Original subtitles

Terrible Tudors, gorgeous Georgians

Slimy Stuarts, vile Victorians Woeful wars, ferocious fights

Dingy castles, daring knights

Horrors that defy description

Cut-throat Celts, awful Egyptians Vicious Vikings, cruel crimes

Punishments from ancient times Roman rotten, rank and ruthless

Caveman savage, fierce and toothless

Groovy Greeks, brainy sages

Mean and measly Middle Ages

Gory stories we do that

And your host a talking rat

The past is no longer a mystery

Welcome to Horrible Histories. #

Much of the First World War was fought in the trenches

and life in the trenches was truly frightful.

- Eh up. - Billy Boy! Welcome to the trenches.

Thanks Charlie. I'll just drop my kit bag in the bedroom,

- I'm desperate for the toilet. - Of course, go ahead.

Where is the bedroom?

- Well, you're in it. - You what?

Only the officers get a separate dugout. The rest of us sleep on the floor, in the mud.

RATS SQUEAKING

- Oh! - With the rats.

Ugh, disgusting! Where are the toilets?

Er, it's over there, behind the trenches.

Though, rule one. Never, ever...

EXPLOSION

As I was saying, never use the toilets first thing in the morning.

The Germans know that we tend to go then,

so they always fire shells at the toilet sheds,

try and catch us with our trousers down.

So to speak.

- Righto. - So we tend use the bucket.

You know, I think I'll just hold it in.

Can't say I blame you. So then,

- rule two... - Ah!

GUNSHOT

- Never poke your head up above the trench. - Cor lummy, that were close!

Hey, give us a sip of that brew, calm me nerves.

Rule three, watch out for the water.

We put chloride and lime in it. Kills the germs.

Good.

Yeah, not if you're not used to it, though.

Tends to give you very bad diarrhoea.

STOMACH GURGLING

Oh!

Gangway!

EXPLOSION

I think somebody forget rule one.

Right.

I won't be a minute.

Just for the record, Billy, rats are not disgusting.

Unsavoury, perhaps, but not disgusting.

Yes, life in the trenches was hard and when you didn't have much,

you had to make good use of what you'd got.

Hi, I'm a shouty man

and I'm here to tell you about the multi-purpose liquid revolution.

New World War One Wee-wee.

- Wee-wee?! - Yes, wee-wee.

Are your hard army boots giving you blisters?

- Aye, happen they are. - Then just soften up that tough leather

with new World War One Wee-wee.

Wow, that feels much better. They feel like slippers now.

Well, slippers that have been weed on.

Is your machine gun overheating?

Aye, happen it is.

Run out of water?

Aye, happen I have.

Then just cool it down with new World War One Wee-wee.

Watch out, incoming!

Gas attack!

- Mislaid your gas mask? - Aye, happen I have.

Then wee on a hankie and wrap it round your nose and mouth.

Eurgh, yuck!

This will protect you against some poisonous gasses, not all of them.

- Are you sure these gasses are worse than the stench of wee? - Pretty sure.

Yes, that's new World War One Wee-wee.

Wee for victory, boys. And how much does it cost?

- Why, - one pee, - of course.

You won't believe it, but some of the first warriors

to invade Britain were actually invited over.

Hello, and welcome to Invasion, Invasion, Invasion.

This week, we're looking for somewhere in mainland Britain,

for two Saxon brothers, Hengest and Horsa, to take over.

Let's go and meet them.

Hengest, Horsa,

I've brought you here to the Island of Thanet,

just off the coast of Kent.

I think it ticks all your boxes, but what do you think?

Well, it's a little bit small.

Ah, that is a shame because the vendor,

Vortigern, King of the Britons, wants to offer you this for free.

I should hope so,

he owes up big time for helping to drive the Picts back up to Scotland.

- Yah, we're really good at fighting, you know. - Well, I am, anyway.

- Not as good as me. - How can you say that?

I'm the best at fighting!

So, anyway, we do really need somewhere bigger.

- Where did you have in mind? - Kent. - Ooh, lovely! Whereabouts in Kent?

- Kent. The whole of Kent. - Whole of Kent.

Hengest and Horsa have their hearts set on the whole of Kent.

But first, they'll have to negotiate with the current owner,

Vortigern, King of the Britons.

Oh, OK you're sure.

We'll give you nothing for it.

Well, that's a toughie. Er...

I'll have to say no.

You drive a hard bargain.

How about if I offer you, er...

My daughter, Rowena.

Ah, yes, it's a deal.

- Er, do I get a say in this? - No, probably not.

Well, that's great. We've got exactly what they wanted.

