Mr Blackadder...
Leave me alone Baldrick. If I'd wanted to talk to a vegetable I'd have bought one at the market.
- Don't you want this message? - 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.
I'm wasted too. I've been thinking of bettering myself.
I applied for the job of village idiot of Kensington.
- Get anywhere? - I got down to the last two.
- But I failed the final interview. - What went wrong?
I turned up. The other bloke was such an idiot he forgot to.
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, songs sung about me.
And then, hundreds of years from now, I want episodes from my life
to be played out weekly at half past nine by some great heroic actor of the age.
Yeah, and I could be played by some tiny tit in a beard.
- Quite. Now, what's this message? - I thought you didn't want it.
- I may do. It depends what it is. - So you do want it?
- Well, I don't know, do I? It depends what it is. - I can't tell you unless you want to know.
Now I'm so confused I don't know where I live or what my name is.
Your name is of no importance and you live in the pipe in the upstairs water-closet.
Was the man who gave you this, by any chance, a red-headed lunatic with a kilt and a claymore?
Yeah, and the funny thing is, he looked exactly like you.
My mad cousin McAdder. The most dangerous man ever to wear a skirt in Europe.
Yeah, he came in here playing the bagpipes,
then he made a haggis, sang Auld Lang Syne and punched me in the face.
- Why? - I called him a knock-kneed Scottish pillock.
An unwise action, Baldrick, since Mad McAdder is a homicidal maniac.
My mother told me to stand up to homicidal maniacs.
If this is the same mother who claimed that you were a tall, handsome, stallion of a man,
- I should treat her opinions with caution. - I love my mum.
And I love chops and sauce, but I don't seek their advice.
I hate it when McAdder turns up. He's such a frog-eyed, beetle-browed basket-case.
- He's the spitting image of you. - No, he's not!
We're about as similar as two completely dissimilar things in a pod.
What's the old tartan throw-back 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 last year's Mr Madman competition.
Ah! The walrus awakes.
Blackadder, notice anything unusual?
Yes, sir, it's 11:30 in the morning and you're moving about.
Is the bed on fire?
Well, I wouldn't know, I've been out "all night".
Guess what I've been doing? Wraaarrhhh...
- Beagling, sir? - Better even than that.
Sink me, Blackadder, if I haven't just had the most wonderful evening of my life.
Tell me all, sir.
As you know, when I set out I looked divine. At the party, as I passed, all eyes turned.
- And I dare say, quite a few stomachs. - Well, that's right.
And then these two ravishing beauties came up to me and whispered in my ear
that they loved me.
- And what happened after you woke up? - This was no dream, Blackadder.
Five minutes later I was in a coach flying through the London night bound for the ladies' home.
And which ladies' home is this? A home for the elderly or a home for the mentally disadvantaged?
No, no, no. This was Apsley House. Do you know it?
Yes, sir. It is the seat of the Duke of Wellington. Those ladies, I fancy, would be his nieces.
Oh, so you fancy them too? Well, I don't blame you.
I spent a night of ecstasy with a pair of Wellingtons and I loved it.
Sir, it may interest you to know that the Iron Duke has always let it be known
that he will kill in cold blood anyone who takes sexual advantage of any of his relatives.
Yes, but big-nose Wellington is in Spain fighting the French - he'll never know.
On the contrary, sir. Wellington triumphed six months ago.
- I'm dead. - It would seem so, sir.
- I haven't got a prayer, have I, Blackadder? - Against throat-slasher Wellington,
the finest blade His Majesty commands? Not really, no.
Then I shall flee. How's your French, Blackadder?
Parfait, monsieur. But I fear France will not be far enough.
- Well, how's your Mongolian? - Mmm, "chang hatang motzo motzo".
But I fear Wellington is a close personal friend of the chief Mongol. They were at Eton together.
I'm doomed. Doomed as the dodo.
Oh, my God, he's here, Wellington's here already!
Oh, Your Grace, forgive me. I didn't know what I was doing. I was a mad, sexually overactive fool.
Sir, it's Baldrick. You're perfectly safe.
Hurrah!
- Until six o'clock tonight. - Hurrooh.
From the Supreme Commander, Allied Forces Europe.
