All language subtitles for Blackadder.S03E06.Bluray.en

Oh, 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.

Oh, really. How?

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.

Oh. 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,

I want 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 9:00

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
and you said you didn't 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 MacAdder.

The most dangerous man
ever to wear a skirt in Europe.

Yeah, he come in here
playing the bagpipes,

then he made a haggis,
sang Auld Lang Syne,

- and punched me in the face.
- Why?

Cos I called him
a knock-kneed Scottish pillock.

An unwise action, Baldrick,

since Mad MacAdder
is a homicidal maniac.

My mother told me to stand up
to homicidal maniacs.

If this is the same mother
who confidently claimed

you were a tall, handsome,
stallion of a man.

I should treat her opinions
with extreme caution.

I love my mum.

And I love chops and sauce,
but I don't seek their advice.

I hate it when MacAdder turns up.

He's such a frog-eyed,
beetle-brewed 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 MacMad,

the winner of last year's
Mister Madman competition.

Ah! The walrus awakes.

Ah-ha, 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?

- 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.

Well, 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. Bravo.

Oh, 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?

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, mad,
sexually overactive fool.

Sir, it's Baldrick.
You're perfectly safe.

Oh. Hurrah!

Ah. Until 6:00 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 1800 hours in which you will die."

"Yours, with sincere apologies
for your impending violent 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 it bloody isn't.

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
in his final moments

is exchange pleasantries
with a certified plum-duff.

Easy, Blackadder,
let's hear him out.

Very well, Bald rick.

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, Blackadder.

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
has been in Europe for years.

You don't know what he looks like.

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, Bald rick.

Well, my cousin, Bert Baldrick,
Mr Gainsborough's butler's dogsbody,

he says that he's heard that
all portraits look the same these days,

cos 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.

No! He's right, damn him!

Anybody could fight the duel
and Wellers would never know.

All the same, sir, 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...
- A 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.

And here the Prince
is offering you the lot.

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 MacAdder...

Like MacAdder...

MacAdder 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, sir,
the suicide policy.

There is an unusual clause

which states that the policy holder
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 MacAdder
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.

Really?

Just tell him to meet me here at 5:00
to discuss an extremely cunning plan.

If all goes well, by tomorrow
the clan of MacAdder

will be marching the high road
back to glory.

Oh, lovely.

I'll do you a nice packed lunch.

Good news, Your Highness.

This evening I will carve the Duke
into an attractive 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.

That's awkward.

The Duke must believe
from the very start that I am you.

Any ideas?

There's no alternative,
we must swap clothes.

Oh. 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 recognize me.

Your own father never can. He's mad.

Oh, yes.

Unfortunately, sir, you do realize

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.

Oh! 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 honor 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,

unless you want to feel
my boot in your throat,

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.

Ah, that's excellent. Thank you.

"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.

It's a cigarillo-case
engraved with the regimental crest

of two crossed dead Frenchmen,

emblazoned on a mound
of dead Frenchmen motif.

Thank you very much.
And the other trifling thing?

Your impending death, Highness.

Oh, yes, of course. Mind like a sieve.

Mmm. I cannot deny,
I'm looking forward to it.

Britain has the finest trade,
the finest armies,

the finest navies in the world.

And what do we have for royalty?
A mad Kraut sausage sucker

and a son who can't keep
his own sausage to himself.

- The sooner you're dead the better.
- You're very kind.

Now, you're no doubt anxious
to catch up with the news of the war.

I have here the most recent briefs
from my general in the field.

Yes, well if you could just pop them

in the laundry basket
on the way out. Tea?

Yes, immediately.

Now, let's turn to
the second front, my Lord.

Ah, yes. Now, as I understand it,
Napoleon is in North Africa.

- And Nelson is stationed in...
- Alaska, Your Highness.

In case Bony should try and trick us
by coming via the North Pole.

Perhaps a preferable stratagem,
Your Grace,

might be to harry him amid-ships

as he leaves the Mediterranean.
Trafalgar might be quite a good spot.

Trafalgar?
Well, I'll mention it to Nelson.

I'm beginning to regret the necessity
of killing you, Your Highness.

I'd been told by everybody
that the Prince was a confounded moron.

Oh, no, no.

Here's that tiresome servant
of yours again.

Budge up, budge up.

How dare you sit in the presence
of your betters! Get up!

- Oh, cripes, yes, I forgot.
- You speak when you're spoken to.

Unless you want to be flayed
across a gun carriage. Well?

Sir, I fear you have been
too long a soldier.

We no longer treat servants
that way in London society.

Why, I hardly touched the man!

I think you hit him very hard.

Nonsense! That would have
been a hard hit.

I just hit him like that.

No, sir, a soft hit would be like this.

Whereas you hit him like this.

Please, um, I wonder
if I might be excused,

Your Highness, Your Highness?

Certainly.

I'm sorry about that, sir,
but one has to keep up the pretence.

I quite understand.
You carry on the good work.

Very well, sir.

Hang on, this is bloody coffee!
I ordered tea!

You really are a confounded fool,
aren't you?

