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.
Has there been a general election, Mr Blackadder?
- Indeed there has, Mrs Miggins. - Well, I never heard about it.
- Of course not - you're not eligible to vote. - Why not?
Because virtually no one is: Women, peasants,
chimpanzees, lunatics, Lords...
- That's not true, Lord Nelson's got a vote. - He's got a "boat", Baldrick.
Marvellous thing, democracy. Look at Manchester: Population, sixty thousand; electoral roll, three.
Well, I may have a brain the size of a sultana, but it hardly seems fair to me.
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 druids, death by stoning, and dung for dinner.
I'm having dung for dinner tonight.
- Who are they electing at these elections? - The same old shower.
Fat Tory landowners who get made MPs when they reach a certain weight,
raving revolutionaries who think that because they do a day's work they have 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.
You'd better watch out, Mr Blackadder, things are bound to change.
Not while Pitt the Elder's Prime Minister.
He's about as effective as a catflap in an elephant house.
As long as his feet are warm and he gets a nice cup of tea in the sun before his morning nap,
he doesn't bother anyone until his potty needs emptying.
Honourable members of the House of Commons,
I call upon the new Prime Minister of Great Britain and her empires: Mr William Pitt, the Younger.
Mr Speaker, members of the House, I shall be brief,
as I have rather unfortunately become Prime Minister right in the middle of my exams.
I look forward to fulfilling my duty in a manner of which Nanny would be proud.
I shall introduce legislation to utterly destroy three enemies of the State.
The first is that evil dictator, Napoleon Bonaparte.
Here, here!
The second is my old geography master, banana-breath Scrigshanks.
But most of all, sirs, I intend to pursue that utter slob, the Prince of Wales.
Here, here!
Why, this year alone, he has spent 15,000 pounds on banqueting...
Boo! Boo! Boo!
...20,000 pounds on perfume...
Boo!
...and, most astonishingly of all, an astonishing 59,000 pounds on socks!
Therefore, my three main policy priorities are:
One, war with France;
two, tougher sentences for geography teachers;
and three, a right royal kick up the Prince's backside!
Hurray!
I now put upon the leader of the Opposition to test me on my Latin vocab.
Sir, if I may make so bold, a major crisis has arisen in your affairs.
- Yes, I know, I've been pondering it all morning. - You have, sir?
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?
Sir, with your forgiveness, there is another even weightier problem.
They just disappear!
You'd think someone was coming in here, stealing the damn things and then selling them off.
Impossible, sir. Only you and I have access to your socks.
Yes, yes, you're right.
For me, socks are like sex: Tons of it about, but I never seem to get any.
If I may return to this very urgent matter. I read fearful news in this morning's paper.
Oh, no. Not another little cat caught up in a tree.
No, sir. There's a vote afoot in the new Parliament to strike you from the Civil List.
Oh, yes, but what are they going to do about my socks!
If this bill goes through, you won't have any socks...
...or trousers, shirts, waistcoats, or pantaloons. They're going to bankrupt you.
They can't do that - the public love me!
Only the other day, I was out in the street and they sang, "We hail Prince George"!
We "hate" Prince George.
- Was it? - I fear 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 you're safe.
Hurrah! Any ideas?
Well, yes, sir. There is one man who might be the ace up our sleeve.
A rather crusty, loud-mouthed ace named Sir Talbot Buxomly.
Never heard of him.
That's hardly surprising, sir. Sir Talbot has the worst attendance record of any MP.
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.
If we can get him to support us, then we are safe.
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.
Excellent! Sensible policies for a happier Britain!
However, if we are to get him to support us, he will need some sort of incentive.
- Anything in mind? - You could appoint him a High Court judge.
- Is he qualified? - He's a violent, bigoted, mindless old fool.
Sounds a bit overqualified... Well, get him here at once!
Certainly, sir. I will return before you can say "antidisestablishmentarianism".
Well, I wouldn't be too sure about that! Antidistibblincemin...