You know, Kent does still feel a bit small.

We'd like somewhere bigger than this, please.

Are you going to offer me more attractive daughters?

- I have a cousin but, er... - We thought we could offer you this.

- We're really good at fighting. - Well, I am, anyway.

- You're not as good as me! - I won that competition!

Ah! Come back, British king!

Negotiations over further land have got a bit out of hand.

In fact, they've turned into an all-out war

and Horsa has been forced to pull out of the deal.

Ouch.

I told you I was a better fighter than him.

In an effort to finalise negotiations,

Hengest has invited Vortigern over for a peace banquet.

Right, just lay the table.

So spoon here,

knife - in the back of their necks!

Ah, dinner!

- How civilised. So much better than fighting, I find. - Ja.

- Shall I carve? - Yes. Ah, there's no food,

There's no food!

So he killed everybody, then asked me whether I wanted to die

and, er, I gave him the whole of the south-east of England.

Mm, tough negotiator.

- So, Hengest. Happy? - Ja, for sure. - Good.

It goes to show you can move right up the property ladder

if you've got a good eye for a bargain.

And you're really good at fighting.

See you next week.

Hopefully.

History and legend are a bit mixed-up in the story

of Hengest and Horsa, so it's probably only about 50% accu-rat.

But historians generally agree that Hengest turned a peace banquet

with Vortigern into a murderous rampage.

The rat knows all.

Greetings, my devotees of dread.

I am Vincenzo Larthos

and this week's sca-a-ary story

is from Stuart times. The Tale Of Evil Edmund.

It was 1632 when Edmund,

a young lad from the blood- curdling county of Lancashire,

first realised that he had the gift of being able to spot a witch.

WITCH CACKLING

Ah-ha, ha, ha. Indeed.

One day, Edmund was playing on the moors

when he spotted two dogs trailing chains.

He tried to get the dogs to hunt, but they would not,

so he beat them with a stick and suddenly they turned into men.

Hello, there.

- That's our "men" sound effect, is it? - Hello, there.

It's not very good.

Of course, Edmund knew at once that this must be witchcraft.

For reasons he couldn't explain, he knew who the witch was.

It was his next-door neighbour, Frances Dickinson.

Edmund rushed to confront the witch, but she tied him up

and dragged him to a witch's coven

where he saw for himself all the witches and warlocks,

feasting and chanting.

And he was afraid that the high point

of their sinister ceremony would be a sacrifice.

Edmund himself!

DRAMATIC CHORD

Edmund fought his way loose of his shackles

and ran to the local magistrate.

In no time, the neighbour was arrested and sentenced to death.

Edmund became the stuff of legend, able to identify any witch.

He was paid handsomely for his unique gift

and what fate would befall these foul witches and warlocks of that cruel coven?

Well, they were all released without charge.

What?

It turned out Edmund was a liar?!

He made up all the stuff about witches.

His dad made him do it to make money!?

There were no dogs in the first place

and the lady next door was let out of jail with an apology!?

This is not a scary story. That's an annoying child story.

Right, I'm not doing this any more.

I've played Macbeth you know,

Macbeth, I gave a semi-competent performance.

That's not me saying that, that's the Wolverhampton Gazette.

I'm better than this. Unbelievable.

The Stuarts really had some silly ideas about medicine.

Don't worry, Paul. I've called an ambulance.

- Make way! - Make way! - Make way!

- Make way! - Make way! - Historical Paramedics.

What's the problem?

It's my friend. He said his stomach hurt...

- Plague! - Plague. - It sounds like plague.

- Always plague where we come from. - Where's that? - The Stuart era.

What do you think, Jack? Tobacco pipe or a gold coin in the mouth.

It's not plague. We don't have plague any more.

Then how do you explain these red marks, woman?

- Could be measles. - Could be. Nigel, get Flossy.

What's Flossy?

I think you mean, who's Flossy.

- Here she is. - That's a sheep.

Yes, and we need to get her in bed with this boy while she's still warm.

It's the best cure for measles.

It's not measles, he's had the vaccine.

- The vac what? - The vac...

Madam, if it be not measles, then why does he have spots on his face?

Because he's a teenager?

Please help him, he's in pain.

- What be his name? - Paul.

YELLS: Where do ye hurt, Paul?

I told you, his belly aches.

Belly ache. Do you think it could be belly ache?

- We should stone him, just to be sure. - Stone him?

It's fine. We lay a large stone on his belly,

one on which the sun has never shone.

We get them from Scotland.

I could only find this extra large one.

- Hurgh! - That didn't sound good. - No,

- Nigel, get the resuscitator. - Oh, you have a resuscitator?

