Blackadder III (Blackadder the Third)

Oh God! Bills, bills, bills.

One is born, one runs up bills, one dies. What have I got to show for it? Nothing.

A butler's uniform and a slightly effeminate hairdo.

Sometimes I feel like a pelican - whichever way I turn, I've still got an enormous bill in front of me.

Pass the biscuit barrel. Let's see what's in the kitty shall we?

Nine pence. Oh God, what are we going to do?

Don't worry Mr B, I have a cunning plan to solve the problem.

Let us not forget, that you tried to solve the problem of your mother's low ceiling

by cutting off her head.

But this is a really good one. You become a dashing highwayman,

then you can pay all your bills and, on top of that, everyone'll want to sleep with you.

Baldrick, I could become a prostitute and pay my bills,

then everyone would want to sleep with me, but I do consider certain professions beneath me.

And I fail to see why a thief should be idolised, just because he has a horse between his legs.

My favourite's the Shadow. What a man! They say he's halfway to being the new Robin Hood.

- Why only halfway? - Well, he steals from the rich,

but he hasn't got round to giving it to the poor yet.

Look, I've got a poster of him.

I have no desire to get hung for wearing a silly hat.

If I want to get rich quick, all I have to do is go upstairs and ask Prince Fathead for a rise.

The bank's open.

Good morning, sir. May I say how immensely rich you're looking?

Was there anything you wanted? Anything at all?

Yes, I was wondering if you could lend me a bit of cash.

But of course, sir, I... Cash?

Yes, I'm rotten stinking stoning stinking broke.

What about the 5,000 pounds

that Parliament voted you last week to drink yourself to death with?

All gone I'm afraid. You see, I've discovered this terrifically fun new game. It's called "cards".

You sit round the table with your friends, and you deal out five "cards" each,

and then the object of the game is to give away all your money as quickly as possible.

- Do you know it? - Vaguely, sir, yes.

All the chaps say I'm terrific at it.

I was very bad at it. I always seemed to end up with more money than I started with.

It's all down to practice. I'm a natural apparently.

The only drawback is that it's pretty damned expensive.

So I was wondering if you could lend me a couple of hundred.

I'm afraid that's impossible. I'm as poor as a church mouse that's just had an enormous tax bill

on the very day his wife ran off with another mouse, taking all the cheese.

- What am I going to do? - It's a difficult one.

Let's see now. You can't borrow money, you're not going to inherit any money

and obviously you can't earn money.

Sir, drastic situations call for drastic measures. If you can't make money, you'll have to marry it.

Marry? Never!

I'm a gay bachelor, Blackadder.

I'm a roarer, a rogerer, a gorger and a puker.

I can't marry. I'm young, I'm firm buttocked, I'm...

- Broke? - Well, yes, I suppose so.

And don't forget, sir, that the modern Church smiles on roaring and gorging within wedlock,

and indeed rogering is keenly encouraged.

And the puking?

I believe still very much down to the conscience of the individual churchgoer.

Well, tally-ho then, Blackadder. Yes, you fix it up.

You know the kind of girls I like, they've got to be lovers, laughers, dancers...

And bonkers.

That goes without saying.

- Oh God! - Something wrong, Mr B?

I can't find a single person suitable to marry the prince.

Please, keep trying, I love a royal wedding.

The excitement, the crowds, the souvenir mugs,

the worrying about whether the bride's lost weight.

Unlikely with this lot. If the prince had stipulated "must weigh a quarter of a ton" we'd be laughing.

Of the 262 princesses in Europe, 165 are over 80, they're out,

47 are under 10, they're out, and 39 are mad.

They sound ideal.

They would be if they hadn't all got married last week in Munich to the same horse.

- Which leaves us with two. - And what about them?

Well, there's Grand Duchess Sophia of Turin - we'll never get her to marry him.

- Why not? - Because she's met him.

Which leaves?

- Caroline of Brunswick. - What's wrong with her?

Get more coffee! Change it! Take me roughly from behind! No, not like that, like this!

Trousers off! Tackle out! Walk the dog! Where's my presents?!

Which one do you want me to do first?

No, that's what Caroline's like. She is famous for having the worst personality in Germany.

And as you can imagine, that's up against some pretty stiff competition.

- So you're stuck then. - Yes, I'm afraid I am.

Unless... Pass me the paper, Baldrick, quick.

Why has half the front page been cut out?

- I don't know. - You do know, don't you?

Yes.

You've been cutting out the cuttings about the elusive Shadow

to put in your highwayman's scrapbook, haven't you?

I can't help it, Mr B. His life is so dark and shadowy and full of fear and trepidation.

So is going to the toilet in the middle of the night, but you don't keep a scrapbook on it.

I do.

Now, let's see, society pages. You see, it needn't necessarily be a princess.

All the Prince wants is someone pretty and rich.

Oh dear, that rules me out then.

Now, let me see. "Beau Brummel in purple pants probe."

"King talks to tree. Phew! What a loony."

God, the Times has really gone downhill recently.

Aha! Listen to this:

"Mysterious northern beauty, Miss Amy Hardwood,

comes to London and spends flipping great wodges of cash!"

That's our baby!

I don't know why I'm bothering to get dressed. As soon as I get to the Naughty Hellfire Club

I'll be de-bagged and radished for non-payment of debts.

- Radished, sir? - They pull your britches down.

- And push a large radish right up your... - Yes, all right, sir!

There's no need to hammer it home.

- As a matter of fact they do often have to... - No! No!

