Original subtitles

So, here we go again --

application to the Ancient College of Heraldry

for a Shakespeare coat of arms.

I don't know why you're bothering!

We tried this years ago and got nowhere then!

Ah, but I was broke then, and I'm not any more.

Well, Will ain't.

Money talks and it's going to say, "John Shakespeare, gentleman."

Glaring contradiction in terms though that may be.

If you really want to be a gentleman, then you could start

by not constantly fossicking about with your dangling tackle!

He hangs on to it while he's talking to people.

I'm like, "Please, just die!"

I have a bit of a fossick. It's not a crime!

One of the few things you do which isn't, Dad.

Why waste our money on trying to make that dirty old goat posh?

Because his shame reflects on me, wife.

I am the most divinely gifted poet in Christendom

and yet because I'm also the son

of the dodgiest geezer in South Warwickshire,

all the other snootish poets do laugh at me

and call me "the oik of Avon".

Ha-ha-ha! Brilliant!

But this is England, and so spurious, unearned social status

will polish even the most stinksome turdington,

by which, of course, I mean you, Dad.

Thus must I bribe the odious Robert Greene

that the Shakespeares may be gentlemen --

or, in Dad's case, genitalmen.

Give it up, Mr Shakespeare. You will never win a coat of arms.

Your family be turnip-chewing country bumshankles

without influence or connection.

I doubt if you have so much as dined with a single person of rank

or education in your entire life.

'Tis true, Master Greene -- never did I dine with folderols

nor ever sup with pamperloins.

But I do have five pounds.

Mr Shakespeare,

attempting to bribe an official of the Crown is a criminal offence.

Bribe, sirrah? 'Tis but a gift, a token of my esteem.

A very generous token of my esteem.

In which case, I accept it with thanks.

Application denied. The door is behind you. Good day.

Unbelievable!

The lickspittle nincumbunion kept my money and gave me nothing!

And him a gentleman! Who'd have thought it?

Such corruption, to cheat a man offering an honest bribe!

I can scarce credit it. Can you credit it, Kate?

What?

Sorry -- wasn't listening.

Caught up in my new book -- Sir Walter Raleigh's latest biggie,

The Discovery Of The Large, Rich And Beautiful Empire Of Guyana,

With The Relation Of The Great And Golden City Of Minoa,

brackets Which The Spaniards Call Eldorado, close brackets.

- Catchy title! - Isn't it?

I just can't get enough of these thrilling accounts

of adventure and discovery.

Queued all night for this one.

Got it signed, too, which, incidentally,

Sir Walter charged for, which I thought was a bit off,

considering, without us, he'd be nothing.

Sorry -- wi-without who, Kate?

Us, his fanaticals! We made him.

This would be a man who, among other things,

established the first English colony in North America,

named Virginia for the Queen

and brought potatoes to these shores?

- Yes. That's right. - And YOU made him?

Absolutely.

Kate, it be a man's achievements that raise him up.

Fame itself is ephemeral!

It be like the tasty snack that a fond mother packs

for the eager schoolboy against the hunger of the long afternoon.

What?

Gone by lunchtime!

- You want to be famous, don't you? - As a poet.

If fame itself be more important than the means by which it be got,

then will there dawn a day in Albion

where we simply watch a gaggle of inadequates

sitting about in a house and call THEM famous?

I think that could actually be quite an interesting social experiment.

It might start out that way, Kate,

but it would soon degenerate into a fatuous game of who bonketh whom.

Actually, what he's saying is

if anyone ever wants his signature, he's going to charge them for it.

Yes, I am, and in fact, I'm already laying the groundwork --

signing my name only occasionally

and spelling it differently each time

to increase the rarity value.

Morning, all!

I ascendeth the stairs so best thee get this party starteth.

Kit, splendid! Bottom, bring ale and pie.

Funny how, for all your vast and innovative vocabulary,

you still haven't heard the word, "please."

Manners maketh man, you know.

Very clever, Bottom -- shaming me with my own phrase.

- "Manners maketh man" is not your phrase, Mr Shakespeare. - Isn't it?

