy nose that there are bits of lemon peel floating down the Thames that would make better regents than you! The fact is... you are Regent [Prince George in the background: Yes, I am...] appointed by God, and I shall stick by you forever, though infirmity lay me waste and ill-health curse my every waking moment! [sits down in a chair opposite to the Prince]
Prince George: Well, good on you, sir. And don't talk to me about infirmity. Why, sir, you are the hardy stock that is the core of Britain's greatness! [Blackadder notices something wrong with Sir Talbot and walks over to have a look] You have the physique of a demigod, purple of cheek, plump of fetlock, the shapely ankle on the well-filled trouser that tells of a human body in perfect working order!
Blackadder: [checking Sir Talbot's pulse] He's dead, sir.
Prince George: Dead?
Blackadder: Yes, Your Highness.
Prince George: Oh, what hard luck. We were rather getting on.
Blackadder: We must move at once.
Prince George: In which direction?
Blackadder: Sir Talbot represented the constituency of Dunny-on-the-World, and by an extraordinary stroke of luck, it is a Rotten Borough.
Prince George: Really? Is it? Well, lucky lucky us. Lucky lucky luck. [starts to briefly behave like a chicken with his speech] Luck-luck lakk-lakk-lakk-lakk-cluck-cluck-cluck-cluck-cluck-lakk-lakk-lakk!
Blackadder: You don't know what a Rotten Borough is, do you, Sir?
Prince George: No.
Blackadder: So what was the chicken impression in aid of?
Prince George: Well, I just didn't want to hurt your feelings.

Blackadder: Right. Now all we have to do is fill in this MP application form. "Name"?
Blackadder & Baldrick: Baldrick.
Blackadder: First name?
Baldrick: I'm not sure.
Blackadder: You must have some idea.
Baldrick: Well, it might be Sodoff.
Blackadder: What?
Baldrick: Well, when I used to play in the gutter, I used to say to the other snipes "Hello, my name's Baldrick", and they'd say "Yes, we know. Sod off, Baldrick".
Blackadder: ...All right, right, right, right. "Mr S. Baldrick". Now then, "Distinguishing features"... None.
Baldrick: Well, I've got this big growth in the middle of my face.
Blackadder: That's your nose, Baldrick. "Any history of insanity in the family?" I'll cross out the "in". [he does this act] "Any history of sanity in the family?" ... None whatsoever. "Criminal record?"
Baldrick: Absolutely not.
Blackadder: Oh, come on, Baldrick, you're going to be an MP, for God's sake! I'll just put "Fraud and sexual deviancy". Now, "Minimum bribe level?"
Baldrick: One turnip. Oh, hang on, I don't want to price myself out of the market.
Blackadder: Baldrick, I've always been meaning to ask: do you have any ambitions in life apart from the acquisition of turnips?
Baldrick: Uh, no.
Blackadder: So what would you do if I gave you a thousand pounds?
Baldrick: [grins] I'd get a little turnip of my own.
Blackadder: So what would you do if I gave you a million pounds?
Baldrick: Oh, that's different. I'd get a great big turnip in the country.

Blackadder: [enters, accompanied by Pitt the Younger] Your Highness, Pitt the Younger.
Prince George: Why, hello there, young shaver m'lad! Say, I have a shiny sixpence for the clever fellow who can tell which hand it's in. [Pitt doesn't respond] Oh, school, school. On half hols, is it? I bet you can't wait to get that bat back in your hand and give those balls a good walloping, eh?
Blackadder: Mister Pitt is the Prime Minister, sir.
Prince George: Oh, go on! Is he? What, young Snotty here?
Pitt the Younger: I'd rather have a runny nose than a runny brain.
Prince George: Eh?
Blackadder: Excuse me, Mister Prime Minister, but we have some lovely jelly in the pantry - I don't know if you'd be interested at all.
Pitt the Younger: Don't patronise me, you lower middle class yobbo. What flavour is it?
Blackadder: Blackcurrant.
Pitt the Younger: EURGH!
Prince George: I say, Blackadder, are you sure this is the PM? Seems like a bit of an oily tick to me. When I was at school, we used to line up four or five of his sort, make them bend over, and use them as a toast rack!
Pitt the Younger: You don't surprise me, sir - I know your sort. Once, it was I who stood in the cold schoolroom, a hot crumpet burning my cheeks with shame. But since that day, I have been busy every hour God sends, working to become Prime Minister, and fight sloth and privilege wherever I find it!
Blackadder: I trust you weren't too busy to remove the crumpet.
Pitt the Younger: You will regret this, gentlemen! You think you can thwart my plans to bankrupt the Prince by winning the Dunny-On-The-Wold by-election.. but you will be thrashed! I intend to put my own brother up as a candidate against you.
Blackadder: And which Pitt would this be? Pitt the Toddler? Pitt the Embryo? Pitt the Glint in the Milkman's Eye?
Pitt the Younger: Sirs, as I said to Chancellor Metternich at the Congress of Strasbourg, pooh to you with knobs on! We shall meet, sirs, on the hustings! [leaves]
Prince George: I say, Blackadder, what a ghastly squit! He's not gonna win, is he?
Blackadder: No, sir, because, firstly, we shall be fighting this campaign on issues, not personalities. Secondly, we shall be the only fresh thing on the menu. And thirdly, of course, we'll cheat!

[Baldrick has become the new MP for Dunny-On-The-Wold]
Blackadder: We are reprieved. It is a triumph for stupidity over common sense.
Baldrick: Thank you very much.
Blackadder: As a reward, Baldrick, take a short holiday. Did you enjoy it? Right. Back to work.
Prince George: [waking suddenly] Oh, Blackadder! BLACKADDER! [Blackadder walks in]
Blackadder: Your Highness?
Prince George: What time is it!?
Blackadder: Three o'clock in the afternoon, sire.
Prince George: [relieved] Oh thank God for that, I thought I'd overslept!
Blackadder: I trust you had a pleasant evening, sir?
Prince George: Well, no, actually. The most extraordinary thing happened. Last night I was having a bit of a snack at the Naughty Hellfire Club, and some fellow said that I had the wit and sophistication of a donkey!
Blackadder: An absurd suggestion, sir.
Prince George: You're right, it is absurd.
Blackadder: Unless, of course, it was a particularly stupid donkey.
Prince George: See, if only I'd thought of that.
Blackadder: It is all too often, sir, that one thinks of what one should have said long after he might have said it. Sir Thomas More, for instance, beheaded for refusing to recant his Catholicism, must have been kicking himself as the axe came down that it never occurred to him to say "I recant my Catholicism."
Prince George: Yes. Only the other day, Prime Minister Pitt called me an idle scrounger. And it wasn't until ages later that I thought how clever it would have been to have said "Oh, bugger off, you old fart!". I want to improve my mind, Blackadder. I want people to say "That George, he's as clever as a stick in a bucket of pig swill!".
Blackadder: And how do you suggest this miracle be achieved, sir?
Prince George: Easy. I shall become best friends with the cleverest man in England. That renowned brain-box, Doctor Samuel Johnson, has asked me to be patron of his new book, and I intend to accept.
Blackadder: Would this be the long-awaited dictionary?
Prince George: Who cares what it's called, as long as it's got plenty of juicy murders. I hear it's a masterpiece.
Blackadder: No, sir. It's the most pointless book since How To Learn French was translated into French.
Prince George: You haven't got anything personal against Johnson, have you, Blackadder?
Blackadder: Not at all, sir. In fact, I had never heard of him until you mentioned him just now.
Prince George: But you do think he's a genius, don't you?
Blackadder: No, sir, I do not. Unless, of course, the definition of 'genius' in his ridiculous dictionary is "A fat dullard or wobblebottom. A pompous ass with sweaty dew flaps."
Prince George: Close shave there, then. Lucky you warned me, Blackadder. I was about to embrace this unholy arse to the royal bosom.
Blackadder: I am delighted to have been instrumental in keeping your bosom free of arses.
Prince George: Bravo. Don't want to waste my time with wobblebottoms. Fetch some tea, will you?
Blackadder: Yes, sir.
Prince George: Oh, and make it two cups, would you? That splendid brain-box, Doctor Johnson, is coming over.
Blackadder: Certainly, sir.