A tobacco resuscitator.

Now, get the bellows and blow smoke up his bottom.

- What?! - Turn him over, Nigel.

Oh, it's no good, there seems to be a massive stone on top of him.

Blast! There always complications.

AMBULANCE SIREN

- We should leave. - Madam, I'm sorry. We've done all we can do.

You've made him worse!

Yes, that's pretty much all we can do.

- Run away. - Run away! Run away!

Oh, no! Those historical ones have been here again, haven't they?

Jane? Jane, get some sponges,

and a crowbar.

And the winner of this year's Most Ridiculous Historical Cure Award

goes to the Stuart's tobacco resuscitators.

CHEERING

Will the inventor please come up and collect his prize?

THUDDING AND GASPS

Looks like he's fainted with shock.

Quick! Blow smoke up his bottom! It won't work but it sounds funny.

Blow smoke up his bottom! Ha-ha-ha!

Stupid deaths, stupid deaths

They're funny cos they're true

Woo! Stupid deaths, stupid deaths

Hope next time it's not you. Hee-hee!

What, this old thing? No, I've had it ages.

About 600 years. Next!

Name!

James II of Scotland. Son of James I,

father of James III.

James I, James II, James III.

Not very imaginative, you Scottish royals, are you?

What you lot need is this.

Death's Big Book Of Baby Names.

Over two copies sold.

Well, James, let's hear your story.

The stupider the better, please.

Right, well, we Scots were besieging Roxburgh Castle,

which was a Scottish castle being held by the English.

SNORING

Now, to ensure victory,

I'd brought the latest in modern medieval warfare, a cannon.

- Ooh, a cannon! - Of course, in my day,

they'd a nasty habit of blowing up in your face.

Oh, goody!

My cannon was from Flanders.

It had special thick metal hoops to prevent it from splitting.

- I called it The Lion. - At least you didn't call it James.

I was dying to see the Lion in action

so I had it taken up to the castle walls.

Ye-es?

My men warned me to take cover.

"Don't be ridiculous!" I said, "This is The Lion. It won't explode.

"It's the greatest cannon in the world."

A-and?

The cannon exploded, my leg was shattered, I died of blood loss.

HE LAUGHS

The Lion bit you! Well, they do do that,

don't they? They do do that! They do do that, don't they? They do!

Ha-ha! Priceless.

Well, James, you're through to the afterlife.

- Thanks. That's great. - Ah, priceless.

Ooh, don't forget your book.

Oh, he doesn't want one. Rats.

Could have sold another copy then.

Oh, well. Next!

Stupid deaths, stupid deaths

Hope next time it's not yo-o-ou. #

And James II wasn't the only medieval Scot to meet a grisly end.

ROCK MUSIC

I am William Wallace my life was a mystery

Some say born 1273 Some say 1263

Was that Malcolm of Paisley Maybe Alan from Ayr

Did I have a wife or no Do you really care?

They said I had a big red beard but all you need to know

I was a Scottish rebel and the English were my foe

William Wallace Scottish rebel

This is war I cried

Many English fought me

And many English died

I took against the English back when I was fairly wee

Cos an Englishman called Selby bullied my whole family

It upset me so I struck him dead Well, wouldn't you?

An English sheriff came along Guess what, I killed him too

They say he killed my wife so he deserved what he got

Then England's King Ed came for me oh, I'm scared - not

William Wallace Scottish rebel

Possibly six-foot-seven

But all that really matters is

I send Englishmen to heaven

40,000 English came to Stirling Bridge for me

They had to cross a narrow bridge To get to us you see

We held them off and pushed them back, it was no contest

Bridge collapsed, hundreds drown Of course I killed the rest

I celebrated Stirling Bridge Another Scottish win

By decorating my sword with the English general's skin

William Wallace Scottish rebel

Scottish legend too

Fought for Scottish freedom

Was a hero through and through

ROCK GUITAR SOLO

Here's where my rebel story comes unstuck

At Falkirk defeated I'd run out of luck

Spent seven years playing hide and seek

Captured central London Tried for treason, what a cheek

King Ed hanged me then a lovely touch

Pulled my guts out Guess he didn't like me much

Ye-e-e-eah!

William Wallace Scottish rebel

In Scotland my heart lived

Though sadly my head wound up

On a spike on London Bridge. #

Oooh, that smarts!

When Henry VIII died, his son Edward VI came to power,

aged just nine. But he died only six years later

and after that, it wasn't clear who would take the throne.

Are you a Protestant? Are you vaguely related to Henry VIII?

is your name Lady Jane Grey?

Then you've won our star prize!