- I think it is. - No, it isn't.

It was first quoted by William Horman

in his Latin textbook Vulgaria,

published in 1519, 45 years before you were born.

Well, perhcance some naughty sprite didst pluck it from my brain,

dance back through time to 1519

and whisper it in William Horman's ear

at the very moment he was writing his Vulgaria.

Could happen!

Actually, I won't bother with the ale and pie, Botski.

No quaffing or gorging -- how so?

Feel you like that which,

though it be not brandy, doth burn the throat,

though it be not stew, doth contain bits of carrot,

and though it be not a costermonger's cap,

doth get thrown up in the street at New Year?

Pardon?

Sick, Kit. Are you feeling sick?

Oh, right! No, no, not a bit of it, no.

I've been quaffing and gorging all night, out with my new best mate.

New best mate? Surely I be not usurped?

- Oh, don't be ridiculous, Will. - Phew!

YOU'RE not my best mate.

I mean, you're a mate, definitely. You know, good mate.

Not my best mate!

Right, yeah, kind of how I like to play it, too.

Don't want to get in too deep. But, er...

T-Tell us about this new friend of yours.

Perhaps I might meet him and then we could be best mates together.

Well, I don't know, Will. I mean, the guy is pretty cool.

Real player, you know, soldier, statesman --

bona fide Moorish prince.

No! Really?

- Actual African royalty? - How fascinating!

I am obsessed with stories of travel and adventure.

Oh, well, this guy's got loads of them.

Name's General Otello. Docked yesterday and,

me being the coolest dudell in town, he sought me out.

Oh, how I envy thee, Kit.

You have all of London at your feet,

and I canst not even style myself a gentleman.

Thought you were going to buy your family a coat of arms?

Yes, but Robert Greene be chief herald

and says my lack of connection 'mongst the dainties

doth preclude all advancement.

Oh, damnable snob! How about this?

A snootish pamperloin like Greene

would be dying to meet the Moorish prince.

Why not host a dinner, hm?

I can bring Otello, you can invite Greene.

What a brilliant notion, Kit!

If I host a dinner for foreign royalty,

Greene could ne'er deny my status.

Oh, my God!

An African prince? Coming here?!

Oh, please let me attend, Mr Shakespeare, please!

Kate, sorry, but no!

This is a party to impress Robert Greene

and you be but a landlady's daughter.

Although that is a point, Kit -- what of girls?

No dainty dinner be fit without the gentle sex

and I know no posh birds at all.

- Oh, I think you do. - No, don't think so.

Why, sirrah, do you deny the Duchess of Northington?

Then I think foul scorn upon thee,

for though I have the body of a weak and timorous girlie,

I have the heart and stomach of a proper posh bird.

Gosh, Kate, that is so good!

You really do sound to the manor born,

but what a brilliant performance.

Well, you know performance is my passion,

because I really want to be an actress.

Stop it, Kate. Lady acting is illegal.

But for one night only, you will play the Duchess.

- Ooh! - And I can act like a lord.

- What-what-what? - Mm...

Except we'll also need someone to wait at tables,

so perhaps you could break the habit of a lifetime

and act like a servant.

How do I look in my gown?

Wonderful, Kate -- the very image of an alluring young posh bird.

Better even than when Mr Condell wore it as Margaret in my Henrys.

Which is amazing, really,

what with him being a middle-aged man

and me being only a real girl,

you'd think he'd have the edge.

I can't change the law, Kate.

Thou darest not even try,

despite all of the false promises you have made to me!

'Tis certain you will never play a female role yourself.

Oh, I don't know. I have been deemed a goodly actor in my day.

Ah, but the law states that, to play a girl,

one must have bolingbrokes,

and you have yet to grow a pair.

I will not quarrel on this special e'en, Kate.

Soon, we are to meet Prince Otello.

I've been thinking I might use him in a play.

I feel sure I could build a most wonderful drama

around such a wild and passionate figure.

Why do you presume Prince Otello will be wild and passionate?

Because he's African, obviously, thus will he be primal, organic.

I mean, lovely, of course, just more...

