Blackadder III (Blackadder the Third)

Oh, Blackadder! Blackadder!

- Your Highness. - What time is it?

- Three o'clock in the afternoon, Your Highness. - Thank God for that, I thought I'd overslept.

- I trust you had a pleasant evening, sir? - Well, no, actually.

The most extraordinary thing happened.

Last night I was having a bit of a snack at the Naughty Hellfire Club,

and some fellow said that I had the wit and sophistication of a donkey.

- An absurd suggestion, sir. - You're right, it is absurd.

Unless, of course, it was a particularly "stupid" donkey.

If only I'd thought of saying that.

It is so often the way, sir, too late one thinks of what one should have said.

Sir Thomas More, for instance, burned alive for refusing to recant his Catholicism,

must have been kicking himself, as the flames licked higher, that it never occurred to him to say,

"I recant my Catholicism."

Only the other day, Prime Minister Pitt called me an idle scrounger,

and it wasn't until ages later that I thought how clever it would've been to have said,

"Oh, bugger off, you old fart!"

I need to improve my mind, Blackadder. I want people to say,

"That George, why, he's as clever as a stick in a bucket of pig swill."

And how do you suggest this miracle is to be achieved, Your Highness?

Easy, I shall become best friends with the cleverest man in England.

That renowned brainbox, Dr Samuel Johnson, has asked me to be patron of his new book.

Would this be the long awaited dictionary, sir?

Who cares about the title as long as there's plenty of juicy murders in it.

- I hear it's a masterpiece. - No, sir, it is not.

It's the most pointless book since "How To Learn French" was translated into French.

You haven't got anything personal against Johnson, have you Blackadder?

Good Lord, sir, not at all. In fact, I had never heard of him until you mentioned him just now.

- But you do think he's a genius? - No, sir, I do not.

Unless, of course, the definition of "genius" in his ridiculous dictionary

is "a fat dullard or wobblebottom; a pompous ass with sweaty dewflaps".

Close shave there, then. Lucky you warned me.

I was about to embrace this unholy arse to the royal bosom.

I'm delighted to have been instrumental in keeping your bosom free of arses.

Bravo! I don't want to waste my valuable time with wobblebottoms.

Fetch some tea, will you, Blackadder? Make it two cups, will you?

That splendid brainbox Dr Johnson is coming round.

Something wrong, Mr B?

Something's always wrong, Balders. The fact that I'm not a millionaire aristocrat

with the sexual capacity of a rutting rhino is a constant niggle.

But, today, something's even wronger. That globulous fraud, Dr Johnson, is coming to tea.

I thought he was the cleverest man in England.

I'd bump into cleverer people at a lodge meeting of the Guild of Village Idiots.

That's not what you said when you sent him your navel.

"Novel", Baldrick, not navel. I sent him my novel.

Well, novel or navel, it sounds a bit like a bag of grapefruits to me.

The phrase, Baldrick, is "a case of sour grapes", and yes it bloody well is.

He might at least have written back, but no, nothing, not even a "Dear Gertrude Perkins,

Thank you for your book. Get stuffed. Samuel Johnson."

- Gertrude Perkins? - Yes, I gave myself a female pseudonym.

Everybody's doing it these days: Mrs Radcliffe, Jane Austen...

- Jane Austen's a man? - Of course.

A huge Yorkshireman with a beard like a rhododendron bush.

- Quite a small one, then? - Compared to Dorothy Wordsworth's, certainly.

James Boswell is the only real woman writing at the moment,

and that's just because she wants to get inside Johnson's britches.

- Perhaps your book really isn't any good. - It's taken me seven years, and it's perfect.

"Edmund: A Butler's Tale"

A giant rollercoaster of a novel in four hundred sizzling chapters.

A searing indictment of domestic servitude in the 18th century, with some hot gypsies thrown in.

My magnum opus, Baldrick. Everybody has one novel in them, and this is mine.

And this is mine.