You're going to experience what it's like

- to be Queen for nine days. - Wow!

That's nine whole days in charge of England.

Here's what you get. Day one, we set you up in royal apartments

at the Tower of London to await your coronation.

Ooh, this is nice, I could get used to this.

I don't think so.

Day two, we throw in a crown for free. Go on, try it on for size.

OK, what harm can it do?

You'll find that out on day nine.

- Sorry? - Nothing.

Day three, it's coronation time.

Now you're the Queen, you get to go out and meet your public.

- They don't even know who you are. - We don't even know how she is.

They were expecting a different person to be queen.

- We were expecting a different person to be queen. - They smell of wee.

We smell of...

Ah, I see what you're trying to do there.

Actually, we do.

Day four, you send a letter to Henry VIII's daughter, Mary Tudor

- asking her to recognise you as queen. - Fingers crossed!

Day five, you get Mary's reply.

What does it say?

- Bog off. - What?

Well, that's the gist of it.

Day six, relax and take in the luxurious surroundings,

while Mary Tudor amasses an army to have you removed from power.

What?!

Day seven, relax and take in the luxurious surroundings.

- Like I could be any less relaxed! - Ma'am,

our armies have been defeated in Cambridge by Mary Tudor.

she says she's the Queen now and she's marching on London.

OK, so now I'm less relaxed.

Day eight, relax and take in the luxurious surroundings.

Enough of this relaxing nonsense, OK?

I'll have you know, I'm so stressed

my skin is peeling off.

Oh, yuck! That's not very regal, is it?

And day nine, relax and...

Oh, all right, panic as the people support Mary Tudor

as their rightful queen and all your supporters desert you

to save their own skins.

Too late for yours, it's all peeled off anyway.

- Well, this can't get any worse. - Yes, it can.

And this fantastic offer ends in true Tudor style,

with a visit to the executioner.

I never wanted to be queen in the first place.

With queen for nine days,

the shortest reign in history is yours, whether you want it or not.

Warning, limited to nine days only. Offer expires in 1553.

That's right, Lady Jane Grey was queen for just nine days.

After which Mary I was queen for five years and 121 days.

Followed by Elizabeth I,

who reigned for an impressive 44 years and 127 days,

making her the longest-reigning Tudor queen by miles and miles.

And miles were very confusing in Tudor times.

- Are we there yet? - Alas not, your majesty.

Are we there yet?

Alas not, your majesty.

- But I'm bored. - Indeed, your majesty.

Sadly, the journey from York to London

is many, many English miles

- and, well, we've only just set off. - London miles.

- Excuse me? - Well, since we are heading to London,

surely her majesty would like the distance in London miles?

What's the difference?

Well, the English mile is a rather confusing 6,610 yards,

whereas the more refined London mile is a nice, round 5,000 yards.

Of course both are vastly preferable to the rather stingy Irish mile.

A mere 2,240 yards.

Why not use a good Welsh old mile?

it's a whopping 7,900 yards, no?

It means fewer miles overall, makes the journey seem a lot shorter.

I remember I did a walking trip in Scottish miles once.

- 1,976 yards. - Indeed.

It seemed to go on forever.

They were all like, "Oh, it's only a few more miles."

And I was like, "Is that English miles, London miles,

"Welsh miles or Irish miles?" And they were like,

"Well, depends if you mean London yards,

Welsh yards, Scottish yards...

SHE SCREAMS

From now on, there will just be one mile for everyone.

- Pick a number between one and ten. - Er, one.

- Seven. - Six.

Right. From now on, one mile will be 1,760 yards.

- Is that...? - English yards! Normal English yards. Understood?

- ALL: Yes, your majesty. - Right, now,

how many miles is it to London?

ALL SPEAK OVER EACH OTHER

And you wonder why I cut so many heads off!

Are we there yet?

Alas not, your majesty.

Hello and welcome to The News At When. When? 1789,

when the people of France decided that King Louis XVI

and his rich friends had been living the high life at their expense

for long enough and that it was time for common people

to run the country. Here with more details is Bob Hail

with the French revolution report. Bob.

Thank you, Sam. Well, sacre bleu me,

if that isn't France, which it is, if it's not the 1780,

which it is, and if that right there isn't a very angry Frenchman,

And he's got every right to be, because back then,

France was a country of le haves and le have-nots.

The posh people had fine food, fancy clothes, palaces, helicopters,

while the poor didn't even have the bread on their table.

But how can the... What? I don't think I did say helicopters.

But how do these poshos afford all that stuff, I hear you ask?

By taking money from poor taxpayers, like our friend here,

and borrowing more money from other countries.