- Organic? - Exactly.

In England, we trace our culture back

to the classical models of Greece and Rome,

but the Moor is untouched by the example of ancient civilisations.

Like the Scots.

Well, if we're talking ancient civilisations,

there's Carthage, obviously.

- What? - Carthage, where the Carthaginians came from.

Yes, Kate, I imagine that Carthaginians came from Carthage.

They're not going to hail from Stockton-on-Tees, are they?

What about them?

Well, they were an ancient African civilisation,

who led the world in dyes and textiles,

and their general, Hannibal, terrorised Rome.

Oh, right, THOSE Carthaginians.

Well, obviously, there are exceptions.

Or the Numidians, Carthage's greatest rival,

who sided with the Roman Republic in the Second Punic War.

They were Africans, too.

Really? Numidians, you say?

And then, of course, there's the Egyptians...

Well, yes, but the Ancient Egyptians weren't Africans, obviously.

You are aware that Egypt is in Africa, Mr Shakespeare?

I mean, I only ask since I happen to know you think Verona is a port

and Bohemia has a coast.

Ah, no, methinks you overstate your case.

Egypt may be in Africa, but the Ancient Egyptians weren't African.

- You mean they were white? - Well, perhaps lightly tanned.

But when their civilisation stopped being so glorious, they suddenly started getting darker?

Kate, the Ancient World played by different rules.

Christ himself hailed from Judea, and yet as everybody knows,

he was blond with blue eyes.

The only blond and blue-eyed man in the whole of the Middle East?

Don't be ridiculous! Of course not!

His disciples were blond and blue-eyed, too.

Except Judas, who was dark and swarthy.

Look at any painting.

The Virgin Mary in our church is a ginge!

I am come as bidden, Mr Shakespeare,

full surprised though I be, for we are not friends.

Come now, Greene -- I know we've fought in the past,

but like the sweet-nosed maid

who doth follow the fully loaded turding cart,

I would put all that behind me.

And who, pray, is this?

Why, the noble Duchess of Northington, Mr Greene!

Charmed, I'm sure.

Step aside will I a moment and speak my innermost thoughts,

which by strict convention cannot be heard.

Does the Crow think me a fool?

Why, this duchess is none but the landlady's daughter, no doubt,

so attired as to make a show for the Moor!

I'll not expose the sluttage yet. Knowledge is power.

Do you know Prince Otello, your Grace?

I have not had the pleasure but do long to.

What proper posh bird does not go diddly-doo-dah

over the prospect of a prince?

Yes, of course.

So this unworthy girl would set her cap towards the Moor.

Well, she is passing pretty, and he just returned from war,

and longing no doubt for honeyed words and soft caresses.

'Tis clear, 'tis certain a soldier's blood will run hot at sight

of this ripe peach,

and where there is passion, there is always jealousy.

Pray bid welcome to General Otello, Prince of Morocco.

Greetings! Men who share the blood of beasts are brothers.

My assegai will kill your enemies! My shield will protect your women.

My wildebeest will give you milk and fertilise your herb gardens.

Wow! Thanks.

So, not wild and passionate at all, then.

Oh, goodness, Mr Shakespeare! Otello?

More like HOT-ello!

He really is orgasmic!

You mean organic.

I kind of think I know what I mean.

General, allow me to introduce you to Mr Greene,

a great and renowned poet

whose sublime play Friar Bacon And Friar Bungay is, I imagine,

in constant repertory at the Marrakech Grand.

A poet? I am honoured.

Rude am I in my speech,

and little blessed with the soft phrase of peace.

Ha! Don't believe a word of it.

This bloke's got more gob than a Cheapside renting-knave.

Well, then, perhaps the Prince would regale us with a tale or two?

And so do I tempt the Moor to speak of his alarms and adventures,

for such romantic stuff will no doubt turn the strumpet's head.

You wish to hear of my alarms and my adventures?

- Well, you know, maybe another time... - Battles. Fortunes.

- Sieges that I have passed. - Grab a drink, mate.

This could go on all day.