"Sir, prince or pauper, when a man soils a Wellington he puts his foot in it."
"This is not a joke. I do not find my name remotely funny, and people who do, end up dead."
"I challenge you to a duel tonight at eighteen hundred hours in which you will die."
"Yours, with sincere apologies for your impending slaughter, Arthur Wellesley, Duke of Wellington."
Sounds a nice, polite sort of bloke.
Don't worry, sir, please. Just consider that life is a valley of woe
filled with pain, misery, hunger and despair.
Not for me. As far as I'm concerned life is a big palace full of food, drink and comfy sofas.
- May I speak, sir? - Certainly not, Baldrick!
The Prince is about to die. The last thing he wants to do
is exchange pleasantries with a certified plum-duff.
Easy, Blackadder, let's hear him out.
Very well, Baldrick. We shall hear you out, then throw you out.
Well, Your Majesty, I have a cunning plan which could get you out of this problem.
Don't listen to him, sir. It's a cruel proletarian trick to raise your hopes.
I shall have him shot the moment he's finished clearing away your breakfast.
No, wait. Perhaps this disgusting degraded creature is some sort of blessing in disguise.
Well, if he is, it's a very good disguise.
After all, did not our Lord send a lowly earthworm to comfort Moses in his torment?
No.
Well, it's the sort of thing he might have done. Well, come on, Mr Spotty, speak.
Well, Your Majesty, I just thought - this Wellington bloke's been in Europe for years.
He don't know what you looks like.
So why don't you get someone else to fight the duel instead of you?
But I'm the Prince Regent! My portrait hangs on every wall!
Answer that, Baldrick.
My cousin Bert Baldrick, Mr Gainsborough's butler's dogsbody,
he says that all portraits look the same these days, 'cause they're painted to a romantic ideal,
rather than as a true depiction of the idiosyncratic facial qualities of the person in question.
Your cousin Bert obviously has a larger vocabulary than you do, Baldrick.
He's right, damn him! Anybody could fight the duel and Wellers would never know.
Baldrick's plan does seem to hinge on finding someone willing to commit suicide on your behalf.
Yes, but he would be fabulously rewarded.
- Money, titles, castles... - Coffin.
That's right, I thought maybe Mr Blackadder himself would fancy the job.
What a splendid idea!
Excuse me, Your Highness. Trouble with the staff.
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?
Mr Blackadder, you was only just saying in the kitchen how you wanted to rise again.
But, tiny, tiny brain, the Iron Duke will kill me.
To even think about taking him on you'd have to be some kind of homicidal maniac
who was fantastically good at fighting, like McAdder...
McAdder could fight the duel for me!
My apologies, sir. I was just having a word with my insurance people.
Obviously I would be delighted to die on your behalf.
God's toenails, Blackadder, I'm most damnably grateful. You won't regret this you know.
Well, that's excellent. There's just one point, though, sir, re: The suicide policy.
There is an unusual clause which states that the policyholder must wear a big red wig
and affect a Scottish accent in the combat zone.
Small print, eh?
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 McAdder has presented his credentials?
Oh yes, indeed, sir. You've just missed him.
- I hope he's been practising with his claymore. - Oh, I should say so!
I'm as weary as a dog with no legs that's just climbed Ben Nevis.
A claymore is a sword, 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.
Yes, exquisite.
He bid me bite on a plank, there was a whirlwind of steel,
and within a minute three men lay dead and I had a lovely new set of gnashers.
Just tell him to meet me here at five o'clock to discuss an extremely cunning plan.
If all goes well, by tomorrow the clan of McAdder will be marching the high road back to glory.
I'll do you a nice packed lunch.
Good news, Your Highness.
This evening I will carve the Duke into a piece of furniture with some excellent dental work.
Your Highness? Your Highness!
Oh, thank God it's you, Blackadder.
I've just had word from Wellington, he's on his way here now.
The Duke must believe from the very start that I am you.
- Any ideas? - There's no alternative, we must swap clothes.
Fantastic, yes, dressing up. I love it.
It's just like that story, "The Prince And The Porpoise".
"...and the Pauper"
Oh, yes! "The Prince and the Porpoise and the Pauper".