Which means that, by 1789, France is riddled with debt

and most French people are penniless and hungrier

than an alligator on the moon.

All while King Louis XVI and his chums are living it up, big stylee.

Terrible, but that's just the way things are.

Not a lot you can do about it, right?

Wrong!

The commoners hatch a plan to remove the king

and run the country themselves, which signals the start of the one and only,

the world famous, ladies and gentlemen, it's the French Revolution.

Vive le revolution!

Sorry, I get a bit carried away.

The revolutionaries don't hang around. They storm the Bastille,

a famous fortress in Paris, partly to show the king

who's boss and partly to steal a load of explosives.

EXPLOSION

Well, that's angry mobs for you. So King Louis, fearing for his life,

dresses up as a Russian aristocrat's butler - bit weird - and runs off to hide up here in a place

called something or other. A cunning plan that works this much.

Yep, not at all. The King's captured, brought back to Paris and told he's not in charge.

He keeps the Crown, but loses most of his power, influence

and helicopters and that's. .. What? I didn't say helicopters!

Things go from bad to worse for King Louis.

In 1792, France declares war on Austria, a neighbouring country

who want the revolutionaries out and the King back in

They say if the King isn't put back in,

they'll start doing some pretty horrible things

to the French people. A very clever tactic that works this much.

Yep, not at all.

Turns out the Revolutionaries hate being told what to do.

They ignore the threat, accuse the King of plotting with Austria

and cut his head off. They cut his wife's head off.

Then they just get a bit carried away, cutting heads off left, right and centre,

declaring anyone who doesn't agree

with all they say as an enemy of the revolution. A crime punishable by - yes, you've guessed it -

having your head cut off. In fact, if we look at the head-cutting-off-ometer

we can see that somewhere between 16 and 40,000 heads

were cut off in just two years.

So many in fact, that they not only broke our thingy

but they had to invent a new head- cutting-off thingy, the guillotine.

So at that time, it was all, "Cut his head off! Cut her head off!"

"Cut his head off! Cut her head off!" Finally,

after five years and lots of heads being cut off, the people of France

said, "Stop cutting people's heads off!"

And they took the man responsible for most of the heads, Maximilien Robespierre

and they cut his head off. That's the end of the French Revolution,

the end of French royalty and if I don't get a tea and biscuit

in the next three seconds, it might well be the end of Old Bobsy.

Oh, thank you so much. Thank you.

Ah, that feels so much better! You know,

now I think of it, I did say helicopter, didn't I?

I think I just need a holiday.

Sam, couple of weeks in the Maldives?

One of the young officers to make his name

under the new French regime was a certain Napoleon Bonaparte,

and in 1797, he sent an army to invade Wales

because there were no British regiments there to defend it.

Let's join Mike Peabody in Fishguard to find out more.

I'm here with one of the 1,400 French force,

known as La Legion Noire, the Black Legion.

Napoleon picked you for this invasion, you must be the very best.

Ah, non, non. Ze very worst.

No, ze best are busy fighting in Europe.

La Legion Noire is made up of convicts

who are given the option of fighting or rotting in jail.

Shh! Pardon, excuse moi, We had a little party last night,

lots of food, lots of wine...

- Shh! - They are sleeping it off.

But shouldn't you be preparing for battle? I mean,

the English could repel your invasion at any moment.

Non, I tell you we are completely safe.

My spies tell me there are no British forces for a hundred miles

and I will stake my reputation on zat.

Sir, I think ze British army are coming over ze hill.

There goes my reputation.

OK, then. All right. Allez, allez, allez!

Come, this is ze moment we have trained for!

They are upon us. On my orders,

surrender!

I think it's just women, though.

Are you sure, they are dressed in red. You can never be too careful.

- Why've they got their hands up? - They're surrendering.

Surrendering to us? Why, we just came down to the beach

- to see what Frenchmen look like. - I think it's your red jackets.

From a distance,

your jackets make you look a bit like the British army.

Well, this is just traditional women's dress in Wales.

I'd keep that under your hats, if I were you,

- at least until you've tied them up. - Oh, good thinking!

Come on girls, let's get these men tied up.

So there we have it. the very last invasion of Britain,

defeated by a few Welsh lady sightseers.

This is Mike Peabody, live from Fishguard for HHTV News,

back to you in the studio, Sam.

- Bonjour, mama! - Sorry, can you not do that waving, please?

Very irritating.

Tall tales, atrocious acts we gave you all the fearsome facts... #

Want some more Horrible Histories? Then come with me

down the time sewers. Just go to the CBBC website,

and click on Horrible Histories, see you down there.

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