Mr Shakespeare, sir, now that you are made gentleman, sir,
you are become master of the Stratford watch, sir.
As sergeant of the watch and convener of the local militia,
I, Sergeant Dogberry, sir,
have the honour of presenting you, sir, with, sir, your sword, sir.
Oh!
I've got a sword, Mary! My very own sword!
For truth, for justice and for shoving fair up every bastable
who's ever snooted his cock at us!
Oh, John! I'm so proud!
No longer be we pariahs in the town but instead are posh,
and thus can shove it up whomsoever we please.
Please, sir, are you a real soldier?
Oh, the bravest, lad.
I have slain a thousand Turks in a single day
and faced down the hordes of Muscovy.
How do you get to be a soldier?
By talking complete Bolingbrokes, apparently.
The recruiting office is always looking for smart lads, son.
Your Queen needs you.
I want to be a brave soldier,
like Sergeant Dogberry and all the men at Agincourt in Dad's brilliant new play.
Then you'll need a sword, son.
Can I have a hold of yours?
No, it's mine!
Bring ale! Bring pie! Let all rejoice! Father is home.
I wasn't expecting you, love. Good journey?
Astonishingly, no.
I had hoped to pass some of the long hours of travel in quiet slumber.
Sadly, that small pleasure was denied me, our coach driver having been afflicted
by a verbal version of the liquid turding malady,
announcing every stop as we approached,
cataloguing all those yet to come as we departed,
begging we take care as we disembarked, reminding us to collect our belongings,
assuring us at every juncture
that our comfort and safety were his top priority,
hoping we'd had a good journey.
Eventually, I could stand it no longer, and in loud and manly voice did I declaim,
"Well, I might have a good journey
"if you'd cease your fatuous drivelling and let me sleep!"
Never heard another peep out of him.
Yeah, cos he chucked us off and we had to walk from Brightwell-cum-Sotwell.
A moral victory, nonetheless.
Not if you have to carry the bags.
You do not save to carry them, Botsky. You are paid to carry them.
Anyway, home now and I'm come in company.
Sweet Kate is with me,
and also the artist formerly known as Marlowe.
And me! I'm here, too.
You do not get billing, Bottom.
You'll have noticed, in my histories,
when Norfolk enters, announcing he's come upon his hour
with Manchester, Suffolk and Norwich,
adding that East Grinstead and Billingsgate are expected shortly
with news of Slough, he does not add,
"Plus the bloke who cooks my pie and carries all my stuff."
Servants go in the stage directions, I'm afraid,
along with minstrels, courtiers, letter lords and the army of France.
Sorry, Botsky, but you are an italic.
I resent that deeply. I am English born and bred.
Never mind him, Bottom. Everyone's welcome here.
You, too, Kate. And Mr Marlowe, RIP.
Also Messrs Burbage, Condell and Kempe are come a-visiting.
Good day, Mrs Shakespeare, my lady.
Don't worry, we're not staying. Just popped in to pay our respects.
Goodness! What's brought you all to the country at once?
Sweet air, Mrs Shakespeare. The London fog is foul just now.
So, we have accepted some rural engagements to escape it.
Good to get out of town, play to real people, yeah?
And I must write another play,
and the reek in town be so fetid, it precludes all concentration.
Oysters be in season
and lord and man alike do blow wind and crack their cheeks.
Tush, tush.
Then tis pity you have left town, lady, for so foul be your temper,
it would make even the London air seem sweet.
Fie, fie, sirrah. A sweet compliment from a man so sour.
What's got into those two?
Isn't it fascinating that they're both such proud, witty people
that the close proximity forced upon them by Marlowe's fake death
has resulted in this endless, hilarious sparring?
Not very hilarious, love.
Could get a bit irritating, in fact.
Ooh, I don't know, Dad.
Two warring wits exchanging a constant stream of arch puns,
smug put-downs and tortuously convoluted insults?
Hard to see how that could ever get irritating.
Yes, didn't you do something similar with your Shrew, Will,
between Petruchio and Katherine?
Which was very, very irritating.
Got some lovely letters.
From his mum.
Well, we must to the tavern where we rest tonight,
for tomorrow, we play Birmingham.
Oh, I do love Birmingham. Such a tiny, sweet, fragrant little town.
Yes, with a particularly sensible, efficient and user-friendly road layout.
Let's hope that never changes.
Well, adieu, all. Adieu.
Well, it's lovely to have you all.
Hamnet, shift your arsington and get your nose out of that play.
There's chores to be done.
He's reading your Henry V, son. He loves it!
Him and all London, Mrs S. Been an absolute megahit.