Antimistilinstid...
Antidistinctly-minty-monetarism...
Your Highness, Sir Talbot Buxomly, MP.
Ah, Buxomly! Roaringly splendid to have you here. How are you, sir?
Heartily well, Your Highness. I dined hugely off a servant before coming to town.
- You eat your servants? - No, sir, I eat "off" them.
Why should I spend good money on tables when I have men standing idle?
Why, indeed! Now, I dare say you've heard of Mr Pitt's intentions.
Young scallywag!
- So you don't approve of his plans to abolish me. - I do not, sir.
Damn his eyes! Damn his britches! Damn his duck pond!
Hurrah for that!
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, appointed by God,
and I shall stick by you forever, though infirmity lay me waste
and ill health curse my every waking moment.
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.
You have the physique of a demigod. Purple of cheek, and plump of fetlock,
the shapely ankle and the well-filled trouser that tells of a human body in perfect working order.
He's dead, sir.
Dead?
- Yes, Your Highness. - What bad luck, we were rather getting on.
- We must move at once. - In which direction?
Sir Talbot represented the constituency of Dunny-on-the-Wold,
and, by an extraordinary stroke of luck, it is a rotten borough.
Really? Is it?
Well, lucky, lucky us.
Lucky, lucky, luck. Luck-luck... Lark! Lark!
Lark! Lark! Lark! Cluck! Cluck! Cluck! Lark! Lark! Lark!
You don't know what a rotten borough is, do you, sir?
No.
So what was the chicken impression in aid of?
I just didn't want to hurt your feelings. So, what is a robber button?
"Rotten borough." A rotten borough, sir, is a constituency where the owner of the land
corruptly controls both the voters and the MP.
- Good, yes, and a robber button is? - Could we leave that for a moment?
Dunny-on-the-Wold is a tuppenny-ha'penny place.
Half an acre of sodden marshland in the Suffolk Fens with an empty town hall on it.
Population: Three rather mangy cows, a dachshund named Colin,
and a small hen in its late forties.
So, no people at all, then? Apart from Colin.
- Colin is a dog, sir. - Yes, yes, yes.
Only one actual person lives there, and he is the voter.
- So, what's the plan? - We must buy Dunny-on-the-Wold at once,
and thus control the voter. I shall need a thousand pounds.
A thousand pounds? I thought you said it was a "tuppenny-ha'penny" place.
Yes, sir, the land will cost tuppence ha'penny, but there are other factors to be considered:
Stamp duty, window tax,
swamp insurance, hen food, dog biscuits, cow ointment - the expenses are endless.
- Fine, the money's in my desk. - No, sir, it's in my wallet.
Oh, splendid! No time to lose, eh?
My thoughts precisely, sir. The only question is who to choose as MP.
- Tricky. - What we need is an utter unknown,
yet someone over whom we have complete power. A man with no mind, with no ideas of his own.
One might almost say a man with no brain.
- Any thoughts? - Yes, Your Highness.
- You rang, My Lord? - Meet the new MP for Dunny-on-the-Wold.
But he's an absolute arsehead!
Precisely, sir. Our slogan shall be: "A rotten candidate for a rotten borough".
Baldrick, I want you to go back to your kitchen sink and prepare for government.
Right. Now all we have to do is fill in this MP application form.
Name: Baldrick.
- First name? - I'm not sure.
- You must have some idea... - Well, it might be "Sod off".
What?
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".
All right..."Mr S. Baldrick".
- Now, distinguishing features? None. - I've got this growth in the middle of my face.
That's your nose, Baldrick. Any history of insanity in the family?
Tell you what, I'll cross out the "in". Any history of "sanity" in the family?
"None whatsoever."
- Now, then, criminal record... - Absolutely not.
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...
One turnip.
Hang on, I don't want to price myself out of the market.
Baldrick, do you have any ambitions in life apart from the acquisition of turnips?
No.
What would you do if I gave you a thousand pounds?
I'd get a little turnip of my own.