Blackadder: [reading Baldrick's 'novel'] "Once upon a time, there was a lovely little sausage called Baldrick, and it lived happily ever after."
Baldrick: It's semi-autobiographical.
Blackadder: And it's completely, utterly awful. Doctor Johnson will probably love it.

Prince George: So, Doctor Johnson, sit ye down. Now, this book of yours, what's it about?
Doctor Johnson: It is a book about the English language, sir.
Prince George: I see. And the hero's name is what?
Doctor Johnson: There's no hero.
Prince George: No hero? Lucky I reminded you, then. Uh, call him George. 'George' is a nice name for a hero. Now, what about heroines?
Doctor Johnson: There is no heroine, sir, unless it is our mother tongue.
Prince George: The mother's the heroine? Nice twist. So, how far have we got? Old Mother Tongue is in love with George the Hero. Now, what about murders? Mother Tongue doesn't get murdered, does she?
Doctor Johnson: No, she doesn't. No one gets murdered, or married, or in a tricky situation over a pound note!
Prince George: Now, Doctor Johnson, I may be as thick as a whale omelette, but even I know a book's got to have a plot.
Doctor Johnson: Not this one, sir. It is a book that tells you what English words mean.
Prince George: I know what English words mean. I speak English. You must be a bit of a thicko.
Doctor Johnson: Perhaps you would rather not be patron of my book if you can see no value in it whatsoever, sir.
Prince George: Well, perhaps so, sir! Because it seems to me that my being patron of this complete cowpat of a book will set to seal, once and for all, my reputation as an utter turnip head!
Doctor Johnson: It is a reputation well-deserved, sir! Farewell!

Blackadder: Baldrick, where's the manuscript?
Baldrick: You mean the big papery thing tied up with string?
Blackadder: Yes, Baldrick, the manuscript belonging to Doctor Johnson.
Baldrick: You mean the baity fellow in the black coat who just left?
Blackadder: Yes, Baldrick, Doctor Johnson.
Baldrick: So you're asking where the big papery thing tied up with string belong to the baity fellow in the black coat who just left is?
Blackadder: Yes, Baldrick, I am. And if you don't answer, then the booted boney thing with five toes on the end of my leg will soon connect sharply with the soft dangly collection of objects in your trousers. For the last time, Baldrick, where is Doctor Johnson's manuscript?
Baldrick: On the fire.
Blackadder: On the what?
Baldrick: The hot orangey thing under the stoney mantlepiece.
Blackadder: You've burnt the dictionary?!
Baldrick: Yup!
Blackadder: You've burnt the life's work of England's foremost man of letters?
Baldrick: Well, you did say 'burn any old rubbish.'
Blackadder: Yes. Fine.
Prince George: Isn't it, uh - isn't it going to be a bit difficult for me to patronise this book if we've burnt it?
Blackadder: [pause] Yes, it is, sir. But if you would excuse me a moment...
Prince George: Of course, of course! Now that I've got my lovely fire, I'm as happy as a Frenchman who's invented a pair of self-removing trousers!
Blackadder: Baldrick, would you join me in the vestibule?
[The pair leave the room, and Blackadder closes the doors behind him; immediately after doing so, he forcefully grabs Baldrick by the shoulders, and pushes him down the length of the hallway.]
Blackadder: [firmly] We are going to go to Mrs. Miggins, we're going to find out where Dr. Johnson keeps a copy of that dictionary, and then you are going to steal it.
Baldrick: Me?
Blackadder: Yes, you.
Baldrick: Why me?
Blackadder: Because you burnt it, Baldrick!
Baldrick: But then I'll go to hell forever for stealing.
Blackadder: Baldrick, believe me: eternity in the company of Beelzebub and all his hellish instruments of death will be a picnic compared to five minutes with me...[Blackadder produces a pencil from his coat]...and this pencil...if we can't replace this dictionary. Now, come on...

Lord Shelley: O lovelorn ecstasy that is Mrs Miggins, wilt thou bring me but one cup of the browned juicings of that naughty bean we call coffee, 'ere I die?
Mrs Miggins: Oh, you do have a way with words about you, Mr Shelley!
Lord Byron: To hell with this fine talk! Coffee, woman! My consumption grows ever more acute, and Coleridge's drugs are wearing off!
Mrs Miggins: Oh, Mr Byron, don't be such a big girl's blouse!

Blackadder: Sir, I have been unable to replace the dictionary. I am therefore leaving immediately for Nepal, where I intend to live as a goat.
Prince George: Why?
Blackadder: Because if I stay here, Doctor Johnson and his companions will have me brutally murdered.
Prince George: Good god, Blackadder, that's terrible! Do you know any other butlers?
Blackadder: Of course, when the people discover that you have burnt Doctor Johnson's dictionary, they may go around saying "Look, there's Thick George. He's got a brain the size of a weasel's wedding tackle."
Prince George: Well, in that case, something must be done!
Baldrick: I have a cunning plan, sir.
Prince George: Hurrah! Well, that's that, then.
Blackadder: I wouldn't get too excited, sir. I have a strong suspicion Baldrick's plan will be the stupidest thing we've heard since Lord Nelson's famous signal at the Battle of the Nile - "England knows Lady Hamilton is a virgin. Poke my eye out and cut off my arm if I'm wrong."
Prince George: Great. Let's hear it.
Baldrick: It's brilliant. You take the string - that's still not completely burnt - you scrape off the soot, and you shove the pages in again.
Blackadder: Which pages?
Baldrick: Well, not the same ones, of course-
Blackadder: Yes, I think I'm on the verge of spotting the flaw in this plan. But do go on. Which pages?
Baldrick: Well, this is the brilliant bit - you write some new ones.
Blackadder: Some new ones. You mean rewrite the dictionary. I sit down tonight and rewrite the dictionary that took Doctor Johnson ten years.
Baldrick: Yup.
Blackadder: Baldrick, that is by far and away, and without a shadow of doubt, the worst and most contemptible plan in the history of the universe. On the other hand, I hear the sound of disemboweling cutlasses being sharpened, and it's the only plan we've got.

Prince George: We didn't take no for an answer and have, in fact, been working all night. I've done 'B'.
Blackadder: Really? And how far have you gotten?
Prince George: Well, I had a bit of trouble with 'belching', but I think I got it sorted out in the end. [burps] Oh no! There I go again! [laughs]
Blackadder: You've been working on that joke for some time, haven't you, sir?
Prince George: Well, yes, as a matter of fact, I have.
Blackadder: Since you started?
Prince George: Basically.
Blackadder: So, in fact, you haven't done any work at all?
Prince George: Not as such.
Blackadder: Great. Baldrick, what have you done?
Baldrick: I've done 'C' and 'D'.
Blackadder: Right, let's have it then.
Baldrick: Right. "Big, blue wobbly thing that mermaids live in."
Blackadder: What's that?
Baldrick: 'Sea'.
Blackadder: Yes. Tiny misunderstanding. Still, my hopes weren't high. What about 'D'?
Baldrick: I'm quite pleased with 'dog'.
Blackadder: Yes, and your definition of 'dog' is?
Baldrick: "Not a cat."
Blackadder: Excellent. Excellent! Your Highness, may I have a word?
Prince George: Certainly.
Blackadder: As you know, sir, it has always been my intention to stay with you until you had a strapping son, and I one likewise to take over the burdens of my duties.
Prince George: That's right, Blackadder, and I thank you for it.
Blackadder: But I'm afraid, sir, there's been a change in plans. I'm off to the kitchen to hack my head off with a big knife.
Prince George: Oh, come on, Blackadder! It's only a book! Let's just damn the fellow's eyes, strip the britches from his backside and ward his heels to Putney Bridge! Hurrah!
Blackadder: Sir, these are not the days of Alfred the Great. You can't just lop someone's head off and blame it on the vikings.
Prince George: Can't I, by god?
Blackadder: No.
Prince George: Alright then, well, just get on with it! I mean, boil my brains, it's only a dictionary. No one's asked us to eat ten raw pigs for breakfast. Good lord, I mean, we're British, aren't we? [exits]
Blackadder: [sotto] You're not, you're German. Get me some coffee, Baldrick. If I fall asleep before Monday, we're doomed.