Wherein I'll speak of most disastrous chances,

of moving accidents by flood and field,

of hair-breadth 'scapes, 'ere the imminent deadly breach.

Have a drink, Kit? Grab my quill! This is blooming good stuff!

I need to get some of it down!

Have I gone all red? Tell me if I go all red.

Of the cannibals that each other eat, the anthropophagi,

and men whose heads do grow beneath their shoulders.

This is brilliant.

- How do you spell "anthropophagi"? - But...

Perhaps I speak too much.

Well, you know, less is more.

Oh, no, General! Do go on.

But soft.

What fair lady is this?

Oh, my fair warrior!

It gives me wonder great as my content

to see you here before me, my soul's joy.

You had me at, "Oh, my..."

Blimey -- do you think Otello fancies our Kate?

Looks that way, cuz.

I mean, a chap's got to be pretty smitten to lapse into blank verse.

Fate is kind. The old black ram be for tupping yonder white ewe,

as I have plotted.

The trap is set.

If after every tempest comes such calms,

may the winds blow till they have awakened death.

I cannot speak enough of this content.

It stops me here.

It is too much of joy.

Calm down, Kate!

You've only known the bloke for a minute-and-a-half.

Bottom, didn't you hear him?

His wonderful tales of adventures, tempests and the anthropophagi!

And men whose heads do grow beneath their shoulders!

If I fell for everyone who span a decent yarn,

I'd have to roger half the blokes in the pub!

Now, pull yourself together!

Right, you lot, tea's on't table, so get fell to and get stuck in.

The phrase, Bottom, is,

"Ladies and gentlemen, dinner is served."

First did I vanquish one, then another,

until all around were vanquished.

Well, there's a surprise.

Oh, my goodness -- so exciting.

'Tis clear the girl doth love the Moor and he loves her.

Now must I make the Moor believe the Crow doth also love her,

then will he be wild with murderous jealousy.

But General, dry must be your throat

after such prolonged boasting... story-telling.

Little wine, perhaps?

- Oh! - Ah! - Oh, heaven forefend,

I am a dunceling clumbletrousers.

Lady, I would fain lend you my kerchief

but do fear 'tis fully snotted.

Sirrah, could you...

Gladly.

The first gift I give thee.

Would it were all the world!

It means the world to me, my lord.

Get a flipping chamber!

Shakespeare, I am distraught.

I didst cause the great General to lose his embroidered bogey wipe.

Promise me you will borrow said bogey wipe from the Duchess

and have another stitched in its likeness

that I may gift that to the Moor?

- What? B-But... - Further will I speak.

You wouldst fain have your father admitted to the company of heralds?

Yes, absolutely. I was hoping to bring that up.

Then this advice will I give thee.

If such a personage as General Otello

were to plead your case to me,

why, then I could scarcely refuse such an entreaty.

Really? But-but why would he plead my case? He doth not know me.

Yes, but he does seem to be getting to know your friend

the Duchess rather intimately.

Well, now, General,

it has been most pleasant,

but I see that one more fascinating than I doth have your attention.

I will take my leave.

Mr Marlowe, Mr Shakespeare, perhaps you could bring the General

to mine own humble home that I might return this favour?

The bogey wipe, Mr Shakespeare -- forget not.

The bogey wipe!

Good day!

He wants me to stitch him a nose wipe just like this one?

Yeah, says it's part of some plan to get Robert Greene

to agree to making Grandad posh.

Oh, dear -- two identical hankies,

which will no doubt cause wrong conclusions to be drawn.

Sounds just like the sort of convoluted bolingbrokes

your dad would get involved with.

You just stitch that snotrag and send it back,

for I am to become a gentleman at last!

It'll take more than a coat of arms

to turn you into a gentleman, John Shakespeare.

You'll have to stop eating pickled onions in bed, for a start.

You are a dirty, disgustable, grotsome old man.

People'll be proud enough to know me when I'm posh!

He puts those pickled onions under his arms

to soften them up, you know.

Imagine being bothered in the marital bed

by a man with pickled onions in his armpits.

You love it.

I do not love it, John Shakespeare.

