Original subtitles

Thank you.

APPLAUSE

APPLAUSE

In 1648, King Charles was in flight from the wrath of Chromewoman, his round heads.

Only two men remained faithful, risking certain death by their fidelity to the crown.

One was the sole descendant of a great historical English dynasty.

His name sir Edmund Blackheader.

The other was the sole descendant of an unfortunate meeting between a pig farmer and a bearded lady.

This guy has owned Blackhead, forgotten his name.

Oh Rick!

Yes sir.

Oh, give me some mold ale, will you? I'm freezing.

As the King sir, how about as comfortable as can be expected from a man who's spending the winch

on a black current bush?

Do you think the round edge will find him?

Certainly not. I've assured him that he is as likely to be caught as a fox being chased by a pack of one-legged hunting tortoises.

Is that true? Yes, of course it's true.

Have you ever known me to lie to the King? Yes.

No.

I think so.

He is absolutely safe as long as you keep your fat mouth shut.

You can trust me sir.

I'm glad, Bordic, I'm off to answer the call of nature.

It's by any free chance Oliver Cromwell drops in here for a cup of milk in the next 90 seconds.

Remember, the King is not hiding here.

Yes sir.

Green sleeves is known.

Good evening, Sikerson.

I am Oliver Cromwell.

My men have surrounded your house and I am looking for royal scum.

Is the King hiding here?

Um...

No.

Unpain of death and damnation. Are you absolutely sure?

Yes I am.

I see. Well then, my proud beauty.

You won't mind if my men come in from the cold, will you?

Men, come in from the cold, will you? Now, we shall all have a cup of milk by your fireside.

All right, but don't touch the purple cup. Why not? That's the King's.

Thank you, Sikerson. You may leave me alone.

I'm going to have a cup of milk.

I'm going to have a cup of milk.

I'm going to have a cup of milk.

Sikerson, you may leave me alone with King Charles.

Mr. Cromwell, I'm delightful to see you again.

Do you get up? Do you get up? Do you get me, um...

Have you come far?

I have, sir.

From country square to law protector of England.

Fascinating.

Absolutely fascinating.

Do you get me...

What exactly does a law protector do?

He smells your doom, sir.

Wonderful. Well, that's particularly exciting, because so many people these days can't spill at all.

Particularly, as you know, in the inner cities, which is my area of interest.

I'm a pretty sweet, sir. But all your fine words won't save you from the scaffold.

Really good. This is anything. Carry on.

A priest, sir.

To help you make your peace with God before you die.

Ah, hello.

You may just say, I'd arrange for certain monies to be paid to allow you to escape.

Blackheader, your dress is a priest. How dangerous and stupid and perverted. It's just like school.

That's not fair, sir. This is a matter of life and death.

Not just blackheader. I don't think there's a jury in England that would bring you in a verdict of guilty against me.

Your Majesty, the verdict of the jury.

Two. What does it say? Guilty or not guilty?

I'll give you two guesses.

Not guilty.

One more guess.

Oh, damn.

One measly civil war on the entire history of England, and I'm on the wrong bloody side.

Something wrong, sir?

Yes, boldly. Yes, sir. It's time to realise if the king dies, we royalists to doom.

We'll enter a hideous age of puritanism, though close all the theatres.

Late hanky chiefs for men will be illegal.

And I will be able to find a friendly face to sit on this side of blood.

If they so much as suspect our loyalties, our property will be forfeit and we'll be for the chop.

Oh, I love chops.

Maurek, your brain is like the foreheaded man-eating, had the fish beast of Aberdeen.

What why?

It doesn't exist.

Oh, God, what are we going to do?

Down despair, sir, something will pop up.

Not under puritanism, it won't.

We must do something.

We must do something, otherwise the black headers are as doomed as that ant.

What ant?

That one.

So this is the day of execution of Charles the Fest.

Absolutely not, your majesty.

Those around head traitors have one final hurdle that they will never straddle.

How fascinating. What is that exactly?

They will never find a man to behead you.

They'd have had as a volunteer to cut crumbles head off, he's such a nuggly devil.

He's got so many warts on his face, it's only when he sneezes that you find out which one is the best.

And they will never find a man to execute you.

Well, you see, I find that absolutely tragic.

You know, there are so many young people who would leap at the chance like that.

You know, they all in, he just initiates somehow.

I suppose in a sense that's what my warts scheme is all about.

Really?

Yes.

On the other hand, of course I did want my head cut off.

It's a question of balance, isn't it? Like so many things.

Shut up with the greatest respect, your majesty.

They will never find an executioner.

And if they do, may my conjugal dipstick turn into a tennis racket.

A missance for the king.

Ah.

He's a twig on in the tail.

He does!

Stop that, Borgic.

It's Banderf having one's life, and that's a ruin.

Well, that being serenaded by a moron with all the entertainment value of a tap dancing oyster.

Oh, I'm sorry, sir. I can't help it. See, I've just had a little windfall.

Borgic, I've told you before, if you're going to do that, go into the garden.

I mean, I've come into some money.

Really? Family inheritance.

No, I ate that ages ago.

Of course, your thoughtful father bequeathed you a turnip.

No, it was £50, actually. It was delicious.

But this is just a little something that fell in my lap.