Lord Shelley: Ho, sir, bring out the dictionary at once!
Lord Byron: Bring it out, sir, or in my passion, I shall kill everyone by giving them syphilis!
Lord Coleridge: Bring it out, sir, and also any opium plants you have in there with you!
Doctor Samuel Johnson: Bring it out, sir, or we shall break down the door!
Blackadder: Ah, good morning, Dr. Johnson, Lord Byron-
Doctor Johnson: Where is my dictionary?
Blackadder: And what dictionary would this be?
[Johnson, Byron, Shelley and Coleridge advance on Blackadder with swords drawn to the tune of an ominous drumbeat]
Doctor Johnson: [outraged] The one that has taken me eighteen hours of every day for the past ten years! My mother died, I hardly noticed. My father cut off his head and fried it in garlic in the hopes of attracting my attention; I scarcely looked up from my work! My wife brought armies of lovers to the house, who worked in droves so that she might bring up a huge family of bastards! I cared not!
Blackadder: [cornered] Am I to assume that my elaborate bluff has not worked?
Doctor Johnson: Dictionary!
Blackadder: Right, well, the truth is - now, don't get cross, don't over-react - the truth is: we burnt it.
Doctor Johnson: Then you die!
Prince George: Morning, everyone. Ah, Doctor Johnson. You know, this dictionary really is a cracking good read!
Doctor Johnson: My dictionary... [to Blackadder] But you said you burnt it!
Blackadder: Um...
Prince George: I think it's a splendid book, and I look forward to patronising it enormously!
Doctor Johnson: Oh, thank you, sir. Well, I think I'm man enough to sacrifice the pleasure of killing to maintain the general good humour. There is to be no murder today, gentlemen.
Shelley, Byron and Coleridge: [grumble]
Doctor Johnson: But retire to Mrs Miggins'! I shall join you there later for a roister you shan't forget!
Shelley, Byron and Coleridge: Hurrah! [leave]
Doctor Johnson: So, tell me, what words particularly interested you?
Prince George: Oh, nothing. Anything, really.
Doctor Johnson: I see you've underlined a few. "Bloomers"? "Bottom"? "Burp"? [leafs through the pages] "Fart"? "Fiddle"? "Fornicate"? Sir, I hope you are not using the first English dictionary to look up rude words!
Blackadder: I wouldn't be too hopeful. That's what all the others will be used for.
Baldrick: [to Blackadder] Sir, can I look up 'turnip'?
Blackadder: 'Turnip' isn't a rude word, Baldrick.
Baldrick: It is if you sit on one.

Blackadder: Baldrick, fetch my novel.
Baldrick: Your novel?
Blackadder: Yes, Baldrick, the big papery thing tied up with string.
Baldrick: Like the thing we burnt?
Blackadder: Exactly like the thing we burnt.
Baldrick: So you're asking for the big papery thing tied up with string exactly like the thing we burnt?
Blackadder: Exactly.
Baldrick: We burnt it.
Blackadder: So we did. Thank you, Baldrick. Seven years of my life up in smoke.

Doctor Johnson: [reading Baldrick's 'novel'] "Once upon a time, there was a lovely little sausage called-" Sausage? Sausage?! Oh, blast your eyes! [crumples it up, throws it to the ground and storms out.]
Baldrick: Oh, I didn't think it was that bad.
Blackadder: I think you'll find he left 'sausage' out of his dictionary, Baldrick. Oh, and 'aardvark'.
Blackadder: Morning, Mrs Miggins.
Mrs Miggins: Bonjour, monsieur.
Blackadder: [disgusted] What?
Mrs Miggins: Bonjour, monsieur. It's French.
Blackadder: So is eating frogs, cruelty to geese and urinating in the street. But that's no reason to inflict it on the rest of us.
Mrs Miggins: But French is all the fashion! My coffee shop is full of Frenchies, and it's all because of that wonderful Scarlet Pimpernel!
Blackadder: The Scarlet Pimpernel is not wonderful, Mrs Miggins. There is no reason whatsoever to admire someone for filling London with a bunch of garlic-chewing French toffs, crying "Oh-la-la" and looking for sympathy all the time just cos their fathers had their heads cut off. I'll have a cup of coffee, and some shepherd's pie.
Mrs Miggins: Oh, we don't serve pies any more! My French clientèle consider pies uncouth.
Blackadder: I hardly think a nation that eats snails and would go to bed with the kitchen sink if it put on a tutu is in any position to preach couthness. So what is on the menu?
Mrs Miggins: Well, today's hot choice is Chicken Pimpernel in a Scarlet Sauce, Scarlet Chicken in a Pimpernel Sauce, or Huge Suspicious-Looking Sausages in a Scarlet Pimpernel Sauce.
Blackadder: What exactly is Scarlet Pimpernel Sauce?
Mrs Miggins: You take a large ripe frog, you squeeze it-
Blackadder: Yes, alright. Thank you. I'm off to the pub.
French Aristocrat: Ah, bonjour, monsieur.
Blackadder: Sod off.

[Baldrick is in the kitchen. Blackadder storms in, picks up the cat and drop-kicks it.]
Baldrick: Sir! Poor little Mildred the cat, what's he ever done to you?
Blackadder: It is the way of the world, Baldrick - the abused always kick downwards. I am annoyed and so I kick the cat, the cat [There is a squeak] pounces on the mouse and, finally, [Baldrick squeals in pain] the mouse bites you on the behind.
Baldrick: And what do I do?
Blackadder: Nothing, you are last in God's great chain. Unless there's an earwig around here you'd like to victimize. My God, Baldrick - what's happened to your nose?
[Baldrick is sporting the most hideous purple blister.]
Baldrick: Nice, isn't it?
Blackadder: No, Baldrick. It isn't. It's revolting.
Baldrick: I'll take it off then.
[Rather unexpectedly, Baldrick simply peels off the blister.]
Blackadder: Baldrick, why are you wearing a false boil? What are we to expect next? A beauty wart? A cosmetic verucca?
Baldrick: It's a Scarlet Pimple, sir.
Blackadder: Really?
Baldrick: They're all the rage down our way. Everyone wants to express their admiration for the great Pimple and his brilliant disguises.
Blackadder: What has this fellow done, apart from pop over to France to grab a few French nobs from the ineffectual clutches of a bunch of malnourished winging lefties, taking the opportunity while there, no doubt, to pick up some really good cheap wine and some of their marvellous open fruit flans?! Doesn't anyone know? We hate the French! We fight wars against them! Did all those men die in vain on the field of Agincourt? Was the man who burnt Joan of Arc simply wasting good matches?
[A bell rings.]
Blackadder: Ah! His Royal Highness the Pinhead of Wales summons. And, you know. I feel almost well disposed towards him: utter chump though he may be, at least he's not French.