Anne's right -- you are a dirty, disgustable, grotsome old man.

Yes, but a dirty, disgustable, grotsome old man

who's going to get his own coat of arms, which will make me

a dirty, disgustable, grotsome old gentleman by law.

Just off to Mr Greene's dinner party, Kate,

but I wanted to drop Otello's hanky back.

Oh, no problem, Mr Shakespeare.

I've had quite a few pressies since then.

A bead necklace, a hollowed-out gourd,

a pot pourri of scented leaves and berries,

contained within the dry scroting sac of a defeated foe.

Hottie's so romantic!

- Hottie? - Oh, yes, 'tis my pet familiar for him.

I fashioned it out of the first syllable of his name,

and the fact that I find him extremely and totally hot.

Yeah, I think I got that.

He calls me Sweet Tits,

which no doubt be a reference to adorable baby birds.

Hm.

Yes, and tell me, Kate, have you yet confessed to Prince Otello

that you're not in fact the Duchess of Northington

but a naughty impostor?

Oh, Mr Shakespeare, Hottie won't mind that!

He loves me, and amor vincit omnia.

Er, yes, hang on -- I know this.

- Virgil, "love conquers all". - Love Conquers All?

I thought that was one of mine? Virgil? You sure?

Quite sure. Nearly 2,000 years ago.

Right, so, definitely out of copyright.

And, tell me, Kate, how do you see this relationship developing?

Do you imagine yourself as the future Mrs Otello?

Oh, I don't know, Mr Shakespeare.

He's admitted to me that he's polygamous,

and so if we married, I would, in fact, be one of 17 Mrs Otellos.

Goodness, Kate!

Could a proud Englishwoman ever accept such a demeaning situation?

Well, you see, Mr Shakespeare,

if as a proud Englishwoman I marry a proud Englishman,

he immediately takes all my property

and has the right to make of me a slave

and beat me without fear of law.

As would the Moor.

Yes, but with Otello, I would only get one 17th of his attention,

whereas in England, I would have to put up with

some brutal bastarble all on my own.

For an Elizabethan woman, marriage is a percentage game.

Right, yes, I see that.

Plus, think of the adventure, to be with such a man as the Moor,

a warrior who has sailed afar and seen the anthropophagi

and men whose heads do grow beneath their shoulders.

Yes, well, I must admit, that does sound like pretty exciting stuff.

There was one other thing. I wanted to ask a favour.

As you know, I'm hoping to petition the College of Heralds

to grant the Shakespeares a coat of arms.

Robert Greene has let slip that,

were so great a man as General Otello to plead my cause,

Greene might be better disposed to consider it,

so I was wondering...

Of course, Mr Shakespeare. I'll have a word with Hottie

and I'll lay it on really thick.

I'll say you're absolutely amazing and totally wonderful.

Now, you have a lovely evening with Mr Greene.

I'm going to bury myself in Sir Walter Raleigh's book

and dream of Hottie taking me in all those exotic places.

TO, Kate -- you mean taking you TO all those exotic places.

I kind of think I know what I mean.

Ah, Mr Shakespeare, welcome, welcome.

Didst thou bring the bogey wipe?

- Aye, my wife did make the copy. - Mm. A perfect replica.

Mrs Shakespeare has talent for a farm girl.

And with her needle has she stitched her husband's shroud.

Now, come, let us quaff and gorge as befits four gentlemen.

I'm sorry, as befits three gentlemen,

and Mr Shakespeare.

Although I will be one when I get my coat of arms.

For soon, as you advised,

one far greater than I will plead my case.

Oh, joy! The noose tightens!

Come on, Greene -- this tuck won't eat itself!

Such a feast, Mr Greene.

Would I were like the men with six mouths

whom first I saw upon the island of Berlocopus.

For then would I have five more gaping gobs

in which to stuff the tuck.

Pepper, Mr Shakespeare?

Goodness, yes, please! What a treat!

Such spice doth cost a fortune!

Take as much as you please.

Why, in the country of Crapatonia,

there be so much pepper that the natives converse only in sneezes,

and their eyes do water so,

the plains are often flooded with tears.