Tush, tush, sir. State the obvious, why don't you?
Fie, fie, lady. And ‘tis obvious you are a pain.
- Tush, tush! - Fie, fie!
I finally got around to writing my Henry V.
Amazing how many hits I've had called Henry.
Sort of spooky, when you think of it. Six so far.
I mean, what were the odds?
Add two Richards and a John, which were spin-offs, and I've kind of...
I've kind of invented a franchise.
The Henry universe.
A fantasy universe, Mr Shakespeare.
Xenophobic, fake history masquerading as truth.
Enjoy it while you can, because I can't see people long suffering
such simplistic and manipulative distortions
in place of complex, properly researched argument.
Kind of think they might.
Tush, tush, lady. Someone's swallowed some very big words.
Fie, fie, sirrah. I wish you would swallow your tongue.
Tush, tush, lady.
Well, if you'd swallowed yours, you would have a pain
as well as being a pain, for such a diet would make anyone sick.
Fie, fie, sirrah!
I actually think I may have to kill myself.
"Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more
"Or close the wall up with our English dead.”
I hate that line. It's horrible.
Hate it, my sweet?
Well, he's actually telling his men to charge into a gap in the wall
and fill it up with their slaughtered corpses.
I do understand the image, my love. ‘Twas I who conjured it.
Well, it's a good job you do, son,
because when it comes to your images, you're the only one who does.
Well, that may be the case, Father, but, weirdly,
I've found that people don't actually need to understand my images
as they seem perfectly happy just pretending to.
I can't go. I just cannot go. I look completely and utterly crapulous.
What's all this?
Sir Thomas Livesey's giving a masked ball
for the young people at the church hall tonight
and every maid and youth must attend in disguise.
Ooh, it's so romantic.
I met your grandad at just such a ball, Susanna.
Spotted him across the room. Oh, a fearsome, ugly gargoyle face!
How was I to know he'd forgotten his mask?
This was my chance to go up to Claude, who I really want to get with,
but I just can't now cos my mask's too stupid.
Oh, but it isn't. It's a lovely mask, Sue. Wonderful.
But perhaps if you let me make a couple of tiny adjustments...
Sue really likes this boy Claude, and she's hoping that,
from behind the anonymity of her mask,
she'll pluck the courage to ask him if he wants to get with her.
But I don't think even the mask will help, because she's just too shy.
Here, Sue. Is this a bit better?
I mean, it's still mainly your work.
Kate, it is amazing. You are so elegant and talented.
I bet you'd know how to ask a boy out.
- Well, here's a thought. Why doesn't she? - What?
Well, why doesn't Kate go to the masked ball in your stead
and ask Claude if he wants to get with her?
Claude would think it was you. You see?
Absolutely identical.
Will you help me get with Claude, Kate?
Well, gosh! I don't know.
We are talking about obtaining sexual favours by deception here.
There are huge issues of morality and legality.
I mean, if you get with him having groomed him
using my image and personality profile, it's actually assault.
Blimey, Kate! You're criminalising half the plays I ever wrote.
Just saying.
But you will do it, though? I mean, you are my mate?
Oh, goodness!
That is true, isn't it? I am your mate, aren't I?
I've got a girlie mate. Ha!
Take that, Samantha, Ruby, Deb, Cass, Gertrude, Pat
and all the other bitchingtons.
Who's Nelly No-Mates now? Not me, because I've got one! Ha!
Of course I'll do it, Sue.
Impersonating one another at masked balls is what mates are for.
There's Claude in the pink doublet. Ain't he lush, even with his mask on?
Who's that he's with, Sue?
That boy has a strange, brooding and malevolent presence.
That's Moll John's boy, Donald. Don John.
He hates to see anyone happy,
so me and Claude copping off would get right on his tittlingtons.
Well, why does he wish you ill, daughter?
Oh, it ain't just me. He's just generally wicked.
Right, here I go.
Where's Sue, then, Margaret?
Oh, she's right lush, I reckon. I wouldn't mind getting with her.
Why, Claude, do you deny me?
I am Susanna, come as promised. Will you dance a little, sir?
Blimey, Sue! You do sound posh. It don't half turn me on.
It's working perfectly, Sue.
Claude is clearly besotted with Kate as you.
And next time, it will be you, not Kate, with whom he dances.
Oh, Mum, it worked brilliantly!
Claude loves me and he wants to get with me.
That's what he said to Kate when he thought she me.
- Isn't that right, Kate? - It certainly is.
The sweet, lovesick fellow even so far forgot himself
as to inquire if he could cop a bit of a feel-up.
Which, of course, with maidenly blushes half hidden behind my mask, I declined.