Prince George: What a shame they were so busy. Would've been lovely to have had them with us.
Blackadder: Us?
Prince George: Yes.
Blackadder: You're coming, sir?
Prince George: Well, certainly!
Blackadder: Ah. And nothing I can say about the mind-bending horrors of the Revolution could put you off?
Prince George: Absolutely not. Now come on, Blackadder. Let's get packing. I want to look my best for those fabulous French birds!
Blackadder: Sir, the type of women favoured in France at the moment are toothless old crones who cackle insanely.
Prince George: Oh, ignore that. They're just playing hard to get.
Blackadder: By removing all their teeth, going mad and aging forty years?
Prince George: That's right, the little teases. Now, come on. Um, I think a blend of silks and satins.
Blackadder: Sir, if we are to stand any chance of survival in France, we shall have to dress as the smelliest lowlifes imaginable.
Prince George: What sort of thing?
Blackadder: Well, sir, let me show you our Paris collection - Baldrick is wearing a sheep's bladder jacket with matching dungball accessories. Hair by Crazy Meg of Bedlam Way. Notice how the overwhelming aroma of rotting pilchards has been woven cunningly into the ensemble. Baldrick, when did you last change your trousers?
Baldrick: [as if rehearsed] I have never changed my trousers.
Blackadder: Thank you, Baldrick. [To Prince George] You see, the Ancient Greeks, sir, wrote in legend of a terrible container in which all the evils of the world were trapped. How prophetic they were. All they got wrong was the name. They called it "Pandora's Box", when, of course, they meant "Baldrick's Trousers".
Baldrick: They certainly can get a bit whiffy, there's no doubt about that.
Blackadder: We are told that, when the box was opened, the whole world turned to darkness and misfortune because of Pandora's fatal curiosity. [to Baldrick] I charge you now, Baldrick: for the good of all mankind, never allow curiosity to lead you to open your trousers. Nothing of interest lies therein. [To Prince George] However, Your Highness, it is trousers exactly like these that you will have to wear if we are to pass safely into France.
Prince George: Yes, well... you know, on second thoughts, I might give this whole thing a miss. My tummy's acting up a bit. Wish I could come, but just not pos' with this tum.
Blackadder: I understand perfectly, sir.
Prince George: Also, the chances of me scoring if I look and smell like him are zero.
Blackadder: Well, that's true, sir. We shall return presently to bid you farewell.
Baldrick: Mr B, I've been having seconds thoughts about this trip to France.
Blackadder: Oh, why?
Baldrick: Well, as far as I can see, looking and smelling like this, there's not much chance of me scoring either.

Blackadder: Farewell, dear master and - if I dare say it - friend.
Prince George: Farewell, brave liberator and - if I dare say it - butler.

Blackadder: Right, stick the kettle on, Baldrick.
Baldrick: Aren't we going to France?
Blackadder: Of course we're not going to France. It's incredibly dangerous!
Baldrick: Then how are you gonna win your bet?
Blackadder: As always, Baldrick, by the use of the large thing between my ears.
Baldrick: Oh, your nose.
Blackadder: No, Baldrick. My brain. All we have to do is lie low here for a week, go to Mrs Miggins', pick up any old French aristocrat, drag him through a puddle, take him to the ball and claim our thousand guineas.
Baldrick: What if the prince finds us here?
Blackadder: He couldn't find his own fly buttons, let alone the kitchen door.

Blackadder: Le Comte de Frou Frou, I believe.
Le Comte de Frou Frou: Eh?
Blackadder: Do you speak English?
Le Comte de Frou Frou: A little.
Blackadder: Yes, when you say 'a little', what do you mean? I mean, can we talk, or are we going to spend the rest of the day asking each other the way to the beach in very loud voices?
Le Comte de Frou Frou: Oh no. I can order coffee, deal with waiters, make sexy chit-chat with girls, that type of thing.
Blackadder: Oh, good.
Le Comte de Frou Frou: Just don't ask me to take a physiology class or direct a light opera.
Blackadder: No, I won't. Now listen, Frou Frou, would you like to earn some money?
Le Comte de Frou Frou: No, I wouldn't. I would like other people to earn it and then give it to me, just like in France in the good old days.
Blackadder: Yes, but this is a chance to return to the good old days.
Le Comte de Frou Frou: Oh, I would love that! I hate this life. The food is filthy! This huge sausage is very suspicious. If I didn't know better, I'd say it was a horse's-
Blackadder: Yes, yes, alright. The plan is this: I have a bet on with someone that I can get a Frenchman out of Paris. I want you to be that Frenchman. All you have to do is come to the embassy ball with me, say that I rescued you, and walk away with fifty guineas and all the vol-au-vents you can stuff in your pockets. What do you say?
Le Comte de Frou Frou: It will be a pleasure! If there is one thing we aristocrats enjoy, it is a fabulous party. Oh, the music! Oh, the laughter! If only I'd brought my mongoose costume.

Revolutionary Ambassador: Not so fast, English. In rescuing this... boite de stinkyweed, you have attempted to pervert Revolutionary justice. Do you know what happens to people who do that?
Blackadder: They're given a little present and allowed to go free?
Revolutionary Ambassador: No.
Blackadder: They're smacked and told not to be naughty, but basically let off?
Revolutionary Ambassador: No.
Baldrick: I think I know.
Blackadder: What?
Baldrick: They're put in prison for the night and brutally guillotined in the morning.
Blackadder: Well done, Baldrick.
Revolutionary Ambassador: Your little g-nome is correct, Monsieur. Gentlemen, welcome to the last day of your life!

Baldrick: I'm glad to say I don't think you'll be needing those pills, Mr B.
Blackadder: Am I jumping the gun, Baldrick, or are the words "I have a cunning plan" marching with ill-deserved confidence in the direction of this conversation?
Baldrick: They certainly are.
Blackadder: Well, forgive me if I don't jump and and down with glee. Your record in this department is not one hundred percent. So what's the plan?
Baldrick: We do nothing.
Blackadder: Yup, it's another world-beater.
Baldrick: I haven't finished. We do nothing until our heads have actually been cut off.
Blackadder: And then we spring into action?
Baldrick: Exactly. You know how, when you cut a chicken's head off, it runs 'round and 'round the farmyard?
Blackadder: Yes...
Baldrick: Well, we wait until our heads have been cut off, then we run 'round and 'round the farmyard, out the farm gate and escape. What do you think?
Blackadder: Yes, my opinion is rather difficult to express in words, so perhaps I can put it this way. [twists Baldrick's nose]
Baldrick: It doesn't really matter, 'cause the Scarlet Pimpernel will save us anyway.
Blackadder: No he won't, Baldrick! Either I think of an idea, or tomorrow we die. Which I have no intention of doing, because I want to be young and wild, then I want to be middle-aged and rich, then I want to be old and annoy people by pretending that I'm deaf.
Baldrick: You look smart, Mr Blackadder. Going somewhere nice?
Blackadder: Nope, I'm off to the theatre.
Baldrick: Oh, don't you like it, then?
Blackadder: No, I don't! A load 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 Minibrain.
Baldrick: Doesn't he like it either?
Blackadder: No, he loves it, but he doesn't realise it's made-up. Last year, when Brutus was about to kill Julius Caesar, the prince yelled out "Look behind you, Mr Caesar!"
Baldrick: I can't see the point in the theatre. All that sex and violence. I get enough of that at home. Apart from the sex, obviously.
Blackadder: And while we're out, Baldrick, I want you to give this palace a good clean. It's so dirty, it would be unacceptable to a dung beetle that had lost interest in its career and really let itself go.
Prince George: [from upstairs] Come on, Blackadder, or we'll miss the first act!
Blackadder: Coming, sir, as fast as I can! [puts his feet up] Stick the kettle on, Baldrick.

Prince George: [bandaged up after an assassination attempt] I must say, Blackadder, that was a close shave. Why on earth would an anarchist possibly want to kill you?
Blackadder: I think it might have been you he was after, sir.
Prince George: Oh, hogwash! What on earth makes you say that?
Blackadder: Well, my suspicions were aroused by his use of the words "Death to the stupid prince!"
Prince George: That was a bit rude, wasn't it?
Blackadder: These are volatile times, your Highness. The American Revolution lost your father the Colonies, the French Revolution murdered brave King Louis and there are tremendous rumblings in Prussia, although that might have something to do with the sausages. The whole world cries out "Peace, freedom and a few less fat bastards eating all the pie!".
[Prince George looks down at the plate of pie in his hands and puts it to one side.]
Prince George: Yes, you're right. Something must be done! Any ideas?
Blackadder: Yes, sir. Next week is your royal father's birthday celebrations. I suggest I write a brilliant speech for you to recite in order to show the oppressed masses how unusually sensitive you are.
Prince George: Tell me about these oppressed masses. What are they so worked up about?
Blackadder: They are worked up, sir, because they are so poor, they are forced to have children simply to provide a cheap alternative to turkey at Christmas. Disease and deprivation stalk our land like... two giant stalking things. And the working man is poised to overthrow us.
[Baldrick walks in, carrying a mop and bucket.]
Prince George: Oh my god, and here he is!
Blackadder: Don't be silly, sir. That's Baldrick, my dogsbody.
Prince George: What's silly about that? He looks like an oppressed mass to me. Get him out of here at once!
Blackadder: Shoo, Baldrick. Carry on with your cleaning elsewhere. And by tonight, I want that table so clean I could eat my dinner off it.

