Right, Baldrick, let's try again, shall we?
This is called adding.
If I have two beans, and then I add two more beans, what do I have?
Some beans.
Yes... and no. Let's try again, shall we?
I have two beans, then I add two more beans, what does that make?
A very small casserole.
Baldrick, the ape creatures of the Indus have mastered this.
Now try again. One, two, three, four.
- So how many are there? - Three.
- And that one. - Three and that one.
So if I add that one to the three, what will I have?
Oh! Some beans.
To you, Baldrick, the Renaissance
was just something that happened to other people, wasn't it?
Edmund, Edmund, come quickly, the Queen wants to see you!
- What are you wearing round your neck? - It's my new ruff.
You look like a bird who's swallowed a plate.
It's the latest fashion actually and it makes me look rather sexy.
To another plate-swallowing bird perhaps.
If it was blind and hadn't had it in months.
- I think you may be wrong. - You're a sad laughable figure, Percy.
- What do you think of Percy's ruff? - Four.
Some beans and some beans is four beans.
We've moved on from advanced mathematics, we're on to dressmaking.
What do you think of Percy's ruff?
I think he looks like a bird who's swallowed a plate, my lord.
No, that's what I think. Try to have a thought of your own, Baldrick.
Thinking is so important. What do you think?
- I think thinking is so important, my lord. - I give up. I'm off to see the Queen.
- Shall I come too, my lord? - No, people might think we're friends.
Stay here with Baldrick. Bird neck and bird brain, should get on like a house on fire.
- Grey, I suspect, Majesty. - I think it was orange, Lord Melchett.
- Grey is more usual, Ma'am. - Who's Queen?
As you say, Majesty. There were these magnificent orange elephants...
- My Lady, you wish to see me. - Yes, Lord Melchett has bad news.
Lord Melchett is bad news. (THE QUEEN LAUGHS)
No, be serious. Melchett!
Unhappily, Blackadder, the Lord High Executioner is dead.
Oh woe! Murdered of course.
Oddly enough, no. This one just got careless one night
and signed his name on the wrong dotted line. They came for him while he slept.
He should have told them they had the wrong man.
They didn't, they had the right man and they had the form to prove it.
Bloody red tape, eh? And the bad news?
The bad news is that there are hundreds of catholics
who desperately want their heads snicked off and there's no-one to organise it.
I pity the poor sod who gets the job. No-one ever survives it more than a week.
I have taken the liberty, Ma'am, of drawing up a list of suitable candidates.
Let's hear it.
List for the post of Lord High Executioner.
Lord Blackadder.
Right then. Let's take a look, shall we? Who's first into the head basket?
Admiral Lord Ethingham and Sir Francis Drake on Monday.
That should draw a crowd. Well, sailing enthusiasts.
Better make sure there's a few anchors and things on the souvenir stall.
Aye, aye, Sir.
Never ever try to be funny in my presence again, Percy.
Right, Buckingham and Ponsonby on Friday, Farrow on Wednesday.
Who's Farrow when he's not having his head cut off?
James Farrow, pleasant bloke from Dorchester.
Don't know him, never will either.
Yes, and he goes on Wednesday? It's not right though, is it?
Well no! There was absolutely no evidence against young Farrow at all!
It was an outrageous travesty of justice!
No, I mean we could stick him in on Monday and have half the week off.
- Oh, I see. Yes, that's right. - Pop him in on Monday.
Right, five dead in two days. Not a bad start.
- Oh yes, Percy, and the new ruff? - The fashion today is towards the tiny.
In that case, Percy, you have the most fashionable brain in London.
Right, good morning team. My name is Edmund Blackadder.
I'm the new minister in charge of religious genocide.
If you play straight with me you'll find me a considerate employer.
But cross me and you'll discover that under this playful boyish exterior
beats the heart of a ruthless sadistic maniac.
- Now, my man, you are? - Jailor, Sir, my lord.
- And your name is? - Ploppy, Sir.
- Ploppy the jailer? - That's right, Sir.
Ploppy, son of Ploppy.
- Ploppy, son of Ploppy the jailer? - Ach no, Sir.
I am the first Ploppy to rise to be jailer.
My father, Daddy Ploppy, was known as Ploppy the Slopper.
It was from him that I inherited my fascinating skin diseases.
You are to be congratulated, my friend.
We live in an age where illness and deformity are common place
and yet, Ploppy, you are the most repulsive individual that I have ever met.
I would shake your hand but I fear it would come off.
Not many bosses would be that considerate, Sir.
Thank you, Ploppy, I do my best.
Now then, woman, if indeed you are a woman.
- What is your function on death row? - I'm the last meal cook, Sir.