What would you do if I gave you a million pounds?
That's different. I'd get a great big turnip in the country.
Oh God, I'll get that. Sign here.
Your Highness, Pitt the Younger.
Why, hello there, young sabre, m'lad! I say, here's fun.
I've a shiny sixpence here for the clever fellow who can tell me which hand it's in.
Oh, school, school! On half hols, is it?
I bet you can't wait to get back and get that bat in your hand, and give those balls a good walloping.
Mr Pitt is the Prime Minister, sir.
Oh, go on! Is he? What, young Snotty here?
- I'd rather have a runny nose than a runny brain. - Eh?
Prime Minister, we do have some lovely jelly in the pantry. I don't know if you'd be interested.
Don't patronise me, you lower middle class yobbo!
What flavour is it?
- Blackcurrant. - Eeeuughhh!
I say, Blackadder, are you sure this is the PM? Seems like a bit of an oily tick to me.
We used to line up four or five of his sort, make them bend over, and use them as a toast-rack.
It doesn'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.
Since that day, I have been busy every hour God sends, working to become Prime Minister
and fight sloth and privilege wherever I found it.
I trust you weren't too busy to remove the crumpet.
You will regret this, gentlemen. You think you can thwart my plans to bankrupt the Prince
by fixing the Dunny-on-the-Wold by-election, but you will be thrashed!
I intend to put up my own brother as a candidate against you.
And which Pitt would this be? Pitt the Toddler?
Pitt the Embryo?
Pitt the Glint in the Milkman's Eye?
Ha!
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.
I say, Blackadder, what a ghastly squit! He's not going to win, is he?
No, sir, because, firstly, we shall fight this campaign on issues, not personalities.
Secondly, we shall be the only fresh thing on the menu.
And thirdly, of course, we'll cheat.
Good evening and welcome to the Dunny-on-the-Wold by-election.
The turnout has been very good. As a matter of fact, the voter turned out before breakfast.
And I can bring you the result of our exclusive Exit Poll
which produced a 100% result for...
..."mind your own business, you nosy bastard".
Mr Hanna, are you going to talk to any of the candidates?
I certainly am, and I can see Prince George, who is leader of the Adder Party.
Prince George, described in his party news sheet as a "great moral and spiritual leader",
but described by almost everyone else as a "fat, flatulent git".
- Prince George, hello. - Good evening.
And good evening, Colin. How do you see your prospects in this campaign?
Well, first, I'd like a word about the disgraceful circumstances in which this election arose.
We paid for this seat, and I think it's a damn liberty that we should have to stand for it as well.
And why is it, that no matter how many pairs of socks you buy, you never seem to have enough?
Fighting words from the Prince Regent.
And now let's have a word from the Adder Party candidate, Mr S. Baldrick,
who so far has not commented on his policies in this campaign,
but with him is his election agent, Mr E. Blackadder.
Well, we in the Adder Party are going to fight this campaign on issues, not personalities.
- Why is that? - Our candidate doesn't have a personality.
- He doesn't say much about the issues, either. - No, he's got something wrong with his throat.
Perhaps he could answer one question. What does the "S" in his name stand for?
- "Sod off". - Fair enough, none of my business, really.
And now it's time, I think, for a result, and tension is running very high here.
Mr Blackadder assures me that this will be the first honest vote ever in a rotten borough.
And I think we all hope for a result which reflects the real needs of the constituency.
And behind me I can just see the Returning Officer moving to the front of the platform.
As the Acting Returning Officer for Dunny-on-the-Wold...
The Acting Returning Officer, Mr E. Blackadder, of course.
And we're all very grateful that he stepped in at the last minute,
when the previous Returning Officer accidently stabbed himself in the stomach while shaving.
I now announce the number of votes cast as follows: Brigadier General Horace Bolsom...
Keep-Royalty-White-Rat- Catching-And-Safe-Sewage-Residents Party...
No votes.
Ivor "Jest ye not madam" Biggun...