Actually, that could have given you away, cos I definitely would have let him.
Here's your mask. A souvenir of your first love.
Tush, tush, madam.
You should wear it still, for I venture it improves your face,
my dear Lady Disdain.
Is it possible disdain should die
when she hath such meet food to feed it as Signor Marlowe?
I had rather hear my dog bark at a crow.
Honestly, Will, you're going to have to have a word with those two.
Why do they have to be so mean?
Methinks I see the reason, wife.
They're in love, but do deny it even unto themselves.
In love? But they've been fighting. They always do.
That's the point.
They be fiery, sparky opposites
ever in denial about the true nature of their feelings.
All this verbal jousting is just surrogate rumpy-pumpington.
Well, I wish they'd hurry up and get to the real rumpy-pumpington,
because it's getting on my nerves.
They need an intervention.
I've sorted out Sue and Claude. Now I'll sort out Kate and Kit.
Husband, in the past, you said you were against such a match.
Remember their Italian adventure?
And Marlowe's a shagsome, bonking rodent...
who, rumour has it,
prefers his maids with cod-dangles, if you know what I mean.
‘Tis true that, like the restless pendulum that marks the steps of Father Time,
Kit swingeth both ways.
But ‘tis clear he loves Kate.
The problem is they're both too proud to make the first move,
thus must I trick each into thinking that the other doth love.
I shall bide my time.
Tell me more, Kate. Was I really romantic?
Oh, yes, you were, Sue. So romantic.
And Claude confessed he was proper gutted when I had to leave.
He made me promise to meet him at the tavern for the after-ball.
Mum, I'm off to the tavern!
The tavern?! But you be but a maid!
I'm 16. Juliet got married, consummated it and killed herself by the time she was 13.
Yeah, well, let's not dwell on that, love, because, frankly,
I've always thought your father making Juliet only 13 was a bit weird.
It was not weird.
I must say, it always bothered me a bit, but I decided to ignore it.
I think that's what people will do - cast older actresses
and probably cut the line where it says about
Juliet not having seen her 14th summer,
because it really is a bit weird.
It's not weird.
It's a quite deliberately stylised image of youth and innocence.
It would be different if Romeo were a dirty old pervington,
but he's not, obviously.
Why obviously?
As I recall, you never mention Romeo's age,
although I can't be sure because, by the middle of Act II,
I was fast asleep.
He doesn't. Romeo's age is never mentioned in the play.
What, so while Juliet is definitely 13,
Romeo could be, like, 55 and really creepy?
No, he couldn't, Bottom.
When I came up with Romeo And Juliet...
- Except you didn't come up with it. - What?
At first I thought you did,
but then I read 7he Tragicall Historye Of Romeus And juliet,
written two years before you were born, in 1562, by Arthur Brooke,
which is an almost identical narrative to yours.
How can you say that?
Romeus is spelt completely differently to Romeo, for a start.
- And there is one other difference. - You see?
Brooke names Juliet as aged 16.
So, you specifically made her younger than in your source material?
Juliet's age was the only thing you changed?
Now, that really is weird.
It is not weird!
Susanna was 13 when I wrote it
and I wanted to doubly emphasise the nature of the generation gap
to make the innocent purity ever more heartbreaking.
The point is, I'm blooming 16 and I'm going to the pub!
Kate's done the groundwork. Now it's time to get stuck in.
And I'L be off on my night watch.
I might look in on you later, Sue. You can buy me a pint.
Don't you dare talk to me. I'lL be copping off with Claude.
I don't want you spoiling it,
making me look all crappage and common-like.
Well, now, perhaps after all these distractions
and silly discussions, I can get on with my writing.
After all, that is why I came here.
Hamnet, pluck me a quill from Mistress Clucky's arsington.
‘Tis time for another Henry.
Is it going to be full of battles again, Dad?
It certainly is.
If gentlemen in England now abed
think themselves accursed that they missed Agincourt,
they're going to feel themselves royally shafted
to have missed all the battles I'm going to write about
in Henry V, Part IL.
Words have consequences, Will. Young men might die because of your plays.
Only if they get bored to death.
- Right, I'm off on my night watch. - My hero!
When I get back, you might like to polish my weapon.
Oh! Always happy to oblige a gentleman.
Mr Shakespeare, the Battle of Agincourt was the peak of Henry V's military career.
He had no great triumphs after that.
He will now.
Your histories are not histories at all,
just laughable propaganda
designed to shore up the legitimacy of the current monarchy.
Duh.
Tush, tush, lady.
If thy face were as fine as thy speech, it would be a pretty thing indeed.