Blackadder: Mrs Miggins, I'm looking for a couple of actors.
Mrs Miggins: Well, you've come to the right place, Mr B. There's more Shakespearean dialogue in here then there are buns. All my lovely actors pop in here on their way to rehearsals for a little cup of coffee and a big dollop of inspiration.
Blackadder: You mean they actually rehearse? I thought they just got drunk, stuck on a silly hat and trusted to luck.
Mrs Miggins: Ooh, no! There's ever so much work that goes into the wonderful magic that is theatre today. Still, I wouldn't expect you to understand, being only a butler.
Blackadder: They do say, Mrs M, that verbal insults hurt more than physical pain. They are, of course, wrong, as you will soon discover when I stick this toasting fork in your head.
Keanrick: Ladies and gentlemen, would you please welcome Mr David Keanrick!
Mrs Miggins: Oh, hurrah!
Mossop: And the fabulous Enoch Mossop!
Mrs Miggins: Gentlemen!
Keanrick: Ah, settle down. Settle down.
Mossop: I'm sorry, no autographs.
Keanrick: The usual, Mrs M.
Mrs Miggins: Ooh, coming up, my lovelies!
Blackadder: If I could just squeeze through this admiring rabble. Gentlemen, I've come with a proposition.
Mossop: How dare you, sir! You think, just because we're actors, we sleep with everyone!
Blackadder: I think, being actors, you're lucky to sleep with anyone. I come on behalf of my employer to ask for some elocution lessons.
Keanrick: I'm afraid that is impossible, sir. We are in the middle of rehearsing our new play. We cannot possibly upset our beloved audience by taking time off.
Mossop: Mmm. Mustn't upset the punters. Bums on seat, laddie. Bums on seats.
Blackadder: And what play is this?
Mossop: It is a piece we penned ourselves, called "The Bloody Murder of the Foul Prince Romero and his Enormous-Bosomed Wife"
Blackadder: A philosophical work, then?
Keanrick: Indeed yes, sir. The violence of the murder and the vastness of the bosom are entirely justified artistically.
Blackadder: Very well, I'll tell the prince you can't make it.
Keanrick: Prince?
Blackadder: Oh, did I forget to mention? It's the Prince Regent. Shame you can't make it. Still-
Mossop: No, no, no, sir! Please! I do think we can find some time, do you not, Mr Keanrick?
Keanrick: Definitely, Mr Mossop.
Blackadder: Oh, but you've got your beloved audience to think about.
Keanrick: Oh, sod the proles. We'll come.
Mossop: Yes. Worthless bastards to a man.
Blackadder: I'm glad to see artistic integrity thriving so strongly in the acting community. Well, this afternoon at four then, at the palace.

Prince George: Are you sure we can trust these acting chappies? Last time we went to the theatre, three of them murdered Julius Caesar. And one of them was his best friend, Brutus!
Blackadder: As I have told you about eight times, the man playing Julius Caesar was an actor called Kemp.
Prince George: Really?
Blackadder: [annoyed] Yes.
Prince George: Thundering gherkins! Brutus must have been pretty miffed when he found out.
Blackadder: What?
Prince George: That he hadn't killed Caesar after all. Just some poxy actor called Kemp. Do you think maybe he went to Caesar's place after the play and killed him then?
Blackadder: [sotto] Oh god, it's pathetic.

Baldrick: Something wrong, Mister B?
Blackadder: I've just about had it up to here with the prince! If he keeps this up, I'll be handing in my notice!
Baldrick: Ooh, does that mean I'll be butler?
Blackadder: Not unless some kindly passing 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. I really don't. Every year at the Guild of Butlers Christmas party, I'm the one who has to wear the red nose and the pointy hat 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.
Baldrick: But that milk jug isn't broken.
Blackadder: You really do walk into these things, don't you, Baldrick?
[Blackadder smashes the milk jug over Baldrick's head.]

[Prince George prepares to practice his speech, clearing his throat.]
Keanrick: No, no, no, Your Royal Highness. What have you forgotten?
Prince George: Oh, now look, if I stand any more heroically than this, I'm in danger of seriously disappointing my future queen.
Keanrick: No, Your Highness, not the stance... the roar!
Prince George: You want me to roar?
Mossop: Of course we wish you to roar. All great orators roar before commencing their speeches. It is the way of things. Now, Mister Keanrick, from your Hamlet, please.
Keanrick: Ooooh, to be or not to be!
Mossop: From your Julius Caesar.
Keanrick: Ooooh, friends, Romans, countrymen!
Mossop: From your leading character in a play connected with Scotland.
Blackadder: That's Macbeth, isn't it?

Baldrick: Shall I get their supper, sir?
Blackadder: Yes. Preferably something that has first passed through the digestive system of the cat. And you'll have to take it up yourself.
Baldrick: Why?
Blackadder: Because I'm leaving, Baldrick. I'm about to enter the job market. [Picks up the newspaper] 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 Stephenson has invented a moving kettle and wants someone to help with the marketing. Oh, there's a foreign opportunity. "Treacherous, malicious, unprincipled cad, preferably non-smoker, wanted to be King of Sardinia. No time-wasters, please. Apply Napoleon Bonaparte, PO Box 1, Paris." Right, we're on our way!

Blackadder: Baldrick, I would like to say how much I will miss your honest, friendly companionship...
Baldrick: [touched] Aw, thank you, Mister B.
Blackadder: ...but as we both know, it would be an utter lie. I will therefore content myself with saying "Sod off", and if I ever meet you again, it'll be 20 billion years too soon. [he leaves]
Baldrick: Goodbye, you lazy, big-nosed, rubber-faced bastard. [Blackadder re-enters the room]
Blackadder: I think, Baldrick, you will soon be eating those badly chosen words. I wouldn't bet a single groat that you could survive five minutes here without me.
Baldrick: Oh, come on, Mr B. It's not like we're gonna get murdered the minute you leave, is it?
Blackadder: Hope springs eternal, Baldrick.

Prince George: Thank god you're here! We desperately need you!
Blackadder: Me, sir? Mister Thicky Black Thicky Adder Thicky?
Prince George: Oh, tish, nonsense!
Blackadder: Mister Hopelessly Drivelly Can't-Write-For-Toffee Crappy Butler Weed?
Prince George: Yes, well...
Blackadder: Mister Brilliantly-Undervalued Butler Who Hasn't Had A Raise In A Fortnight?
Prince George: Take an extra thousand. Guineas? Per month?
Blackadder: Alright, what's your problem?
Baldrick: Don't you worry, Mr B. I have a cunning plan to solve your problem.
Blackadder: Yes, Baldrick, let us not forget you tried to solve the problem of your mother's low ceiling by cutting off her head.
Baldrick: 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.
Blackadder: Baldrick, I could become a prostitute and pay my bills and everyone would want to sleep with me, but I do consider certain professions beneath me. Besides which, I fail to see why a common thief should be idolized just because he's got a horse between his legs.

[Blackadder learns that the prince, too, is broke.]
Blackadder: Let's see, 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 into it.
Prince George: 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-
Blackadder: Broke.
Prince George: Well, yes, I suppose so.
Blackadder: And don't forget, sir, that the modern church smiles on roaring and gorging within wedlock. And, indeed, rogering is keenly encouraged.
Prince George: And the puking?
Blackadder: Mmm, I believe still very much down to the conscience of the individual churchgoer.

