There, that should do it.
To my lords of the kings own council.
I received this morning your kind invitation...
to organize a gala performance...
to celebrate his gracious majesty king Charles surviving another year...
with head and shoulders still attached.
I've replied by return to thank you.
And when I say "to thank you",
I mean of course, to tell you to sod off.
I would rather go to Cornwall,
marry a pig,
have thirteen children by her,
and see them all become members of parliament.
I would rather hack of my big toe,
slice it,
mix it with beetroot,
and serve it to the poor folk of Clapham,
as a light summer salad.
Ask me if you wish,
to bury my face between the buttocks of a flatulant baboon,
but never under any circumstances
ask me to involve myself in a royal gala performance.
My reasons my lords are twofold:
As first part it is a well and long established fact,
that royal galas...
are very,
very, very,
dull.
So dull, that strong men have been known...
to stamp their own testicles in an effort to stay awake.
Through the all singing all dancing no talent tedium...
that represents British variety at its best.
There are more genuine laughts to be had conducting an autopsy.
There is more musical talent on display...
everytime my servant Baldrick breaks wind.
If the king has even half a brain,
which I believe is exactly what he does have,
he will spend his birthday in pious prayer...
naked,
in a bramble patch,
with mouse traps attached to his orbs and scepter.
I hope I make myself clear.
I am yours as ever, Lord Blackadder, privy councilor.
Shortly to be privy attendant,
if Cromwell has his way with the aristocracy.
Your majesty!
Ahhh, Slackbladder.
Roll-de-roll and hi-de-hi. Beeeh!
It's my birthday and I'll "BEEEH" if I want to.
I just popped in to see if you were going to organize my royal gala.
Well your majesty, it seems to me that...
I was talking about it the other day to lord Rumsy,
and the cringing curd dared to suggest...
that we tone things down a bit.
To pander to the popular mood.
I want you to kick his ass, and give him a good clout about the head.
Well, certainly, sir.
You'll find his arse in a ditch in Tyburn,
and his head on a spike at Traitor's Gate.
I take it, incidentally, Blackadder...
that you think a birthday gala is a good idea?
Sire, I think it will be the most exciting creation...
since god said to himself, God it's a bit dark around here,
how about I brighten things up a bit?
Splendid! I shall want you to open the whole thing,
some sort of speech, telling everybody how wonderful it's all going to be.
You know the sort of thing.
Well, sire, it'll be my honour.
Excellent, excellent, well done.
Let's have a preview then. Show me what you can do.
Improvise! Let's have a look.
Uh, well, uh...
Come on come on, let's hear something.
Well uh...
Your majesty, your royal highnesses,
my lords, ladies, and gentlemen.
I stand here tonight, as excited...
as a masochist who has just been arrested by the spanish inquisition.
What you're about to witness...
will be the most exciting piece of entertainment...
since Bernard the bear baiter
stopped using a big brown cushion,
and actually got himself a bear.
I ask you to put your hands together,
as I joyfully introduce this fiftieth birthday celebration.
Let the revelries begin!
Hm. Very good. Very good. Needs a few jokes of course...