The prisoners may ask me for what they fancy for their last meal.
- And you cook for them what they desire? - Yes, provided they ask for sausages,
otherwise they tend to get a tiny bit disappointed. Sausages is all I got.
You are clearly a woman of principle and compassion, Mistress...
- Ploppy, Sir. - Ah, so you are married to...
No, many people think that, but it's pure coincidence.
We did laugh when first we found out.
"Good morning, Mistress Ploppy" he'd say, and I'd say, "Good morning, Mister Ploppy."
(BOTH LAUGH)
The long winter evenings must just fly by.
And you must be the boy who makes the tea.
No, Sir, he's the executioner.
But he does sometimes make the tea.
- And your name is? - Baldrick, my lord.
But I'll change it to Ploppy if it'll make things easier.
No, thank you. I can cope with more than one name. What are you doing here?
Well, it's a hobby.
It would be more fun, Sir, if he were to change his name.
Give the place a more family atmosphere.
This is meant to be a place of pain and misery and sorrow.
That's what I mean, Sir.
Mistress Ploppy is a bit of a social realist, Sir.
We're going to run a fast efficient operation and I intend to do as little work as possible.
My deputy Percy here will explain.
Good afternoon, staff, my name is Lord Percy,
and if you play fair by me you will find me a considerate employer.
- But if you cross me, by Jove, you... - Just tell 'em the plan, duckface.
- My lord, not in front of the staff. - Get on with it.
Right. As you know, we are scheduled to execute Drake and Ethingham on Monday
Lord Farrow on Wednesday and Buckingham and Ponsonby on Friday.
But in order to give us the middle of the week off
Lord Blackadder has decided to move Farrow to Monday.
Let's just say he's got time off for good behaviour.
My husband dies tomorrow. I beseech you, even if you cannot save his life...
Which I don't think either of us would want, seeing as how he's a horrible traitor.
- But if he must die, may I see him? - But of course.
What's she asking me for? Why doesn't she just go along to the execution?
Your Majesty, I don't believe she wants to see him die.
I believe she wants to see him before he dies.
How odd. She's not seen him! I wouldn't marry someone I'd never seen.
You should take marriage a bit more seriously next time.
(SHE CRIES)
Come now, Lady Farrow, crying isn't going to help your husband now.
No! Ointment! That's what you need when your head's been cut off!
That's what I gave your sister Mary when they'd done her.
"There, there," I said, "you'll soon grow a new one."
Shut up, Nursie. Of course you may see your husband, my dear.
And if horrid old Edmund tries to stop you give him this.
It's a warrant for his own execution.
Thank you, Ma'am. May flights of angels sing you to your rest.
Yes, I'm sure they will!
Hip, hip, hip...
- So, they're all dead, are they? - All three. Drake, Ethingham, Farrow.
- Splendid. Any interesting last words? - Farrow was rather moving, my lord.
A great strong man, he stood there gaunt and noble in the early morning mist
and in a loud clear voice he cried out, "My wife might have bloody well turned up."
She's probably shacked up with some new pair of tights already.
Unless Lord Percy has anything to add, you lot can amuse yourselves
in whatever foul depraved way you feel fit 'til Friday.
Thank you, Sir. Well staff, I've got a few notes on today's show.
- On the whole I was impressed... - They've gone, Percy.
Eh team, team!
- My lord, there is a lady to see you. - Is she pretty?
- I don't know, what do you think? - I haven't seen her yet.
Make yourself scarce, Baldrick.
- Good evening, Lord Blackadder. - Well it certainly is now.
Perhaps you'd like to slip into something more comfortable.
No, my lord, for there is a great pain in my heart.
- It's probably indigestion. - It is my husband.
Your husband's got indigestion? Well, he won't be bothering us then.
No, he dies tomorrow.
Oh come, you can't die of indigestion, you're overdramatising.
He is to be executed at your order. I am Lady Farrow.
And what exactly did you want of me?
- I wish to see my husband tonight. - Not really possible actually.
(SHE WHIMPERS) Excuse me just a second.
Baldrick! That Farrow bloke you executed today, are you sure he's dead?
- Well I chopped his head off. - Don't get clever with me.
I just thought you might have lopped off a leg or something by mistake.
No, the thing I chopped off had a nose.
Yes, I'm so sorry. I've just been consulting my legal people
and I'm afraid there really is no chance of a meeting.
- The Queen told me it would be allowed. - Really?
And that if you said "no", I should give you this.
Fine, fine, absolutely. Why not?
Right, Baldrick, is that all clear?
Yes, I've killed someone I shouldn't have killed.
Now you want me to put a lady on my head and talk to his old bag.
