Original subtitles

Because you're fond of fairy tales and have been ill, I've made you a story all of yourself.

It is all about an old tailor who lived in Gloucester.

In a time of swords and periwigs and full-skirted coats with floured lappets,

when gentlemen wore ruffles and go-laced waistcoats of Padwa Soy and Taffeta,

a lived a tailor in Gloucester.

One bitter cold day near Christmastime, the tailor began to make a coat.

The finest of wedding coats for the mayor of Gloucester.

And a cream-colored satin wesket trimmed with gauze and green wusted channell.

Now, how can I fashion this with the least waist of these expensive stuffs?

For I am sure I cannot afford to waste the smallest piece.

Ah, don't let me see.

Hey!

Hey!

Two narrow breaths for naught, except in Westcuts for mine, sweetheart.

No, no, no, no.

Look what I've got.

Oh, my! Oh, wow, beautiful.

By my whiskers, I cannot remember when we last had silk.

Such quality on these premises.

Do you look at this?

And look. Look at this.

Hmm.

Hmm.

Perhaps they may just be.

Yes, yes! A magnificent coat, but we'll need more silk.

Yes, thank you.

Now we'll see.

What does he say?

Oh, yes. One bread there, one bread there, and more thread.

Yes, more thread.

Yes, and a measuring tape.

Scissors, pins.

Need it? Yes, yes. More silk. More silk.

More silk. We need more silk.

More silk.

More silk.

Yes.

Now, the lining.

Oh, yes.

Of course, just the thing.

Yellow Taffeta.

Yellow Taffeta.

Yellow Taffeta.

Yellow Taffeta for the lining.

What?

Yellow Taffeta for the lining.

He says that lining will be yellow.

Tough itter.

Oh, my yellow taffeta.

Just what I would have chosen myself.

But, as you convinced, coming yet.

Oh, masterly.

Masterly.

Oh, my poor back.

But it is done.

Now, let me see.

That is served when it comes to the end.

Oh, my poor back.

Oh, my poor back.

Oh, my poor back.

It is served when it comes to the end.

12.

12.

12.

And there's four pieces for the west.

And four, four, four.

Four, four, four.

All the lining.

What?

There's no bread at all.

Tippets for lice and ribbons for mobs.

It is no bread at all.

But it is all done.

Now, let me see.

Oh, oh, I am so weary.

And the light is fading fast.

Now then, there's pocket flaps, cuffs and buttons.

And we'll see if all is ready for the morning.

Already insufficient.

Except for one item.

And I am wanting one single skein of cherry color twisted silk.

Oh, my poor.

The tailor lived quite nearby in college court.

Being so poor, he rented just the kitchen of a house

next to the doorway to college green.

The mice were more fortunate and did not

have to brave the bitter cold.

With their secret passages and stairways,

they could run from house to house.

Indeed, all over town without ever going into the street.

Oh, a sinking old friend.

Help us, you'll make our fortune.

Help us.

But I am warned or rambling.

Now, take this groat, which is our last four pens.

And sink in.

Take a china.

And buy a penith of bread, a penith of milk, and a penith of sausages.

And a simkin.

With the last penny of our four pens.

Buy me one penith of cherry colored silk.

Do not lose that color.

I'm not going to lose that color.

I'm not going to lose that color.

I'm not going to lose that color.

I'm not going to lose that color.

But do not lose that last penny second.

Or I am undone and worn to a threadpaper, for I have no more twist.

I shall make my fortune to be cut on the bias.

The miracle lost her first to be married on Christmas day in the morning.

And he have ordered a coat and an embroidered waist cut to be lined with yellow taffeta

and the taffeta cephasis.

There is no more left over in snippets than we'll serve to make tippets for noise.

What can that be?

This is very peculiar.

But gracious.

This is passing its chart.

Oh, Wager, this is all simkins doing.

The rascal.

Oh, Wager, this is all simkins doing.

The rascal.

It's extraordinary.

Oh, I'm worn to a ruffling.

I wonder what was I wise to entrust my last four pens to suit.

I don't know.

The waist cut is cut out from peach colored satin.

One and twenty buttonholes of cherry colored silk should be finished by noon on Saturday.

This is Tuesday evening.

Was it right to let Luso's mice and don't delay the property of sinking?

Well, I'm undone, for I have no more twist.

Oh.

Oh.

Oh.

God.

He's so, so, so, so.

What is that?

Oh.

Same kid.

Oh.

Oh.

Oh.

Oh.

Oh.

Oh.

Oh.

Oh.

Oh.

Where is my twist, Simkin?

Oh.

I'm not well.

Well, is my twist, Zincan?

I'm ill.

I fear I have a fever.

I'm so weak.

But my hand does treble, so...

...where you want to be embroidery.

Only the finest stitching will survive.

120 buttonholes.

120 buttonholes.

Cherry coloured twist to be finished by now.

Do you finish by no?

On a Saturday?

On Saturday.

Saturday, no twist.

No more twist.

But it is already...

...two straight.

And it is Tuesday evening.

What do you think of the cherry coloured coat?

No more twist.

And what should we do?

What is to become of the cherry coloured coat?

Oh, yes.

Yes, yes, yes.

Wait for me.

And the waistcoat.

And ride it with puppies and cornflowers.

The waistcoat of green coloured sighted by Saturday, you say?

Cut on the cross.

Yes, and lined with yellow tepita.

For the mayor's wedding.

To be finished by Saturday, then it's Tuesday evening.

Dwind with gores and chineal.

To be ready for Christmas day.

He gave us tippets for mice.

Oh, my.

Here we are.

Is all clear?