Blackadder: [slams a large book shut] Oh god.
Baldrick: Something wrong, Mr B?
Blackadder: I can't find a single person suitable to marry the prince.
Baldrick: Oh, please keep trying. I love a royal wedding. The excitement, the crowds, the souvenir mugs. Worrying about whether the bride's lost weight.
Blackadder: Unlikely with this lot, I'm afraid. If the prince had stipulated "Must weigh a quarter of a tonne", we'd be laughing. Of the two-hundred and sixty-two princesses in Europe, a hundred and sixty-five are over eighty, they're out. Forty-seven are under ten, they're out. Thirty-nine are mad.
Baldrick: Well, they sound ideal.
Blackadder: Well, they would be if they hadn't all got married last week to the same horse. Which leave us with two.
Baldrick: What about them?
Blackadder: Well, there's Grand Duchess Sophia of Turin. We'll never get her to marry him.
Baldrick: Why not?
Blackadder: Because she's met him.
Baldrick: Which leaves?
Blackadder: Caroline of Brunswick is the only available princess in Europe.
Baldrick: What's wrong with her?
Blackadder: [suddenly shouting] Get more coffee! It's horrid, change it! Take me roughly from behind! No, not like that, like this! Trousers down! Tackle out! Walk the dog! Where's my presents?!
Baldrick: Alright! Which one do you want me to do first?
Blackadder: No, that's what Caroline's like. She's famous for having the worst personality in Germany. And as you can imagine, that's up against some pretty stiff competition.
Baldrick: So, you're stuck, then.
Blackadder: Yes, I am. Unless... pass me the paper, Baldrick. [opens it] Baldrick, why has half the front page been cut out?
Baldrick: I don't know.
Blackadder: You do know, don't you?
Baldrick: Yes.
Blackadder: You've been cutting out the cuttings about the elusive 'Shadow' to put in your highwayman's scrapbook, haven't you?
Baldrick: Oh, I can't help it, Mr B.! His life is so dark and shadowy and full of fear and trepidation!
Blackadder: So is going to the toilet in the middle of the night, but you don't keep a scrapbook on it.
Baldrick: I do!
Blackadder: Let's see, Society Pages. You see, it needn't necessarily be a princess. All the prince wants is someone pretty and rich.
Baldrick: Oh dear, that rules me out, then.
Blackadder: Let's 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!

[Prince George dictates a letter to be sent to Amy Harwood]
Prince George: "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 'til Christmas, you lucky tart! Yours, with the deepest respects, etc. Signed, George. P.S. Woof, woof!" Well, what do you think?
Blackadder: It's very... moving, sir. However, would you mind if I changed just one tiny aspect of it?
Prince George: Which one?
Blackadder: The words?
Prince George: Yes, yes. I'll leave the details up to you, Blackadder. Just make sure she knows I'm all man. With a bit of animal thrown in. [growls playfully]
Blackadder: Certainly, sir.

Blackadder: I tell you, Baldrick, I'm not looking forward to this evening. Trying to serenade a light, fluffy bunny of a girl for an arrogant half-German yob with a mad dad.
Baldrick: Well, he is the Prince of Wales.
Blackadder: Have you ever been to Wales, Baldrick?
Baldrick: No. But I've often thought I'd like to.
Blackadder: 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.
Baldrick: So, being prince of it isn't considered a plus?
Blackadder: I fear not, no. But the crucial thing is that they must never be left alone together before the wedding.
Baldrick: Isn't that a bit unfair on her?
Blackadder: Well, 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? [smacks Baldrick on the back of the head]

Blackadder: Sir, I come as emissary of the Prince of Wales with the most splendid news. He wants your daughter, Amy, for his wife.
'Mr. Hardwood: Well, his wife can't have her! Outrageous, sir, to come here with such a suggestion! Leave now, sir, or I shall take off me belt, and by thunder, me trousers'll fall down!
Blackadder: No, sir, you misunderstand. The prince wants to marry your lovely daughter.
Mr. Hardwood: Oh! Can it be possibly true? Surely love has never crossed such boundaries of class?
Amy Hardwood: What about you and Mum?
Mr. Hardwood: Well, yes, 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.
Amy Hardwood: And Auntie Dot and Uncle Ted?
Mr. Hardwood: Yes, yes, alright, he was a pig poker and she was the Duchess of Argyle-
Amy Hardwood: And Auntie Ruthie was a milkmaid and Uncle Isiah was-
Mr. Hardwood: The pope! Yes, alright! Don't argue! Suffice to say, if you marry, we need never be poor or hungry again. Sir, we accept.
Blackadder: Wonderful. So, obviously, you'll be wanted an enormous ceremony... What did you say?
Mr. Hardwood: Well, obviously, now we're marrying quality, we'll never be poor or hungry again.
Blackadder: Meaning that you're poor and hungry at the moment?
Mr. Hardwood: Oh yes. We've been living off lard butties for five years now. I'm so poor, I use my underpants for drying dishes!
Blackadder: So you're skint?
Mr. Hardwood: Aye.
Blackadder: Well, in that case, the wedding's off. Good day.
Amy Hardwood: But what about George's lovey-wovey poems that won my hearty-wearty?
Blackadder: All writteny-witteny by me-we, I'm afraidy-waidy. Goodbye.

Blackadder: Crisis, Baldrick! Crisis! No marriage, no money, more bills. For the first time in my life, I've decided to follow a suggestion of yours. Saddle Prince George's horse.
Baldrick: Oh, sir, you're not gonna become a highwayman, are you?
Blackadder: No, I'm auditioning for the part of Arnold the Bat in Sheridan's new comedy.
Baldrick: Oh, that's alright, then.
Blackadder: Baldrick, do you have any idea what irony is?
Baldrick: Yeah. It's like gold-y and bronze-y, only it's made of iron.
Blackadder: Never mind, never mind. Just saddle the prince's horse.
Baldrick: Oh, that'll be difficult. He wrapped her around that gas lamp in the Strand last night.
Blackadder: Well, saddle my horse, then.
Baldrick: What d'you think you've been eating for the last two months?
Blackadder: Well, go out into the street and hire me a horse!
Baldrick: Hire you a horse? For ninepence? On Jewish New Year in the rain? A bare fortnight after the dread Horse Plague of Old London Town? With the Blacksmith's strike in its' fifteen week and the Dorset Horse Fetish Fair tomorrow?
Blackadder: Right. Well, get this on, then. [shoves a bridle into Baldrick's hands] It looks as though you could do with the exercise.

Sally Cheapside: Honestly, Papa. Ever since Mother died, you've tried to stop me from 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 love with a poet called Shelley who's a famous whoopsy. And Mother didn't die, I killed her!
Duke of Cheapside: Oh. Well, never mind.

[A gunshot rings out and the coach stops.]

Blackadder: Stand and deliver!
Duke of Cheapside: Oh no! Oh no, no, no, no! Disaster! It's the Shadow! We're doomed! Doomed!
Blackadder: Ah, good evening, Duke, and the lovely Miss Cheapside. Your cash bags, please.

[The Duke hands over his money at gunpoint]

Duke of Cheapside: You'll never get away with this, you scoundrel! You'll be caught and damn well hung!
Sally Cheapside: I think he looks pretty-
Blackadder: Madam, please, no jests about me being 'pretty well hung already'. We've no time.
Sally Cheapside: Pity.
Blackadder: Now, sir, turn out your pockets.
Duke of Cheapside: Never, sir! A man's pockets are his own private kingdom. I'll protect them with my life!
Blackadder: I see. Got something embarrassing in there, have you? Perhaps a particularly repulsive handkerchief? One of these fellows who has a big blow and doesn't change it for a week? Let's have a look...

[Blackadder finds a handkerchief, and inside that, a jewel.]

Blackadder: Aha!
Sally Cheapside: Highwayman, I also have a jewel. I fear, however, that I have placed it here, beneath my petticoat, for protection.
Blackadder: Well, in that case, Madam, 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.
Duke of Cheapside: Never, sir! A man's soft lips are his own private kingdom. I shall defend them with my life!
Blackadder: I'm not talking to you, Granddad.

[Miss Cheapside leans over her father and passionately kisses Blackadder]

Sally Cheapside: 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!
Blackadder: Madam, sadly, I must decline. I fear my horse would collapse with you on top of him as well as me.
Baldrick: I could try!
Blackadder: No, Quicksilver, you couldn't.
Baldrick: Well, that's not fair, then! I've had you on my back for ten miles, I haven't even got a kiss out of it!
Blackadder: Oh, alright then. [gives Baldrick a peck on the cheek.] All fair now?
Baldrick: Not really, no!
Blackadder: Tch, no pleasing some horses. Heigh-ho, Quicksilver!