I'd heard that the Prince
was an imbecile,

whereas his servant Blackadder

was respected about the town.

Now that I discover the truth,
I'm disposed to beat you to death. Tea!

Tell me, do you ever stop bullying
and shouting at the lower orders?

Never! There's only one way
to win a campaign,

shout, shout and shout again!

You don't think then that
inspired leadership and tactical ability

have anything to do with it?

No! It's all down to shouting.

I hear that conditions in
your army are appalling.

Well, I'm sorry,
but those are my conditions

and you'll just have to accept them.

That is, until this evening,
when I shall kill you.

- Who knows, maybe I shall kill you.
- Nonsense.

I've never been so much as scratched,
my skin is as smooth as a baby's bottom.

Which is more than you
can say for my bottom.

One point, sir. I should, perhaps,
warn you that while duelling

I tend to put on my lucky wig
and regimental accent.

That won't help you.

It would take a homicidal maniac

in a claymore and a kilt
to get the better of me.

Well, that's handy.

I'm not leaving this kitchen
until that man is out of the house.

Oh, God!

It's all right, Your Majesty,
don't worry, I'll deal with this.

Hello, Baldrick. I've brought your buns.
Where's Mr Blackadder?

Oh, not upstairs still,
running about after that

port-swilling,
tadpole-brained smelly-boots?

- I don't know who you mean.
- Prince George, Baldrick.

His boots smell so bad, a man would need
to have his nose amputated

before taking them off.

- Well, that's what Mr Blackadder says.
- As a joke.

Didn't you write a little poem
about him last week?

- No, I didn't.
- Oh, you did.

"In the winter it's cool,
in the summer it's hot,"

"but all the year round,
Prince George is a clot."

"A lovely."
I said Prince George is a lovely.

I'd better be off anyway.

Tell Mr Blackadder
to expect Mr MacAdder at 5:00.

As soon as that fat Prussian truffle-pig
has got his snout

wedged into a bucket of tea-cakes.

I think it must be next door
you're wanting,

strange-woman-whom-I've-
never-seen-before, Mrs Miggins.

- Bald rick!
- Yes, Your Highness?

Is it true?

Did you really write a poem
about how lovely I am?

Yes, and Mr Blackadder loves you too.

I must say I find that very touching.

I do.

I wish they wouldn't keep on doing that.

Goodbye, sir.
And may the best man win, i.e. me.

- Your tea, sir.
- You're late!

Where the hell
have you been for it? India?

- Or Ceylon?
- Or China?

Don't bother to show me the way out.

I don't want to die of old age
before I get to the front door.

Ah! Miggins. So where's MacAdder?

I thought he was
going to be here at 5:00.

Yes, I'm sorry. He's just popped out.

You look ever so similar to each other,
you know, it's quite eerie.

Look, did you tell him
to be here or not?

I did, I did. You just seem
keep missing each other.

- I can't imagine why.
- I'll tell you why!

It's because there's
no coffee shop in England

big enough for two Blackadders.

Ah! Good day, cousin MacAdder.
I trust you are well.

Aye, well enough.

- And Morag?
- She bides fine.

And how stands that mighty army,
the clan MacAdder?

They're both well.

I'm so glad.

I always thought that Jamie and Angus
were such fine boys.

- Angus is a girl.
- Of course.

So, tell me, cousin,
I hear you have a cunning plan.

I do, I do.

I want you to take the place
of the Prince Regent

and kill the Duke of Wellington
in a duel.

- Aye, and what's in it for me?
- Enough cash to buy the Outer Hebrides.

- What do you think?
- Fourteen shillings and Sixpence?

Well, it's tempting.
But I've got an even better plan.

Why don't I pretend to be
the Duke of Wellington

and kill the Prince of Wales in a duel?

Then I could kill the King
and be crowned

with the ancient stone bonnet
of MacAdder.

And I shall wear the granite gown
and limestone bodice of MacMiggins,

Queen of All the Herds.

Look, for God's sake,
MacAdder, you're not Rob Roy.

You're a top kipper salesman

with a reputable firm
of Aberdeen fishmongers.

Don't throw it all away.

If you kill the Prince, they'll just
send the bailiffs round and arrest you.

Oh blast, I forgot the bailiffs.

So we can return
to our original plan then?

No, I'm not interested.

I'd rather go to bed
with the Loch Lomond monster.

And, besides, I have to be back
in the office on Friday.

I promised Mr MacNaulty

I'd shift a particularly
difficult bloater for him.

Forget the whole thing.
I'm off home with Miggsy.

Yes, yes. Show me the glen
where the kipper roams free.

And forget Morag forever.

No, never. I must do right by Morag.

We must return to Scotland and you must
fight her in the old Highland way,

bare-breasted and each carrying
an eight pound baby.

Yes! I love babies.

You're a woman of spirit!

I look forward to burying you
in the old Highland manner.

Farewell, Blackadder,
you spineless goon.

Oh, God! Fortune vomits
on my eiderdown once more.

Ah, Blackadder.

It has been a wild afternoon
full of strange omens.