No, I want you to put a bag on your head and talk to his old lady.
Why a bag on my head?
In order, nincompoop, that she should believe that you're her husband.
Did he used to wear a bag on his head?
Young Ploppy here has a point, my lord.
Lord Farrow never wore a bag, he was an old-fashioned sort of a gent.
Well, my lord, I hadn't meant to mention it, but I have been wondering all along
why you think Baldrick with a bag on his head is a dead ringer for Lord Farrow
because he's not!
Look, cretins, the bag is there in order to obscure Baldrick's own features.
Many might think that would be reason enough for him to wear it.
Before I bring in Lady Farrow I shall explain to her,
inventing some cunningly plausible excuse,
that her husband has taken to wearing a bag.
She can then chat to Baldrick imagining him to be the man she married.
And the Queen need never know of my miscalculation.
- Why, my lord, that is a brilliant plan. - You're very kind.
Although there is something lurking at the back of my head that bothers me.
- It's probably a flea. - Your Lordship, Lady Farrow.
All right, go on, quick! Quick!
It is my beloved that I shall be pleased to see.
Though I should warn you that he, eh, he will not be quite as you knew him.
You fiend! What have you done to him?
We have put a bag over his head.
Why?
None of the other prisoners have such shapely widows, baa, wives, I should say.
In the interest of the moral, your husband has nobly agreed to wear a bag.
It was either that or have all the other prisoners in there with you.
- How like him to make such a gesture. - Yes, yes.
I'll just go and check he's bagged up.
Balders, this is it!
- My lord! - What is it now, Ploppy?
I have located my nagging doubt. It's a small point, but I do now recall
that Lord Farrow was considerably taller,
more than a yard taller, than young Ploppy here.
If you want something done properly you've got to do it yourself.
- Anything else I should know? - He had a very deep voice.
- Big, deep, booming voice. - So quite like mine, then?
- No, my lord, a big, deep, booming voice. - Mine's quite deep.
Not like his, and in fact, he was even taller than you, my lord. A giant man.
All right, don't rub it in. Percy, you'd better go and have a word with her.
Go on, go on.
Sorry about the delay, Madam.
As you know, you are about to meet your husband,
whom you will recognise on account of the fact that he has a bag over his head.
- I would know my darling anywhere. - There are a couple of other things.
I am prepared for the fact that he may have lost some weight.
Yes, and some height.
That's the interesting thing. You'll probably not recognise him at all actually.
You'll be telling me his arm's grown back next.
Excuse, just for a sec.
He's only got one arm!
Well I shall just have to stick it inside the shirt. Which one?
Hang on!
- How do we know you're his wife? - What?
Well, you know, you could be a gloater.
- I beg your pardon. - You know, a gloater.
Come to gloat over the condemned man. We're up to our ears in gloaters here.
"Can I come in for a gloat?" they shout. We shout back, "You heartless gloaters."
(SHE CRIES)
All right, alright, I tell you what.
I'll believe you're not a gloater if you tell me which arm he hasn't got.
His left of course. Now let me see my husband!
Right!
It's the left! Good luck!
Gloaters? You really are a prat, aren't you, Percy?
In two minutes you interrupt me, alright?
Otherwise I'm in real trouble, and don't forget because...
- We're not at home to Mr Cockup. - Correct.
- Remember the voice, my lord. - Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes.
Enter!
- James? - My darling!
- How are you? - Oh fine, fine. Food's not bad.
- Apart from the sausages. - Your voice is somehow different.
- Oh, how? - Somehow lighter.
Not as deep nor booming as once it was.
- Is that better? - Oh my darling!
Call me by that name you always called me to show your love is still strong.
Ah, yes. Do you think this is quite the time or the place for that sort of thing?
Please!
This is the specific secret little name that I always used to call you?
Yes, the one like 'your little pumpkin'.
The one like 'your little pumpkin' but not actually 'your little pumpkin'?
No.
Right then, my little pumpkinywumpkiny?
Oh my darling! Ah! Your arm! What happened to it?
Well, I'm rather hurt you don't remember.
But it was only cut off at the elbow. What happened to the rest?
Ah, well, I got into a scrap with a fellow
who called you a nosey little strumpet who was always going blubbing to the Queen,
and we got into a fight, and he cut off the top half.
Well I think you'd better be going.
Lord Blackadder said his servant Baldrick was going to collect me.
Perhaps, my lord, he is leaving us for a little longer.
No, I shouldn't think so. Baldrick! He's usually very punctual.
Perhaps this Baldrick is doing it out of kindness.
Oh no, I shouldn't think so. Baldrick! He's a very unkind person.
Let us leap on the moment and use it to its full.