[Baldrick whinnies and the two ride off.]

Sally Cheapside: Papa, you did nothing to defend my honour!
Duke of Cheapside: Oh, shut your face, you pregnant junkie fag hag!

[Blackadder packs up the wedding presents and prepares to run away with Amy]

Baldrick: Sir, what about the danger? Look, the reward's going up day by day.
Blackadder: 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.
Baldrick: Wouldn't they be rather prickly?
Blackadder: Concubines, Baldrick, not porcupines.
Baldrick: [annoyed] I still can't believe you're leaving me behind!
Blackadder: Oh, don't worry, when we've established our plantation in Barbados, I'll send for you. No more sad little London for you, Balders. From now on, you will stand out in life as an individual.
Baldrick: Will I?
Blackadder: Of course you will; all the other slaves will be black.

[As Blackadder heads for the door, Mrs Miggins runs into him]

Mrs Miggins: Mr Blackadder! What's this I hear about you buying a bathing costume and forty gallons of coconut oil? Are you going abroad, sir?
Blackadder: Yep, I'm off.
Mrs Miggins: Oh, sir! What a tragic end to all my dreams! And I'd always hoped that you'd settle down and marry me, and that together we might await the slither of tiny adders!
Blackadder: Mrs M, if we were the last three humans on Earth, I'd be trying to start a family with Baldrick.

[Mrs Miggins wails in despair]

Baldrick: [entering with a letter] Mr. Blackadder?
Blackadder: Leave me alone, Baldrick. If I wanted to talk to a vegetable, I'd have bought one at the market.
Baldrick: Don't you want this letter, then?
Blackadder: No, thank you. God, I'm wasted here. It's no life for a man of noble blood, being servant to a master with the intellect of a jugged walrus and all the social graces of a potty!
Baldrick: I'm wasted too. I've been thinking of bettering myself.
Blackadder: Oh really, how?
Baldrick: I applied for the job of village idiot of Kensington.
Blackadder: Oh. Get anywhere?
Baldrick: I got down to the last two, but I failed the final interview.
Blackadder: Oh, what went wrong?
Baldrick: I turned up. The other bloke was such an idiot, he forgot to.
Blackadder: Yes, I'm afraid my ambitions stretch slightly further than professional idiocy in West London. I want to be remembered when I'm dead. I want books written about me. I want songs sung about me. And then, hundreds of years from now, I want episodes of my life to be played out weekly at half past nine by some great heroic actor of the age.
Baldrick: Yeah, and I could be played by some tiny tit in a beard.
Blackadder: Quite. Now, what's this message?
Baldrick: I thought you didn't want it.
Blackadder: Well, I may do, it depends what it is.
Baldrick: So you do want it?
Blackadder: Well, I don't know, do I? It depends what it is.
Baldrick: [frantically] Well, I can't tell you what it is unless you want to know, and you said you didn't want to know, and now I'm so confused, I don't know where I live or what my name is!
Blackadder: Your name is of no importance, and you live in the pipe in the upstairs water closet. [opens the envelope] Oh god. Was the man who gave you this, by any chance, a red-headed lunatic with a kilt and a claymore?
Baldrick: Yeah, and the funny thing is he looked exactly like you.
Blackadder: My mad cousin MacAdder. The most dangerous man ever to wear a skirt in Europe.
Baldrick: Yeah, he come in here playing the bagpipes, then he made a haggis, sang Auld Lang Syne and punched me in the face.
Blackadder: Why?
Baldrick: 'Cos I called him a knock-kneed Scottish pillock.
Blackadder: An unwise move, Baldrick, since Mad MacAdder is a homicidal maniac.
Baldrick: My mother told me to stand up to homicidal maniacs.
Blackadder: Yes, if this is the same mother who confidently claimed you were a tall, handsome stallion of a man, I would treat her opinions with great care.
Baldrick: I love my mum.
Blackadder: And I love chops and sauce, but I don't seek their advice. I hate it when MacAdder turns up. He's such a frog-eyed, beetle-browed basket case.
Baldrick: He's the spitting image of you.
Blackadder: No he's not! We're about as similar as... two completely dissimilar things in a pod! [opens the letter] What's the old tartan throwback banging on about this time? "Have come south for rebellion." Oh god, surprise, surprise. "Staying with Miggins. The time has come. Best sword in Scotland. Insurrection, blood, large bowl of porridge. Rightful claim to throne." He's mad. He's mad! He's madder than Mad Jack McMad, the winner of this year's Mister Madman competition!
[The service bell rings]
Blackadder: Ah, the walrus awakes.

Prince George: Ah, Blackadder. Notice anything unusual about me?
Blackadder: Yes, sir. It's eleven o'clock in the morning and you're moving about. Is the bed on fire?
Prince George: I wouldn't know. I've been out all night. Guess what I've been doing? [makes raucous noises]
Blackadder: Beagling, sir?
Prince George: Better even than that. Sink me Blackadder if I, if I haven't just had the most wonderful evening of my life.
Blackadder: [dully] Tell me all, sir.
Prince George: Well as you know when I set out I looked divine. At the party as I passed all eyes turned.
Blackadder: And I dare say quite a few stomachs.

Blackadder: [reading a letter from the Duke of Wellington to Prince George] "From the Supreme Commander, Allied Forces Europe. Sir, Prince or pauper, when a man soils a Wellington he puts his foot in it. Open bracket. This is not a joke. I do not find my name remotely funny, and people who do end up dead. Close bracket. I challenge you to a duel tonight at 18:00 hours in which you will die. Yours, with sincere apologies for your impending violent slaughter, Arthur Wellesey, Duke of Wellington."
Baldrick: Seems a nice, polite sort of bloke.

Baldrick: May I speak, sir?
Blackadder: Certainly not, Baldrick. The prince is about to die. The last thing he wants to do in his final hours is exchange pleasantries with a certified plum duff.
Prince George: Easy, Blackadder. Let's hear him out.
Blackadder: Very well, Baldrick. We shall hear you out, then throw you out.
Baldrick: Well, your Majesty, I have a cunning plan which could get you out of this.
Blackadder: Don't listen to him, sir. It's a cruel proletariat attempt to raise your hopes. I shall have him shot the moment he's finished clearing away your breakfast.
Prince George: Wait a minute, Blackadder. Perhaps this disgusting, degraded creature is some sort of blessing in disguise?
Blackadder: If he is, it's a very good disguise.
Prince George: After all, did Our Lord not send a lowly earthworm to comfort Moses in his torment?
Blackadder: Nope.
Prince George: Well, it's the sort of thing he might have done. Well, come on, Mr Spotty, speak.
Baldrick: Well, sir, I've just thought, this Wellyton bloke's been in Europe for years. You don't know what he looks like, and he don't know what you looks like, so why don't you get someone else to fight the duel instead of you?
Prince George: But I'm the Prince Regent. My portrait hangs on every wall!
Blackadder: Answer that, Baldrick.
Baldrick: Well, sir, my cousin Bert Baldrick, Mr Gainsborough's butler's dogsbody, he says that he's heard that all portraits look the same these days, 'cos they're painted to a romantic ideal, rather than as a true depiction of the idiosyncratic facial qualities of the person in question.
Blackadder: Your cousin Bert obviously has a larger vocabulary than you, Baldrick.
Prince George: No, he's right, damn him! Anyone could fight the duel and Wellers would never know!
Blackadder: All the same, sir, Baldrick's plan seems to hinge on finding someone willing to commit suicide on your behalf.
Prince George: Oh, yes, yes, but he'd be fabulously rewarded. Money, titles, castles.
Blackadder: Coffin.
Baldrick: That's right! I though maybe Mr Blackadder himself would fancy the job.
Prince George: What a splendid idea!
Blackadder: Excuse me, Your Highness, trouble with the staff.
[Blackadder leads Baldrick out into the vestibule, closes the doors and grabs Baldrick by the collar.]
Blackadder: Baldrick, does it have to be this way - our valued friendship ending with me cutting you into long strips and telling the prince that you walked over a very sharp cattle grid in an extremely heavy hat?
Baldrick: But, Mr Blackadder, you were just saying in the kitchen how you wanted to rise again. Now here the prince is offering you the lot.
Blackadder: But, tiny, tiny brain, the Iron Duke will kill me! To even think about taking him on, you'd have be some homicidal maniac who's fantastically good at fighting, like MacAdder. Like MacAdder... Like MacAdder could fight the duel for me!