My magnificent octopus.

- This is your novel, Baldrick? - Yeah, I can't stand long books.

"Once upon a time, there was a lovely little sausage called Baldrick,

and it lived happily ever after."

- It's semi autobiographical. - And it's completely utterly awful.

Dr Johnson will probably love it.

Speak of the devil... Well, I'd better go and make the great Doctor comfortable.

Let's just see how damned smart Dr Fatty-Know-It-All really is.

- And prepare a fire for the Prince. - What shall I use?

Any old rubbish will do. Paper's quite good. Here, try this for starters.

Enter!

- Dr Johnson, Your Highness. - Ah, Dr Johnson!

- Damn cold day! - Indeed it is, sir, but a very fine one.

I celebrated last night the encyclopaedic implementation

of my premeditated orchestration of demotic Anglo-Saxon.

Didn't catch any of that.

I simply observed, sir, that I'm felicitous, since, during the course of the penultimate solar sojourn,

I terminated my uninterrupted categorisation of the vocabulary of our post-Norman tongue.

I don't know what you're talking about, but it sounds damn saucy, you lucky thing.

I know some liberal-minded girls,

but I've never penultimated any of them in a solar sojourn, or been given any Norman tongue.

I believe, sir, that the Doctor is trying to tell you that he is happy because he has finished his book.

It has apparently taken him ten years.

Yes, well, I'm a slow reader myself.

Here it is, sir, the very cornerstone of English scholarship.

This book, sir, contains every word in our beloved language.

- Every single one, sir? - Every single word, sir!

Well, in that case, sir, I hope you will not object if I also offer the Doctor

my most enthusiastic contrafribblarities.

- What? - "Contrafribblarities", sir.

- It is a common word down our way. - Damn!

Oh, I'm sorry, sir. I'm anaspeptic, phrasmotic,

even compunctious to have caused you such pericombobulation.

What? What? What?

What are you on about, Blackadder? This is all beginning to sound a bit like dago talk to me.

I'm sorry, sir. I merely wished to congratulate the Doctor on not having left out a single word.

- Shall I fetch the tea, Your Highness? - Yes, yes.

- And get that damned fire up here, will you? - Certainly, sir.

I shall return interphrastically.

So, Dr Johnson. Sit ye down. This book of yours, tell me, what's it all about?

- It is a book about the English language, sir. - I see. And the hero's name is what?

- There is no hero, sir. - No hero?

Well, lucky I reminded you. Better put one in pronto!

Call him George. George is a good name for a hero. Now, what about heroines?

There is no heroine, sir, unless it is our Mother Tongue.

Ah, the mother's the heroine. Nice twist.

How far have we got, then? Old Mother Tongue is in love with George the Hero.

What about murders? Mother Tongue doesn't get murdered, does she?

No she doesn't. No one gets murdered, or married, or in a tricky situation over a pound note.

Well, now, look, Dr Johnson, I may be as thick as a whale omelette,

but even I know a book's got to have a plot.

Not this one, sir. It is a book that tells you what English words mean.

I "know" what English words mean, I "speak" English! You must be a bit of a thicko.

Perhaps you would rather not be patron of my book if you can see no value in it whatsoever, sir!

Perhaps so, sir! As it sounds to me as if my being patron of this complete cowpat of a book

will set the seal once and for all on my reputation as an utter turnip head.

Well, it is a reputation well deserved, sir! Farewell!

Leaving already, Doctor? Not staying for your pendigestatery interludicule?

- No, sir! Show me out! - Certainly, sir.

Anything I can do to facilitate your velocitous extramuralisation.

You will regret this doubly, sir. Not only have you impecuniated my dictionary,

but you've also lost the chance to act as patron to the only book in the world that is even better.

Oh, and what is that, sir? "Dictionary II: The Return of the Killer Dictionary"?

No, sir! It is "Edmund: A Butler's Tale" by Gertrude Perkins.