In the tailor's shop in Wescott Street, the embroidered silken satin lay cut up on the table.

Two should come to sew them when the window is barred and the door fast locked.

But there is no more twist.

No more twist.

The twist.

The twist.

The twist.

The twist.

What should we come up with?

You look like straw and you look like stuff.

You look like a simple kid.

You look like a small kid.

You look like a small kid.

You look like a small kid.

The tailor had lain ill for three days and nights.

And now it was Christmas Eve.

But it is in the old story that all the beasts can talk in the night between Christmas Eve

and Christmas day in the morning.

Though there are very few folk that can hear them or know what it is they say.

And make your pie.

And make your pie.

And make your pie for three days.

Oh, dilly, dilly, dilly.

Oh, dilly, dilly.

We can't find our hands in a palace.

You little satsy.

We can't find our hands in a palace.

You little satsy.

Oh, what shall we have?

Oh, supper, Mrs. Bond.

There's geese in the ladder and ducks in the pond.

But my master's carpet is as empty as old mother habits.

Oh, mother, homet.

Wait to the cupboard.

Fetch the dog a bone.

Oh, it's he got there.

The cupboard was there.

And so the pocky had not.

Oh, right across the membrane cross.

Oh, oh.

Oh.

Oh.

Oh, he called for the radio.

Oh, for the radio.

Oh, for the radio.

Oh, for the TV.

He called for his pie.

And he called for his phone.

And he called for his name and his three.

I bettle, diddle, the cat and the fiddle.

All the cats in Gloucester.

Except me.

Oh, I'm living in the well.

Kitty alone.

Kitty alone.

I'm Mary Mouse in the mill.

Cough of me, Carrie.

Kitty alone.

Kitty alone.

What's the fuck?

It ain't no well.

Kitty alone.

Kitty alone.

Kitty alone.

Oh, mother.

Right across the Caban eggs.

And see father.

fitting him up.

Kitty alone.

Flybeorter.

with acatm

anting.

He was on his eye or sex.

It's yellow!

It's yellow!

It's blue!

It's blue!

It's blue!

It's blue!

It's blue!

It's blue!

It's blue!

It's blue!

It's blue!

It's blue!

It's blue!

It's blue!

It's blue!

It's blue!

It's blue!

It's blue!

It's blue!

It's blue!

More than twenty tailors went to catch a snail.

The best man amongst them does not touch but tail.

She pulled out her horns like a little pile of cow.

And run in tailors run, or she'll have your lead and none.

They did a yuggety-poboty-pig, the merchants of London.

They are mening, and the key is under the tailors' pillow.

Some merrily march the merchants meant they were bought.

A pepkin and a popkin, a stickin' and a slopkin.

All the one for thee.

Three little mice sat down to spin.

A silk-wise-hourly sheet of paper.

What are you with, my little man?

Making roost-bout and today?

Shall I come in and cut off your threads?

Oh, no, Miss, we'll see you in tight of all heads.

Now, or twist?

Now, or twist?

Now, or twist?

No, or twist.

Saturday, the bear is...

Now?

Now?

Now?

Alack, I am worn to a ruffling, but I have my twist.

I am worn to a ruffling.

I am worn to a ruffling.

I am worn to a ruffling.

Not me, Dave, for the mayor's wedding.

It's a beautiful day for the wedding.

Happy Christmas, a fine day.

Yes, it's a beautiful day.

Happy Christmas.

Aah!

Aah!

Alack, I have my twist, but no more strength, nor time,

than will serve to make me one single button hole.

For this is Christmas day in the morning,

the mayor of Gloucester shall be married by noon.

And where is his cherry-colored coat?

Mine's sinking.

Let me open the door.

My flavor was still big with me.

I cannot believe my eyes.

Oh, joy, America.

Oh, these eggs squished roses.

Look at the pannies.

Oh, the pannies.

I've never seen such cornflowers, but what is this?

Such tiny writing.

No more twist.

Oh, oh, oh.

Oh, oh, oh.

How beautiful.

A fine coat.

Such ruffles.

Such embroidered cuffs and lapits.

Just like the mayor's.

Magnificent.

Oh, oh, oh.

Such tabby silks and rose buds.

Of the buttonhole's other greatest triumph.

The stitches of those buttonholes were so small.

They looked as if they had been made by little mice.

On Christmas night, or Christmas in to hear the news of the angels.

On Christmas night, or Christmas in to hear the news of the angels.

Read the news of the children.

Join the news of Christmas.

News of the merciful Christmas.

Then what should we learn of Jesus Christ?

In sorry, he will play the school.

Then what should we learn of Jesus Christ?

In sorry, he will play the school.

Then from a sick he said, oh, sweet.

Oh, thoughts who gain a leave of tea.

Oh, those of darkness we have led,

which made the angels sing this night.

Glory to God, a peace to man.

Lord, and for evermore amends.

On Christmas day, or Christmas day.

On Christmas day, or Christmas day.

On Christmas day, or Christmas day.

On Christmas day, or Christmas day.

On Christmas day, or Christmas day.

On Christmas day, or Christmas day.

On Christmas day, or Christmas day.

On Christmas day, or Christmas day.

On Christmas day, or Christmas day.

On Christmas day, or Christmas day.

On Christmas day, or Christmas day.

On Christmas day, or Christmas day.

On Christmas day, or Christmas day.

On Christmas day, or Christmas day.

On Christmas day, or Christmas day.

On Christmas day, or Christmas day.

On Christmas day, or Christmas day.

On Christmas day, or Christmas day.

On Christmas day, or Christmas day.

On Christmas day, or Christmas day.