Blackadder: Ah, Mrs Miggins. Am I to gather from your look of pie-eyed exhaustion and the globules of porridge hanging off the walls that my cousin MacAdder has presented his credentials?
Mrs Miggins: Ooo, yes indeed, sir. You just missed him.
Blackadder: I hope he's been practicing with his claymore.
Mrs Miggins: Oh, I should say so! I'm as weary as a dog with no legs that's just climbed Ben Nevis.
Blackadder: A claymore is a sword, Mrs Miggins.
Mrs Miggins: See this intricate wood carving of the infant Samuel at prayer? He whittled that with the tip of his mighty weapon with his eyes closed.
Blackadder: [drily] Yes, exquisite.
Mrs Miggins: He bade me bite down on a plank of wood. There was a whirlwind of steel and within a minute three men lay dead and I had a lovely new set of gnashers.
Blackadder: Really. Just tell him to meet me here at 5 o'clock to discuss an extremely cunning plan. If all goes well, by tomorrow the clan of MacAdder will be marching back on the high road back to glory.
Mrs Miggins: Ooh, lovely. I'll do you a nice packed lunch.

Prince George: Thank God it's you, Blackadder! I've just had word from Wellington, he's on his way here now!
Blackadder: That's awkward. The Duke must believe from the very start that I am you.
Prince George: Hmm, any ideas?
Blackadder: There's no alternative, sir. We must swap clothes.
Prince George: Oh fantastic, yes. Dressing up, I love it. It's like that story, The Prince and the Porpoise.
Blackadder: And the Pauper.
Prince George: Ah, yes yes yes. The Prince and the Porpoise and the Pauper.

[The two swap their jackets and wigs]

Prince George: Excellent! Why, my own father wouldn't recognise me.
Blackadder: Your own father never can. He's mad.
Prince George: Oh yes, that's right.
Blackadder: Unfortunately, sir, you do realise that I shall have to treat you like a servant?
Prince George: Oh, I think I can handle that, thank you, Blackadder.
Blackadder: And you'll have to get used to calling me "Your Highness", Your Highness.
Prince George: Your Highness, Your Highness.
Blackadder: No, just "Your Highness", Your Highness.
Prince George: That's what I said. "Your Highness, Your Highness", Your Highness, Your Highness.
Blackadder: Yes, let's leave that for now. Complicated stuff, obviously.

Duke of Wellington: Have I the honour of addressing the Prince Regent, sir?
Blackadder: You do.
Duke of Wellington: Congratulations, Your Highness. Your bearing is far more noble than I had been informed. [to Prince George] Take my hat at once, sir, unless you wish to feel my boot in your throat, and be quicker about it than you were with the door!
Prince George: Yes, my lord.
Duke of Wellington: [smacks him on the back of the head] I'm a duke, not a lord! Where were you trained, a dago dancing class? Shall I have my people thrash him for you, Highness?
Blackadder: Uh, no. He's very new. At the moment, I'm sparing the rod.
Duke of Wellington: Fatal error. Give 'em an inch, before you know it, they have a foot. Much more than that, you don't have a leg to stand on. [see George is still there, smacks him on the head again.] Get out!

Blackadder: Tell me, do you ever stop bullying and shouting at the lower orders?
Duke of Wellington: NEVER! There's only one way to win a campaign - shout, shout and shout again!
Blackadder: You don't think, then, that inspired leadership and tactical ability have anything to do with it?
Duke of Wellington: [brief pause] No! It's all down to shouting! BAH!
Blackadder: I hear that conditions in your army are appalling.
Duke of Wellington: Well, I'm sorry, but those are my conditions, and you'll just have to accept them. That is, until this evening, when I shall kill you.
Blackadder: Who knows, maybe I shall kill you.
Duke of Wellington: Nonsense! I've never been so much as scratched! My skin is as smooth as a baby's bottom. Which is more than you can say for my bottom.

MacAdder: So, tell me, cousin, I hear you have a cunning plan.
Blackadder: I do. I want you to take the place of the Prince Regent and kill the Duke of Wellington in a duel.
MacAdder: Aye, and what's in it for me?
Blackadder: Enough cash to buy the Outer Hebrides. What do you say?
MacAdder: Fourteen shillings and sixpence? Well, it's tempting, but I've got a better plan. Why don't I pretend to be the Duke of Wellington and kill the Prince of Wales in a duel? Then I could kill the king and be crowned with the ancient stone bonnet of MacAdder!
Mrs Miggins: And I shall wear the granite gown and limestone bodice of MacMiggins, Queen of all the herds!
Blackadder: For god's sake, MacAdder, you're not Rob Roy. If you kill the prince, much less the king, they'll just send the bailiffs around and arrest you.
MacAdder: Oh blast, I forgot the bailiffs.
Blackadder: So we can return to our original plan?
MacAdder: No, I'm not interested. I'd rather go to bed with the Loch Lomond Monster. Besides, I have to be back in the office on Friday. I promised Mr MacNaulty I'd help shift a particularly difficult bloater for him. Forget the whole thing. I'm off home with Miggsy!
Mrs Miggins: Yes! Show me the glen where the kipper roams free, and forget Morag forever!
MacAdder: No, never! Must do right by Morag. We must return to Scotland and you must fight her in the old Highland way - bare-breasted and each carrying an eight pound baby.
Mrs Miggins: Yes, yes! I love babies! [kisses MacAdder on the cheek]
MacAdder: Aye, you're a woman of spirit. I look forward to burying you in the old Highland manner. Farewell, Blackadder, you spineless goon!
Blackadder: Fortune vomits on my eiderdown one more.

Prince George: Good portents for your duel, do you think?
Blackadder: No, sir. I'm afraid the duel is off.
Prince George: Off?
Blackadder: As in "sod". I'm not doing it.
Prince George: By thunder, here's a pretty game - you will stay, sir, and do you duty by your prince-!
Blackadder: Or what, you port-brained twerp? I've looked after you all my life! Even when we were babies, I had to show you which bit of your mother was serving the drinks!
Prince George: Oh please, you've got to help me! I've got so much to give! I need more time!
Blackadder: A poignant plea, sir. One that could melt even the stoniest of hearts. But I'm afraid the answer must remain "You're going to die, fat pig."
Prince George: Wait! I'll give you everything!
Blackadder: Everything?
Prince George: Everything!
Blackadder: The money? The castles? The jewelry?
Prince George: Yes!
Blackadder: The highly artistic but also highly illegal set of French lithographs?
Prince George: Everything!
Blackadder: The amusing clock where the little man comes out and drops his trousers every hour?
Prince George: Yes, yes, alright!
Blackadder: Very well, I accept. A man may fight for many things; his country, his principles, his friends, the glistening tear on the cheek of a golden child. But personally, I'd mud-wrestle my own mother for a ton of cash, an amusing clock and a sack of French porn! You're on!
Prince George: Hurrah!

Duke of Wellington: Come, sir, choose your stoker.
Blackadder: What, are we going to tickle each other to death?
Duke of Wellington: No, sir, we fight with cannon.
Blackadder: But I thought we were fighting with swords!
Duke of Wellington: Swords?! What do you think this is, the Middle Ages? Only girls fight with swords these days! Stand by your gun, sir! Hup, two, three! Hup, two, three!
Blackadder: Look, wait a minute-
Duke of Wellington: Stand by cannon for loading procedure! Stoke, muzzle, wrench!
Blackadder: [reading manual] "Congratulations on purchasing the Armstrong-Whitworth four-pounder cannonette. Please read instructions carefully and it shall give you years of trouble-free maiming."
Duke of Wellington: Check elevation. Chart trajectory. Prime fuse. Aim...
Blackadder: Look, wait a minute-
Duke of Wellington: FIRE!!!