Excellent, excellent. Why, my own father wouldn't recognise me.
Your own father never can. He's mad.
Unfortunately, sir, you do realise that I shall have to treat you like a servant?
Oh, I think I can cope with that, Blackadder.
And you will have to get used to calling me "Your Highness", Your Highness.
- Your Highness, Your Highness. - No, just "Your Highness", Your Highness.
That's what I said, "Your Highness, Your Highness", Your Highness, Your Highness.
Yes, let's just leave that for now, shall we? Complicated stuff obviously.
Big Nose is here...
- But what? Who? Where? How? - Don't even try to work it out, Baldrick.
Two people you know well have exchanged coats and now you don't know which is which.
I must say I'm pretty confused myself! Which one of us is Wellington?
Wellington is the man at the door.
And the porpoise?
Hasn't arrived yet, sir. We'll just have to fill in as best we can without it.
- Sir, if you would let the Duke in. - Certainly, Your Highness, Your Highness.
And you'd better get out too, Baldrick.
Yes, Your Highness, Your Highness.
Oh, God! If only they had a brain cell between them.
The Duke of Wellington!
Have I the honour of addressing the Prince Regent, sir?
You do.
Congratulations, Highness, your bearing is far nobler than I'd been informed.
Take my hat at once, sir, and be quicker about it than you were with the door!
- Yes, my Lord. - I'm a Duke, not a Lord!
Where were you trained, a dago dancing class? Shall I have my people thrash him for you?
No, he's very new. At the moment I'm sparing the rod.
Fatal error. Give them an inch and before you know it they've got a foot,
much more than that and you don't have a leg to stand on.
Get out!
Now, sir, to business.
I am informed that your royal father grows ever more eccentric
and at present believes himself to be "a small village in Lincolnshire,
commanding spectacular views of the Nene valley".
I therefore pass my full account of the war on to you, the Prince of Wales.
"We won." Signed Wellington.
Well, that seems to sum it up very well. Was there anything else?
Two other trifling affairs, sir. The men had a whip-round and got you this.
Well, what I mean is, I had the men roundly whipped until they got you this.
It's a cigarillo-case engraved with the regimental crest of two crossed dead Frenchmen,
emblazoned on a mound of dead Frenchmen motif.
Thank you very much. And the other trifling thing?
- Your impending death, Highness. - Yes, of course, mind like a sieve.
I can not deny I'm looking forward to it.
Britain has the finest trade, the finest armies, the finest navies in the world.
And what do we have for royalty? A mad Kraut sausage sucker
and a son who can't keep his own sausage to himself.
- The sooner you're dead the better. - You're very kind.
Now, you're no doubt anxious to catch up with the news of the war.
I have here the most recent briefs from my general in the field.
Yes, well if you could just pop them in the laundry basket on the way out. Tea?
Yes, immediately.
Now, let's turn to the second front, my Lord.
Now, as I understand it, Napoleon is in North Africa.
- And Nelson is stationed in... - Alaska, Your Highness.
In case Bony should try and trick us by coming via the North Pole.
Perhaps a preferable stratagem, Your Grace, might be to harry him amid-ships
as he leaves the Mediterranean. Trafalgar might be quite a good spot.
Trafalgar? Well, I'll mention it to Nelson.
I'm beginning to regret the necessity of killing you, Your Highness.
I'd been told by everybody that the Prince was a confounded moron.
- Oh, no. - Here's that tiresome servant of yours again.
Budge up, budge up.
How dare you sit in the presence of your betters! Get up!
- Cripes, yes, I forgot. - You speak when you're spoken to.
Unless you want to be flayed across a gun carriage. Well?
Sir, I fear you have been too long a soldier. We no longer treat servants that way in London society.
- Why, I hardly touched the man! - I think you hit him very hard.
Nonsense! "That" would have been a hard hit.
I just hit him like that.
No, sir, a soft hit would be like this.
Whereas you hit him like this.
Please, um, I wonder if I might be excused, Your Highness, Your Highness.
Certainly.
I'm sorry about that, sir, but one has to keep up the pretence.
- I quite understand. You carry on the good work. - Very well, sir.
Hang on, this is bloody coffee! I ordered tea!