Fie, fie, sirrah!
They're at it again with the love jousting.
I think it's time to bring them together so that true love may blossom
and we can all have a bit of peace.
Well, I'm going to smoke a pipe.
I hope you have a tinder, sir, for you have no spark of wit to light it.
Tush, tush, lady.
Be it ever unlit, it's still hotter than you.
Bottom, a word.
You know that Kate and Marlowe have, of late, taken to trading verbal blows
on a pretty much continuous basis?
Erm, yeah. It's doing my head in.
They're so sick of each other, it's painful.
No, not surprisingly, being a servant, you have stupidly misread the situation.
This trading of abuse means not that they hate each other,
but that they love each other.
You're joking me. Why?
‘Tis the nature of the proud heart, Botsky.
But now ‘tis time to bring these two hearts together.
I intend to tell you, in Marlowe's hearing,
that Kate doth love him.
You just go along with whate'er I say.
Gosh, Botsky!
Have you seen the way our Kate's been ogling Mr Marlowe?
Oh, right. Yeah, absolutely.
And you'd hear her sigh that she loves him full passionately?
Oh, yeah, I did. She sighed big-time. Massive sighing.
Blimey, that's a shocker. Kate sighs for me?
I thought she hated my perky white arsington.
It's working. I can hear him sucking his pipe with gleeful eagerness.
Now must we serve Kate likewise.
Botsky, did you hear how melancholy Mr Marlowe was as he sucked his pipe?
So sadly did he suck.
Saddest sucking I ever heard.
He is a really sad sucker.
Then did he whisper soft the name of his true love.
"Kate! Kate!" he quoth.
"I love thee, yet have not the courage to tell thee."
Blimey, that's a shocker. I thought he hated me.
Brilliant. Thus emboldened by the promise of requited passion,
both will declare their love.
Job done. Can't fail. Love be truly all around.
I feel it in my fingers.
I feel it in my toes.
- Make way! Give air! Give air! Make way! - Sir, what ails her?
Panic not, Mrs Shakespeare. The maid hath but fainted.
Fainted? But why?
A dreadful confrontation in the tavern, Mrs Shakespeare.
Susanna was making merry with a group of young people
when a boy called Claude did approach
and defame her most vilely, calling her a tarting-slap.
My Sue, a tarting-slap? Never!
Afraid so, Mrs S.
Seems she was seen snogging some other bloke
and letting him cop a feel-up.
But I never done it, Mum. I swear!
Fear not, Susanna.
You have been the victim of a foul plot,
which I, as master of the watch, have uncovered.
Tell them everything you told me. Omit nothing.
Omitting nothing, sir.
I said, "Hello, Master Shakespeare. ‘Tis a bit of a chilly night."
You said, "Blooming chilly, Master Dogberry.
"'Twould freeze the Bolingbrokes off..."
When I said omit nothing, I meant omit nothing important.
You are... a ass.
Permission to object, sir! Dost thou not suspect my place?
Dost thou not suspect my years?
Suspect? He means respect! What a hilarious confusion of language.
I wish I'd written it.
I'm sure, in time, you will.
I was doing my watching.
I was watching here, I was watching there, I was watching everywhere.
That be my job, as we be called the watch.
And then you heard something.
I did, sir, which I hope did not exceed my duties, sir,
being as how we be not called the listen.
Tell them what you heard.
A very rogue and peasant knave called Don John, sir,
boasting as how he had done a trick by snogging up the sluttage Margaret
but telling Claude as how he'd been snogging up the chaste Susanna.
I have him locked up, sir,
and the whole village will know of his slander.
Thank you. You are dismissed.
Well, we must also take our leave. Big show tomorrow.
It's so important to bring arts to the regions.
It's very culturally divisive
that the entertainment industry is so London-centric.
Yeah. Like, mad culturally divisive.
I agree. Why should there not be a theatre or production facility elsewhere?
The Lancashire village of Salford, for example?
Except then we'd all be horribly inconvenienced
whenever we wanted to work there.
Unless we moved, I suppose. Went to live in the North.
Perhaps best left as it is. So, we'll see you anon.
- Good e'en. Good e'en. - Thank you so much, Mr Burbage.
Oh, well done, husband. Brilliant police work.
A rogue unmasked and Susanna's name be cleared.
And I can get my Claude back.
This Claude must be taught a lesson before he be welcomed back into the fold,
and I have a brilliant idea.
Oh, God!
We must tell him that Sue did not faint, but died
of a broken heart.
Then will I, a stern father, go to Claude and inform him that,
as penance, he must get with my niece Pru instead.