Crikey, Otello, mate, you have seen some stuff and then some.

But, to settle a bet, what is an anthropophagi?

Just a guy from Anthropop.

It makes sense.

Mr Shakespeare, you do be sneezing like a citizen of Crapatonia!

Here -- use this.

The trap shuts.

Tell me about this, General, have you not sometimes seen

a handkerchief spotted with strawberries

in your love's hand?

I gave Kate such a one. 'Twas my first gift.

Oh! Oh, dear!

I fear then she gave it to another,

for see, yonder Shakespeare doth wipe his beard with it.

Oh, that the slave had 40,000 lives!

One is too poor, too weak for my revenge!

Oh, beware, my lord, of jealousy!

'Tis the green-eyed monster which doth mock the meat it feeds on.

Well, perhaps you're right. Don't want to jump to conclusions.

No...

But, I mean, it does look really dodgy.

Yes. Yes!

One more twist will do the deed.

Perchance the knave be innocent.

Question Kate, and if she speaks soft words to you of Shakespeare,

then will you know that he hath stolen her heart,

and so must you kill him.

Arise, black vengeance from thy hollow cell!

Ah, blood! Blood! Blood!

Blimey!

A bit abrupt. And so angry! Fit to murder someone.

And he's been deep in conversation with Greene.

Oh, my God.

I had thought to use the Moor against Greene,

but he has served me likewise!

It's like that new line you showed me,

the one where the fellow totally shafted his own person?

- You mean "hoist by his own petard"! - That's the one!

You're right, Kit -- like the narcissistic contortionist,

I've buggered myself.

You can't go in there! It's not proper!

Talk to me of Will Shakespeare!

Oh, and bon soir to you, too, Hottie!

It's fine, Bottom.

I've been wanting to have a word with Prince Otello, anyway.

Shakespeare. Tell me now, what is he to you?

Ah, well, since you ask,

I think he's absolutely amazing and totally wonderful.

'Tis the cause. 'Tis the cause, my soul.

Let me not name it to you, you chased stars.

'Tis the cause.

Um, but since you're here,

there was something I wanted to talk to you about.

Yet I'll not shed her blood,

nor scar that whiter skin of hers than snow

and smooth as monumental alabaster...

General, stop! She didn't give me your bogey wipe!

Greene tricked me into making a copy.

'Twas that which I did snot and grolly.

And if, by any chance, Kate's been banging on

about how absolutely amazing and totally wonderful I am,

it's because I asked her to at Greene's suggestion!

Kate is pure. 'Tis Greene who plots against you.

Perdition catch my soul.

Were you really about to smother her?

Because if so, not cool!

What? No, of course not! I'm just upset.

I always hug a pillow when I'm upset.

But I'm upset no longer. Kate doth love me.

Mm. You see, it was that

that I wanted to talk to you about, actually, Hottie.

You see, I've been thinking about all those exciting stories

you told me, the ones that won my heart,

all that stuff about the anthropophagi

and men whose heads do grow beneath their shoulders...

- My alarms and adventures. - Hm.

And it turns out it's all taken pretty much verbatim

from Sir Walter Raleigh's new book.

I don't think you are an exotic prince, Hottie.

In fact, you're probably not from anywhere very interesting at all.

Yes... Where do you come from?

Bristol.

Turned out Otello was born in England.

He makes his living conning people that he's an African prince.

Thinking Kate a duchess, he'd hoped to steal her cash.

I'm as far away from getting my Shakespeare coat of arms as ever.

Amazing story, though.

- You should use it in a play. - What? Dad trying to be posh?

- Hm, might work, I suppose... - No!

No, the noble Moor corrupted into false jealousy by an evil snake,

and suffocating his true love in her bed.

You could get that Hottie to star in it.

He certainly convinced you in the role!

And actually, I took down a few of his lines -- I mean, my lines.

But a black actor in a leading role? I think that's a few centuries off.

A strong supporting character, perhaps --

an irascible chief of the watch or a wise old judge.

Possibly the villain, or the hero's best mate,

but the lead?

Not going to hold my breath.

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