You really are a confounded fool, aren't you?
I'd heard that the Prince was an imbecile, whereas his servant Blackadder was respected about town.
Now that I discover the truth, I'm disposed to beat you to death. Tea!
Tell me, do you ever stop bullying and shouting at the lower orders?
Never! There's only one way to win a campaign: Shout, shout and shout again!
You don't think then that inspired leadership and tactical ability have anything to do with it?
No! It's all down to shouting.
I hear that conditions in your army are appalling.
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.
- Who knows, maybe I shall kill you. - 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.
One point, sir. I should, perhaps, warn you that while duelling
I tend to put on my lucky wig and regimental accent.
That won't help you.
It would take a homicidal maniac in a claymore and a kilt to get the better of me.
Well, that's handy.
I'm not leaving this kitchen until that man is out of the house.
It's all right, Your Majesty, don't worry, I'll deal with this.
Hello, Baldrick. I've brought your buns. Where's Mr Blackadder?
Oh, not upstairs still, running about after that port-swilling, tadpole-brained smelly-boots?
- I don't know who you mean. - Prince George, Baldrick.
His boots smell so bad a man would need to have his nose amputated before taking them off.
- Well, that's what Mr Blackadder says. - As a joke.
Didn't you write a little poem about him last week?
- No, I didn't. - Oh, you did.
"In the winter it's cool, in the summer it's hot, but all the year round, Prince George is a clot."
A lovely. I said Prince George is a lovely.
I'd better be off anyway. Tell Mr Blackadder to expect Mr McAdder at five o'clock.
As soon as that fat Prussian truffle-pig has got his snout wedged into a bucket of tea-cakes.
It must be next door you're wanting,
strange woman whom I've never seen before, Mrs Miggins.
Baldrick! Is it true?
Did you really write a poem about how lovely I am?
Yes, and Mr Blackadder loves you too.
I must say I find that very touching. I do.
I wish they wouldn't keep on doing that.
Goodbye, sir. And may the best man win - i.e. Me.
- Your tea, sir. - You're late!
Where the hell have you been for it? India?
- Or Ceylon? - Or China?
Don't bother to show me the way out. I don't want to die of old age before I get to the front door.
Ah! Miggins. So where's McAdder? I thought he was going to be here at five o'clock.
Yes, I'm sorry. He's just popped out.
You look ever so similar to each other, you know, it's quite eerie.
- Look, did you tell him to be here or not? - I did, you just keep missing each other.
- I can't imagine why. - I'll tell you why!
It's because there's no coffee shop in England big enough for two Blackadders.
Ah! Good day, cousin McAdder. I trust you are well.
Aye, well enough.
- And Morag? - She bides fine.
And how stands that mighty army, the clan McAdder?
They're both well.
I always thought that Jamie and Angus were such fine boys.
- Angus is a girl. - Of course.
So, tell me, cousin, I hear you have a cunning plan.
I do, I do.
I want you to take the place of the Prince Regent and kill the Duke of Wellington in a duel.
- Aye, and what's in it for me? - Enough cash to buy the Outer Hebrides.
- What do you think? - Fourteen shillings and sixpence?
Well, it's tempting. But I've got an even 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 McAdder.
And I shall wear the granite gown and limestone bodice of MacMiggins, Queen of all the herds.
Look, for God's sake, McAdder, you're not Rob Roy.
You're a top kipper salesman with a reputable firm of Aberdeen fishmongers.
Don't throw it all away. If you kill the Prince they'll just send the bailiffs round and arrest you.
Oh blast, I forgot the bailiffs.
- So we can return to our original plan then? - No, I'm not interested.
I'd rather go to bed with the Loch Lomond monster.
And I have to be back in the office on Friday.
I promised Mr McNaulty I'd shift a particularly difficult bloater for him.
Forget the whole thing. I'm off home with Miggsy.
Yes, yes. Show me the glen where the kipper roams free. And forget Morag forever.
No, never. I 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.
Yes! I love babies.
You're a woman of spirit! I look forward to burying you in the old Highland manner.
Farewell, Blackadder, you spineless goon.
Oh, God! Fortune vomits on my eiderdown once more.
Ah, Blackadder. It has been a wild afternoon full of strange omens.