Standing-At-The-Back-Dressed- Stupidly-And-Looking-Stupid Party...
No votes.
- Pitt, the Even Younger... - Whig...
- No votes. - Oh, there's a shock.
- Mr S. Baldrick... - Adder Party...
16,472.
And there you have it: Victory for the Adder Party, a sensational swing against the Whigs.
I'll just try to get a final word with some of the candidates as they come up from the stage.
Master William Pitt the Even Younger, are you disappointed?
Yes! I'm horrified! I smeared my opponent, bribed the press to be on my side,
and threatened to torture the electorate if we lost.
I fail to see what more a decent politician could have done.
Ivor Biggun, no votes at all for the
Standing-At-The-Back- Dressed-Stupidly-And-Looking-Stupid Party.
- Are you disappointed? - No, not really, no...
I always say, "If you can't laugh, what 'can' you do?"
Take up politics, perhaps. Has your party got any policies?
Oh yes, certainly! We're for the compulsory serving of asparagus at breakfast,
free corsets for the under-5's, and the abolition of slavery.
Many moderate people would respect your stand on asparagus,
but what about this extremist nonsense about abolishing slavery?
Oh, we just put that in for a joke! See you next year!
And now, finally, a word with the man who is at the centre of this by-election mystery:
The voter himself. And his name is Mr E. Bla...
Mr Blackadder, "you" are the only voter in this rotten borough.
Yes, that's right.
- How long have you lived in this constituency? - Since Wednesday morning.
I took over from the previous electorate when he, very sadly,
accidently brutally cut his head off while combing his hair.
One voter, 16,472 votes...
- A slight anomaly? - Not really, Mr Hanna.
You see, Baldrick may look like a monkey who's been put in a suit and then strategically shaved,
but he is a brilliant politician.
The number of votes I cast is simply a reflection of how firmly I believe in his policies.
Well, that's excellent. That's all for me - another great day for democracy in our country.
Vincent Hanna, Country Gentleman's Pig Fertilizer Gazette, Dunny-on-the-Wold.
We are reprieved. It is a triumph for stupidity over common sense.
- Thank you very much. - As a reward, Baldrick, take a short holiday.
Did you enjoy it? Right.
Will the honourable Members please cast their votes, 'aye' or 'nay',
for the striking of the Prince Regent off the Civil List.
Excuse me...
Excuse me!
- Hello, little chappie. Are you a new bug? - Yeah, I don't know anyone here.
I support the Prince and I don't know how to vote.
We can soon change all of that, can't we? Come along with me.
Oh, thanks.
Well, well, well, if it isn't the Lord Privy Toast-Rack.
Pull up a muffin, sit yourself down.
- You don't like me, do you, Mr Blackadder? - Well, nobody likes a loser.
- Then that's why nobody likes "you". - What?
You lost the vote. Your monkey obligingly voted for us.
Oh God, no.
If you want something done properly, kill Baldrick before you start.
You're beaten, Oik! And you and your disgusting master have twenty-four hours to get out.
Twenty-four hours is a long time in politics. Good day.
There is just one thing before I go.
I've got this sort of downy hair developing on my chest, is that normal?
Also, I get so lonely and confused.
I've written a poem about it, maybe you'll understand.
- "Why do nice girls hate me? Why..." - Get out, you nauseating adolescent!
Piss off!
How could I have been so stupid? Goodbye, Millionaire's Row.
Hello, Room 12 of the Budley Salterton Twilight Rest Home for the Terminally Short of Cash!
And to think you once dreamed you'd end up in the House of Lords.
- What? - The House of Lords.
I'd forgotten about the House of Lords! The Lords will never let the bill through.
Every man-jack of them will be behind the Prince.
- Right, take Baldrick off the spit. - Hurrah...
I've got a plan so cunning you could put a tail on it and call it a weasel.
Da-daa!
Oi, tally-ho, Blackadder!
You look as happy as a man who thought a cat had done its business on his pie,
but it turned out to be an extra big blackberry.
