Blackadder III (Blackadder the Third)

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.