I dreamt that a large eagle circled the room three times,
and then got into bed with me and took all the blankets.
And then I saw that it wasn't an eagle at all but a large black snake.
Also, Duncan's horses did turn and eat each other - as usual.
- Good portents for your duel, do you think? - Not very good, sir. I'm afraid the duel is off.
- Off? - As in "sod". I'm not doing it.
By thunder, here's a pretty game. You will stay, sir, and do duty by your Prince or I shall...
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.
Please, please, you've got to help me. I don't want to die.
- I've got so much to give. I want more time. - A poignant plea, sir.
But the answer, I'm afraid, must remain: "You're going to die, fat pig".
Oh, wait, wait! I'll give you everything.
Everything? The money, the castles, the jewellery?
The highly artistic but also highly illegal set of French lithographs?
Everything.
The amusing clock where the little man comes out and drops his trousers every half hour?
- Yes, yes, all right. - 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.
Here's the plan.
When he offers me the swords, I kick him in the nuts and you set fire to the building.
In the confusion we claim a draw.
Your Highness, let's be about our business.
Don't forget, Baldrick. You... when I...
Come, sir. Choose your stoker.
- Are we going to tickle each other to death? - No, sir. We fight with cannon.
But I thought we were fighting with 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!
Wait a minute!
Stand by cannon for loading procedure. Stoke! Muzzle! Wrench!
"Congratulations on choosing the Armstrong Whitworth four-pounder cannonette."
"Please read instructions carefully and it should give years of trouble-free maiming."
Check elevation!
Chart trajectory! Prime fuse! Aim!
- Wait a minute. - Fire!
- Mr B! Sir, please help me get his coat off. - Leave it, Baldrick. It doesn't matter.
Yes it does. Blood's hell to shift. I want to get it in to soak.
You die like a man, sir - in combat.
You think so? Dammit, we must build a better world. When will the killing end?
You don't think I too dream of peace?
You don't think that I too yearn to end this damn dirty job we call soldiering?
Frankly, no. My final wish on this Earth is that Baldrick be sold
to provide funds for a Blackadder foundation to promote peace
and to do research into the possibility of an automatic machine for cleaning shoes.
And so I charge...
His Highness is dead.
Actually, I'm not sure I am.
That cigarillo-box you gave me was placed exactly at the point where the cannon-ball struck.
I always said smoking was good for you.
Honour is satisfied. God clearly preserves you for greatness.
His Highness is saved. Hurrah!
Um, no actually, it's me. I'm His Highness. Well done, Bladders, glad you made it.
What in the name of Bonaparte's balls is this fellow doing now?
No, I really am the Prince. It was all just larks, and darn fine larks at that I thought.
I have never, in all my campaigns, encountered such insolence!
Your master survives an honourable duel and you cheek him like a French whoopsy!
I can contain myself no longer!
I die. I hope men will say of me that I did duty by my country.
I think that's pretty unlikely, sir. If I was you I'd try for something a bit more realistic.
- Like what? - You hope that men will think of you as a thicky.
All right, I'll hope that. Toodle-oo, everyone.
Kneel for His Majesty, the King of England!
Somebody told me my son was here.
I wish him to marry this rose-bush. I want to make the wedding arrangements.
Here I am, Daddy.
This is the Iron Duke Wellington, commander of all your armed forces.
Yes, I recognised the enormous conk.
- He's a hero. A man of wit and discretion. - Bravo!
You know, my son, for the first time in my life I have a real fatherly feeling about you.
People may say I'm stark raving mad and say the word Penguin after each sentence,
but I believe that we two can make Britain great,
you as the Prince Regent and I as King Penguin.
Well, let's hope, eh?
Wellington, will you come and dine with us at the palace?
- My family have a lot to thank you for. - With great pleasure.
Your father may be as mad as a balloon, but I think you have the makings of a fine king.
Eine wunderbare Hochzeit ja!
Baldrick, clear away that dead butler, will you?
There's a new star in heaven tonight. A new freckle on the nose of the giant pixie.
No, actually Baldrick, I'm not dead. You see, I had a cigarillo-box too, look.
Oh, damn, I must have left it on the dresser...