A huge rollercoaster of a novel crammed with sizzling gypsies.

Had you supported it, sir, it would have made you and me and Gertrude millionaires.

Millionaires!

But it was not to be, sir. I fare you well; I shall not return.

Excuse me, sir.

Dr Johnson...

A word, I beg you.

A word with you can mean seven million syllables. You might not be finished by bedtime!

Oh, blast my eyes! In my fury, I have left my dictionary with your foolish master.

- Go fetch it, will you? - Sir, the Prince is young and foolish.

And has a peanut for a brain.

Give me just a few minutes and I will deliver both the book and his patronage.

Oh, will you, sir? I very much doubt it.

A servant who is an influence for the good is like a dog who speaks: Very rare.

- I think I can change his mind. - Well, I doubt it, sir.

A man who can change a prince's mind is like a dog who speaks Norwegian: Even rarer.

I shall be at Mrs Miggins' Literary Salon in twenty minutes. Bring the book there.

- Your Highness, may I offer my congratulations? - Well, thanks, Blackadder.

That pompous baboon won't be back in a hurry.

On the contrary, sir. Dr Johnson left in the highest of spirits.

He is utterly thrilled at your promise to patronise his dictionary.

I told him to sod off, didn't I?

Yes, sir, but that was a joke. Surely.

- Was it? - Certainly! And a brilliant one what's more.

Yes, yes! I suppose it was, rather, wasn't it?

So may I deliver your note of patronage to Dr Johnson, as promised?

If that's what I promised, then that's what I must do and I remember promising it distinctly.

- Excellent. Nice fire, Baldrick. - Thank you, Mr B.

Let's get the book. Now, Baldrick, where's the manuscript?

- The big papery thing tied up with string? - Yes, the manuscript belonging to Dr Johnson.

You mean the baity fellow in the black coat who just left?

Yes, Baldrick, Dr Johnson.

So you're asking where the big papery thing tied up with string,

belonging to the baity fellow in the black coat, who just left, is.

Yes, Baldrick, I am, and if you don't answer,

then the booted bony thing with five toes on the end of my leg

will soon connect sharply with the soft dangly collection of objects in your trousers.

For the last time, Baldrick: Where is Dr Johnson's manuscript?

- On the fire. - On the "what"?

The hot orangy thing under the stony mantlepiece.

- You've burnt the dictionary? - Yup.

You've burnt the life's work of England's foremost man of letters?

- Well, you did say "burn any old rubbish". - Yes, fine.

Isn't it going to be a bit difficult for me to patronise this book if we've burnt it?

Yes, it is. If you would excuse me a moment.

Of course. Now that I've got my lovely fire, I'm as happy as a Frenchman

who's invented a pair of self-removing trousers.

Baldrick, will you join me in the vestibule?

We are going to go to Mrs Miggins' to find out where Dr Johnson keeps a copy of that dictionary,

and then, "you" are going to steal it.

- Why me? - Because you burnt it, Baldrick.

But then I'll go to Hell forever for stealing.

Baldrick, believe me, eternity in the company of Beelzebub

and all his hellish instruments of death will be a picnic compared to five minutes with me

and this pencil if we can't replace this.

O, love lorn ecstasy that is, Mrs Miggins,

wilt thou bring me but one cup of the browned juicings of that naughty bean we call "coffee"

ere I die.

You do have a way of words with you, Mr Shelley.

To Hell with this fine talking. Coffee, woman!

My consumption grows evermore acute, and Coleridge's drugs are wearing off.

Oh, Mr Byron, don't be such a big girl's blouse.

- Don't forget the pencil, Baldrick. - Oh, I certainly won't, sir.

Ah, good day to you, Mrs Miggins.

A cup of your best hot water with brown grit in it,

unless by some miracle your coffee shop has started selling coffee.

Be quiet, sir. Can't you see we're dying?

Don't you worry about my poets, Mr Blackadder. They're not dead, they're just being intellectual.