I dreamt that a large eagle
circled the room three times,

and then got into bed with me
and took all the blankets.

And then I saw that it wasn't
an eagle at all but a large black snake.

Also, Duncan's horses did turn
and eat each other, as usual.

Good portents for your duel,
do you think?

Not very good, sir.
I'm afraid the duel is off.

- Off?
- As in "sod." I'm not doing it.

By thunder, here's a pretty game.

You will stay, sir, and do duty
by your Prince or I shall...

Or what, you port-brained twerp?
I've looked after you all my life.

Even when we were babies

I had to show you which bit
of your mother was serving the drinks.

Oh, please, please,
you've got to help me.

I don't want to die.

I've got so much to give.
I want more time.

A poignant plea, sir.

Enough to melt the stoniest of hearts.

But the answer, I'm afraid, must remain,
"You're going to die, fat pig."

Oh, wait, wait!
I'll give you everything.

- Everything?
- Everything!

- The money, the castles, the jewellery?
- Yes.

The highly artistic but also highly
illegal set of French lithographs?

Everything.

The amusing clock where the little man

comes out and drops his trousers
every half hour?

- Yes, yes, all right.
- Very well, I accept.

A man may fight for many things,

his country,
his principles, his friends,

the glistening tear
on the cheek of a golden child.

But personally I'd mud-wrestle
my own mother for a ton of cash,

an amusing clock,
and a sack of French porn. You're on.

Hurrah!

Right, Baldrick. Here's the plan.

When he offers me the swords,

I kick him in the nuts
and you set fire to the building.

In the confusion we claim a draw.
All right?

Your Highness,
let's be about our business.

Don't forget, Baldrick.
You... When I...

Come, sir. Choose your stoker.

What? Are we going
to tickle each other to death?

No, sir. We fight with cannon.

But I thought we were
fighting with swords.

Swords? What do you think this is,
the Middle Ages?

Only girls fight with swords these days.

Stand by your gun, sir.
Hup two three! Hup two three!

Wait a minute!

Stand by cannon for loading procedure.
Stoke! Muzzle! Wrench!

"Congratulations on choosing"

"the Armstrong-Whitworth
four-pounder cannonette."

"Please read instructions carefully"

"and it should give you years
of trouble-free maiming."

Check elevation!

Chart trajectory!
Prime fuse! Aim!

- Look. Wait a minute.
- Fire!

Mr B!
Sir, please help me get his coat off.

Leave it, Baldrick.
It doesn't matter.

Yes, it does. Blood's hell to shift.
I want to get it in to soak.

You die like a man, sir, in combat.

You think so?
Damn it, we must build a better world.

When will the killing end?

You don't think
I too dream of peace?

You don't think that I too yearn to end
this damn dirty job we call soldiering?

Frankly, no. My final wish on this Earth
is that Baldrick be sold

to provide funds for
a Blackadder foundation to promote peace

and to do research into the possibility

of an automatic machine
for cleaning shoes.

And so I charge...

His Highness is dead.

Actually, I'm not sure I am.

Fortunately, that cigarillo box
you gave me

was placed exactly at the point
the cannonball struck.

I always said smoking was good for you.

Honour is satisfied.
God clearly preserves you for greatness.

His Highness is saved. Hurrah!

Erm, no actually, it's me.
I'm His Highness.

Well done, Bladders, glad you made it.

What in the name of Bonaparte's balls
is this fellow doing now?

No, I really am the Prince.

It was all just larks,
and darn fine larks at that, I thought.

I have never, in all my campaigns,
encountered such insolence!

Your master survives an honorable duel
and you cheek him like a French whoopsy!

I can contain myself no longer!

I die. I hope men will say of me
that I did duty by my country.

I think that's pretty unlikely, sir.

If I was you, I'd try for something
a bit more realistic.

- Like what?
- You hope that men will think of you

as a bit of a thicky.

All right, I'll hope that.
Toodle-oo, everyone.

Kneel for His Majesty,
the King of England!

Somebody told me my son was here.

I wish him to marry this rose-bush.

I want to make the wedding arrangements.

Here I am, Daddy.

This is the Iron Duke, Wellington,
commander of all your armed forces.

Yes, I recognised the enormous conk.

- He's a hero.
- A man of wit and discretion.

Bravo.

You know, my son,
for the first time in my life

I have a real fatherly feeling
about you.

People may say I'm stark raving mad

and say the word "Penguin"
after each sentence,

but I believe that we two
can make Britain great,

you as the Prince Regent
and I as King Penguin.

Well, let's hope, eh?

Wellington, will you come
and dine with us at the palace?

- My family have a lot to thank you for.
- With great pleasure.

Your father may be as mad as a balloon,

but I think you have the makings
of a fine king.

Oh, and Baldrick, clear away
that dead butler, will you?

There's a new star in heaven tonight.

A new freckle on the nose
of the giant pixie.

Um, no, actually Baldrick, I'm not dead.

You see,
I had a cigarillo-box too, look.

Oh, damn, I must have
left it on the dresser.