Then, when Claude comes here for Pru,
he will find this Pru all veiled because...
Bet you can't guess.
It's me.
Oh, you did guess. Well, yes, you will reveal yourself as Sue,
Claude will have been taught his lesson,
you will take him back and all will be love and joy.
I think you should sleep on it.
Come on, kids. Judith, you shouldn't still be up.
And Hamnet. Hamnet!
Hamnet! Hamnet!
Hamnet's run away!
Boy missing? This is a job for the watch.
He's not missing. I know exactly where he's gone.
It's you and your stupid blooming play, Will, exciting the boy about war.
I'll be back.
Well, Master Shakespeare, you have made your mark
that you will serve your Queen for seven years.
Yes, sir.
Suspect, lad! Big suspect!
Hamnet, what are you doing here?
I'm going to be a soldier. I want to die in the breach.
Last time you were in the breach, it was me nearly died,
and I didn't go through 14 hours of labour to have you throw your life away.
There's nothing to a battle, lad. Just takes balls.
And when his have dropped, I'lL let you know.
Oh, Mum!
Don't dis-suspect me, madam.
I have fought with Frederick in the German forests.
I doubt it.
But if you had, you would have seen what a bear's prepared to do
to defend her young.
I'm mumma bear.
Right. Well, in that case, run along, lad.
You, exit.
Pursued by bear.
And if you ever risk your life again, I'L blooming well kill you.
Such joy!
And look how pretty Susanna is
with Claude coming to collect her for a gadsome datelington.
So romantic,
even if he does think he's coming to collect her fictitious cousin Pru.
It's all working perfectly, Anne.
And look-see how my other romantic plan develops.
Kit and Kate do exchange shy glances and winsome sighs.
Both seeking ways of declaring their affection.
Soon, the bantering will be replaced with sweet words of love.
Hello, Claude.
Hello, Mrs Shakespeare. Hello, Mr Shakespeare.
Sorry about slagging off your Sue
and causing her to die of shame and sadness, like.
Well, I'm surprised you've got the Bolingbrokes
to show your face around here at all.
Well, Mr Shakespeare said I had to cop off with his niece Pru.
You, in.
And now will Sue reveal herself, she and Claude will dance merrily,
Kit will reveal his love to Kate, she to him,
and all will be love, sweetness and light.
Pru, I'm Claude.
I've come to get with you instead of dead Sue.
Hello, Claude.
Oh, my God. You're alive. I can't believe it!
And you look really lush and all. Can I get with you?
Come here!
Lovely. He'll be down on one knee before you know it.
Or both knees, Dad.
First, you call me a sluttage in front of the whole town,
and now, with me only dead a day, you want to cop off
with my fictitious cousin Pru!
I hate you, Claude. I thought I loved you, but I hate you.
So, go and cop a feel off Margaret, if she'll have you.
You're all blooming bonkers!
Plan going well so far, master?
Well, I admit that bit didn't quite go as I imagined,
but love is still in the air.
- Kate? - Yes, Mr Marlowe?
Thing is, I know.
I know, too, Mr Marlowe. I overheard Mr Shakespeare.
Same, and what I'm trying to say is, while I think you're very nice...
- I don't even think you're very nice. - What?
I know you love me, but I truly, deeply do not love you.
Hang on, I don't love you.
- Will said... - But Mr Shakespeare...
Plan still going well, is it, master?
But if you don't secretly love each other,
why have you been trading arch and impish insults these many weeks?
Erm, because we're really sick of each other.
Deeply irritated.
So, not to disguise a secret love at all, then?
In what universe does exchanging insults indicate secret love, Mr Shakespeare?
Only in his tortuous and convoluted one, dear.
It's why he's a genius.
I shan't write Henry V, Part IL.
Having seen the way we nearly lost our beloved Hamnet to be a soldier,
I have no stomach for plays that speak of war and glory.
To be honest, I think I'm pretty much done with histories.
I mean, if nothing else, I'm almost out of Henrys.
Then what will you write, love?
Well, how about another romantic comedy?
Well, people do love them. But what plot will you use?
Why, the one that's been happening all around us.
I shall use it all just exactly as it happened,
right here in this house.
And at the end, will you have the two bickering lovers
being revealed as actually being genuinely sick of each other,
and the veiled girl knee her ex-boyfriend in the scroting sack?
No, of course not. They'll all get married, obviously.
You're the genius, love,
but it don't sound like much of a play to me.
More like a load of convoluted old Bolingbrokes.
Just much ado about nothing, really.
Boom! There's the title right there -
A Load Of Convoluted Old Bolingbrokes.
I feel another hit coming on.