- Did our plan go well? - Excellently, sir.
Order a thousand pairs of finest cotton socks.
Take out the drawings for that beach hut at Brighton.
- Hurrah! - There was, however, one slight...
...hiccup.
"Cough" I think you mean.
No, sir, "hiccup".
The motion about your impoverishment has now moved on to the House of Lords.
Bravo! Well, no worry there, then. Every man-jack of them will be behind me.
Ah, would that were so, Your Highness. These are treacherous times.
- Are they? - Yes.
It might be wise to appoint a new Lord, to make sure the old Lords vote the right way.
Good thought. New Lord...
- Any idea who? - Well, sir, one name does leap to mind.
- Does it? - Yes, sir.
You couldn't make it leap any higher, could you?
A young man in your service, sir, who has done sterling work
matching the political machinations of the evil Pitt.
Ah, of course! Blackadder, oh, how can I ever thank you enough?
It might also be worth bribing a few Lords,
just to make sure they vote the way their consciences tell them.
- How many should we bribe? - Oh, I think three hundred, to be sure,
at a thousand pounds each.
- Three hundred thousand pounds? - Four hundred thousand, I think you'll find, sir.
Yes, you're right. Well, thank God I've got you to advise me, Bladder.
Just remind me, what do I have to do to appoint this Lord chappie?
Oh, it's very simple, sir. You put on your robes of State, he puts on his,
then you sign the Document of Ennoblement and dispatch him at once to the House of Lords.
- Excellent! I shall change immediately. - And so, sir, shall I.
Voilá, Mrs Miggins. My robes of State. A thousand pounds well spent, I think.
Oh, very nice!
Oh, it's real cat, isn't it?
This is not cat, Mrs Miggins. This is finest, leather-trimmed ermine
with gold medallion accessories.
Oh, go on, Mr Blackadder, it's cat.
Oh, look, they've left the little collars on.
"Mr Frisky. If found, please return to Emma Hamilton, Marine Parade, Portsmouth."
Oh, God! Ah, well, who cares about a dead cat now that I'm a fat cat.
- You're full of yourself today, Mr B! - Which is more than can be said for Mr Frisky.
My Lord.
- My Lords. - I'm sorry, sir?
My Lords. There is more than one Lord in the vicinity.
Well, yes...
Will you please welcome His Grace, The Lord Baldrick!
You made Baldrick a Lord?
Well, yes. "One who has recently done sterling work,
matching the political machinations of the evil Pitt." Good old Lord Baldrick.
It's alright, Blackadder, you don't have to curtsey or anything.
- Might I let loose a short, violent exclamation? - Certainly.
Damn! Thank you, sir.
I say, that's a bit of a strange get-up you've got there, isn't it, Blackadder?
Yes, I'm just off to a fancy dress party.
I'm going as Lady Hamilton's pussy.
There's just one question, sir, about the four hundred thousand to influence the Lords.
Ah, yes, I gave that to Lord Baldrick.
Sir, might I be permitted to take Lord Baldrick downstairs
to give him some instruction in his lordly duties?
I think that's a splendid idea.
This way, My Lord.
Give me the bloody money, Baldrick, or you're dead!
"Give me the bloody money, Baldrick, or you're dead, 'My Lord'!"
Just do it, Baldrick! Otherwise, I shall further ennoble you
by knighting you rather clumsily with this meat cleaver.
- I haven't got it. - What?
- I spent it. - You spent it?
What could "you" possibly spend 400,000 pounds on?
Oh, no...
Oh, God, don't tell me.
My dream turnip.
Baldrick, how did you manage to find a turnip that cost 400,000 pounds?
Well, I had to haggle.
This is the worst moment of my entire life.
I spent my last penny on a catskin windcheater,
and I've just broken a priceless turnip.
And now I'm about to be viciously slaughtered by a naked Tunisian sock merchant.
And all I can say, Baldrick, is this:
It's the last time I dabble in politics!