- Your money worries are over, sir. - Well, hurrah for that.

I have found you a bride. Her name is Amy, daughter of the noted industrialist, Mr Hardwood.

Dammit, Blackadder, you know I loathe industrialists.

Sad, balding, little proles in their damn-your-eyes waistcoats.

All puffed up because they know where to put the legs on a pair of trousers.

Believe me, sir, these people are the future. This man probably owns half of Lancashire.

His family's got more mills than you've got brain cells.

- How many mills? - Seven, sir.

Quite a lot of mills then.

He has patented a machine called "The Ravelling Nancy".

- What does it do? - It ravels cotton, sir.

- What for? - That I cannot say, sir.

I am one of these people who are quite happy to wear cotton, but have no idea how it works.

She is also a beauty, sir.

Well, if she's gonna be my bird, she'd better be. Right, so what's the plan?

I thought I could take her a short note expressing your honourable intentions.

Yes, yes, I think so too. All right then, take this down.

"From His Royal Highness the Prince of Wales to Miss Amy Hardwood."

"Tally-ho, my fine saucy young trollop. Your luck's in."

"Trip along here with all your cash, and some naughty night attire,

and you'll be staring at my bedroom ceiling from now till Christmas, you lucky tart."

"Yours with the deepest respect etc, signed George. P.S. Woof! Woof!"

- Well, what do you think? - It's very moving, sir.

Would you mind if I changed just one tiny aspect of it?

- Which one? - The words.

I'll leave the details to you, Blackadder.

Just make sure she knows I'm all man, with a bit of animal thrown in.

Certainly, sir.

From his Royal Highness the Prince of Wales to Miss Amy Hardwood:

"The upturned tilt of your tiny wee nosy, smells as sweet as a great big posy."

- Fanciful stuff, madam, but from the heart. - He says my nosy is tiny?

And wee, madam.

Well, he must be an awful clever clogs, because you see, my nosy is tiny,

and so wee, that I sometimes think the pixies gave it to me.

He continues: "Oh, Lady Amy, Queen of all your sex".

I apologise for the word, madam, but Prince George is a man of passion.

Don't worry, I can get pretty cross myself sometimes.

I've heard a teensy rumour that the Prince has the manners of a boy-cow's dingle dangle.

- What do you have to say to that? - That is a lie, madam.

Prince George is shy and just pretends to be bluff and crass and unbelievably thick and gittish,

whilst deep down he is a soft little marshmallowy, pigletty type of creature.

Oh, I'm so glad. You see, I'm a delicate tiny thing myself,

weak and silly and like a little fluffy rabbit.

So I could never marry a horrible heffalump, or I might get squished.

Tell me, when can I meet the lovely Prince?

You want to meet him?

If we're going to get married I think I probably ought to.

I know! Tell him to come and serenade me tonight. I'll be on my balcony in my jim-jams.

Certainly, madam.

Eh up! Who's this big girl's blouse, then?

Father, this is Mr Blackadder, he's come a-wooing from the Prince.

- You have a beautiful and charming daughter. - Indeed I do.

I love her more than any pig, and that's saying summat!

It certainly is.

And let me tell you, I'd no more place her in the hands of an unworthy man

than I'd place my John Thomas in the hands of a lunatic with a pair of scissors.

An attitude that does you credit, sir.

I'd rather paint my bottom blue than give her to a man who didn't love her.

What self-respecting father could do more?

On the other hand, if he's a prince, he can have her for ten bob and a pickled egg.

- I can see where your daughter gets her wit, sir. - I thank you.

Although where she gets her good looks and charm is perhaps more of a mystery.

- No one ever made money out of good looks. - You obviously haven't met Lady Hamilton, sir.

I tell you, Baldrick, I'm not looking forward to this evening.

Trying to serenade a light fluffy bunny of a girl

in the company of an arrogant half German yob with a mad dad.

- He is the Prince of Wales. - Have you ever been to Wales, Baldrick?

- No, but I've often thought I'd like to. - Well don't, it's a ghastly place.

Huge gangs of tough sinewy men roam the valleys terrifying people with their close harmony singing.

You need half a pint of phlegm in your throat just to pronounce the place-names.

Never ask for directions in Wales, Baldrick, you'll be washing spit out of your hair for a fortnight.

- So being Prince of it isn't considered a plus? - I fear not, no.

But the crucial thing is that they must never be left alone together before the marriage.

- Isn't that a bit unfair on her? - It's not exactly fair on him either.

The girl is wetter than a haddock's bathing costume.

But you know, Baldrick, the world isn't fair.

If it was, things like this wouldn't happen, would they?

What's the plan?

Shin up the drain and ask her if she'll take delivery of a consignment of German sausage?

No, sir. As we rehearsed: Poetry first, sausage later.

Right. So, what do you think? "Harold the Horny Hunter" should do the trick.

Remind me of it, sir.

"Harold the Horny hunter, had an enormous horn."

It is absolutely excellent, sir. However, might I suggest an alternative?

"Lovely little dumpling, how in love I am."

"Let me be your shepherdkins, you can be my lamb."

I think we'll be very lucky if she doesn't just come out onto the balcony and vomit over us.

Let's give it a whirl.

Just stand right here, sir. Call for her romantically.

Oy! Come on out here, you rollicking trolloping sauce bottle!

- George? - Woof! Woof!

Is that you?

Yes, 'tis I, your gorgeous little love bundle.

Oh, George, I think you must be the snuggly wuggliest lambkin in the whole of toy-land.

Yucch!