Let me do this last thing for you! What wife could do more?
Oh, I see.
Right, that's it. Time's up! Come along.
We've had so little time. May we finish what we began in paradise.
- Farewell. - Farewell.
Baldrick, you bastard! You utter bastard!
That was the first time in my whole life.
I've been on this paltry, boring planet for 30 years and that's the first time ever...
But do not despair, my lord. Your brother petitions the Queen tomorrow morning.
- There may still be hope! - What?
Shall I prepare the guest room for Mr Cockup, my lord?
Yes, alright then, let him off. He probably is innocent anyway.
My lady! May the heavens rain down radiant jewels and sweetmeats upon you.
Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes!
- And may Cherabim and Seraphim... - Out!
- My lady, about Lord Farrow. - I've let him off.
No, you can't. He's a complete cad of the first water.
- 'Can't' is not a word for princes. - How very true, Majesty.
Anyway, I won't be argued with, will I, Nursie?
Well, when you want something very naughty...
No, you won't be argued with. Absolutely not.
So, Lord Blackadder, I want to see Lord Farrow here in one hour.
Meanwhile, I shall spend the time visiting my old friend Lord Ponsonby,
whom I believe I'm having killed on Friday. Come on, Nursie.
Let's see if there are any good heads in traitor's cloister on the way.
Percy, this is a very difficult situation.
Someone's for the chop. You or me in fact.
Yes.
Let's face facts, Perc, it's you!
- Except, exc-ept, I may have a plan. - Oh yes.
How about if we get Lord Farrow's head and body and we take it to the Queen,
except, exc-ept, just before we get in, we start shouting and screaming
and then we say, "We were on our way when he said something traitorous."
"So we cut his head off in the corridor to teach him a lesson".
Absolutely pathetic! Contemptible! Worth a try.
- Where is the head? - On a spike in traitor's cloister.
Oh God, that's where the Queen's gone! Did she know Farrow?
- Oh yes, they were childhood friends. - If she sees his head on a spike...
She'll realise he's dead! You fetch the body, and I'll cover the head.
Hello, Edmund. I'm sorry I snapped at you just now.
- You know I'm very keen on you. - Yes, as you were keen on Essex.
Right up to the point at which you had his head cut off.
He didn't mind that, he knew it was only little me.
And I must say, his head did look jolly super on its spike.
Are there no heads on spikes today?
No, we're training up a new executioner and he's a little immature.
Takes him forever. Slash, slash, slash. When he's finished
you don't so much need a spike as a toast rack.
I like toast. Still, must be off to say bye-bye to Ponsonby.
Would you care to stroll with me, if you've got time, if you're not too busy?
Sorry, Ma'am...
I said "Would you care to stroll with me, if you've got time, if you're not too busy?!"
It would make the decade worthwhile.
And in Genoa, 'tis now the fashion to pin a live frog to the shoulder braid,
stand on a bucket and go "bibble" at passers-by.
Oh, our Italian cousins!
Well, if you'll excuse me, Ma'am, I've got some business to attend to.
Certainly. But first Edmund, take my hand.
Tell me you forgive my former sharpness.
- M'lady. - Sweet Lord Blackadder.
Percy.
- I've got the body and you the head. - It's no good, Percy.
No-one's ever going to believe we've just cut it off, it's gone green!
- We're doomed. - Doomed!
Wait a moment, that's not Farrow! That's Ponsonby.
My God, Ponsonby!
That genius Baldrick has killed the wrong bloke. We're saved.
- Then Farrow is alive and we're saved. - Hooray!
And when the Queen gets back from seeing Ponsonby we'll... Oh God!
Oh doomed! Doomed!
- It's not very nice here, is it? - It's not meant to be, my pikelet.
This is where all the horrid people who don't like you live.
It's a bit smelly too, isn't it?
Of course I'm used to that. In the mornings when you were a baby...
Shut up, Nursie! You! No not you, you're too repulsive. You!
- Yes, your Royal Majestic Highness. - Bring in Lord Ponsonby.
So strange. Ponsonby turned out to be a traitor.
You would have thought that he'd have had problems enough with that hunch.
- And only having one leg. - And that terrible speech problem.
Your Majesty, Lord Ponsonby...
Your Royal Majesty. Sorry about the baaag. Didn't have time to shave.
# His great-grandfather was a king, Although for only thirtyy seconds
# When put in charge of beheading, He felt that fame and gloryy beckoned
# Blackadder, Blackadder, no such blooming luck
# Blackadder, Blackadder, Elizabethan schmuck
# Blackadder, Blackadder, nothing goes as planned
# Blackadder, Blackadder, life deals him a bum hand