Not the first time that there's been a little something in your lap, Borgic.

No, but this one is a job.

Really? I just don't understand it.

Where on earth did they find a man so utterly without heart and soul?

So, no degraded has to accept the job of beheading the king of England.

Borgic.

That little job that fell into your lap.

It wasn't a bionic chance. Something to do with an axe, a basket, a little black mask in the king of England.

No.

Go on.

I can't find a basket.

You very small, total bastard.

Oh, please, sir, don't kill me. I have a cunning plan to save the king.

Well, forgive me if I don't do a card wheel of joy.

Your family's record in the department of cunning planning is about as impressive as stumpy oleg muck-no-legs,

personal best in the market harbour of marathon.

All right, what's the plan?

A pumpkin is going to save the king.

Ah, but over here I have one that I prepared earlier.

I will balance it on the king's head like this.

Then I will cover his real head with a cloak and then when I execute him instead of cutting off his real head,

I will cut off the pumpkin and the king survives.

I'm not sure it's going to work, Bordett.

Why not?

Because once you've cut it off, you have to hold it up in front of the crowd and say,

"This is the head of a traitor."

At which point they will shout back, "No, it's not. It's a large pumpkin with a pathetic moustache."

I suppose it's not 100% convincing.

It's not 1% convincing.

However, I'm a busy man and I can't be bothered to punch you at the moment.

Here's my fist kindly run towards it as fast as I can.

I just don't understand it.

What possessed you to take the job?

Oh, I'm sorry, sir. It was just a wild silly foolish plan.

I thought with the money I got from executing the king, I could sneak out and buy a brand new king

when no one was looking and popping back on the throne without anyone noticing.

Your head is as empty as a unix underpants.

You do anything for 30 pieces of silver, wouldn't you?

It was £1,000 actually, sir, plus tip.

Well, I suppose somebody's got to do it, haven't they?

And if it's going to be done, it's got to be done in a single stroke by someone who actually owns an axe.

We don't want you hacking away to it all afternoon with that cheap penmife of yours.

I guess I'm embarrassing to have King Charles stagging around Hampton Court tomorrow morning

with his neck flapping like a fissus peel on his son.

Sir, you don't mean... I'm doing it. Let me or cost you.

Then go immediately to the king and inform him that Sir Edmund Blackout

I cannot be with him tomorrow.

And make sure you think up a bloody good excuse.

So, that's why he can't be here. Sorry.

I see. I quite understand. He is.

Sir, the moment is arrived. Are you ready to meet your maker?

Well, I'm always absolutely fascinated to meet people from all walks of life.

But he is particularly manufacturing industry.

Well, then, have a quick walk and talk with your executioner. And let's get on with it.

Right.

Well, I'm sorry, my friend. I'm alone here today.

I had hoped that my good loyal chums, Sir Edmund Blackout,

would be here with me, but unfortunately his wife's sister's puppy fell into the strawberry pet.

So, naturally he can't be with us.

All I can do is bid you do your duty well.

Well, thank you, Your Majesty.

And may I say how much I mourn for your lot.

And bid you remember others before you who have died unjustly.

I think you actually agreed solid from that.

Sir Thomas Moore, for instance, a great generous man to the last.

He apparently tipped his executioner handsomely.

Oh, I'm just sorry. I thought service was included. I beg your pardon.

Here you are.

And then there was the Earl of Essex.

What's that?

A truly great man. They still sing his famous ballad down the Chebstoam.

What ballad is that?

The Earl, he had a thousand sovereigns. Hey, nonny-no.

He gave them all away to the man with the axe.

Oh.

A thousand sovereigns.

Well, you can't take it with you, Your Majesty.

Be true. Well, there you are.

You keep the change.

Thank you, Your Majesty. Right.

Should we go?

Just a f***ing move.

That voice says a strangely familiar ring.

And say, "Is that finger?"

B***g.

Hello, Your Majesty.

You cunning swine.

Yes, well, uh, uh...

Lovely, splendid. You duped Cormwell and you concocted a cunning plan to help me and my infant son escape to France.

Ah, yes, that's right.

Yes.

So, let's put your cunning plan into operation straight away.

Yes, let's.

Uh...

Well, you start the ball rolling.

After you. Right, yes.

Oh, yes.

Yes, right. And it's a very good plan.

It's a staggering bowl-shatteringly good plan.

Is the king ready?

Come, Your Majesty.

(Laughter)

(Cheering)

This is the head of a traitor.

(The head of a traitor.)

(The head of a traitor.)

(The head of a traitor.)

Oh, yes, so it is. Sorry. I'll try again.

(The head of a traitor.)

(Cheering)

Well, sir, I can't say you didn't try.

Now, the future of the British monarchy lies fast asleep in your arms in the person of this infant prince.

And with the money you've earned, you and he can escape to France.

Oh, quite.

On the other hand, you can stay here, and as a known loyalist, the round-heads will come and cut your head off.

Exactly, Borgic.

Oh, my God.

Oh, no! We're surrounded.

What do we do?

Well, at times like this, Borgic, there is no choice for a man of honor.

He must stand and fight and die in defense of his future sovereigns.

Of course, it may, I'm not a man of honor.

Thank God you come. Seize the royalist scum!

(Cheering)

And just £3000 will...

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