Blackadder's Christmas Carol Page #3

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- Happy days!

- Yes. Maybe I was a little rash.

Ah, boys, welcome back!

But, Melchett, what have you got under your coat?

Is it a present?

A present, Majesty? But of course!

You're so painfully transparent, Blackadder.

Am I?

That's fab! I love presents.

For a moment, I took against Christmas,

but now I'm dippy about it again.

In fact, I'd like to marry you.

If you weren't as unattractive as a giant slug.

Oh, pish, Majesty!

Anyway, to reward you,

I'm going to give you lots of presents.

Fancy a castle?

- Windsor, Majesty?

- Title?

- Duke of Kent?

- Anything else?

A devilish saucy wife would be fun.

- Lady Jane Pottle.

- Oh, yummy!

I think she's Blackadder's girl,

but that doesn't matter, does it, Blacky?

No, of course not, ma'am.

And would Lord Melchett like

to whip me naked through Aberdeen?

- We needn't go that far.

- Oh, too kind.

No, Aylesbury's quite far enough.

Super. Well done, Melchy.

Now, Blackadder, what have you got me?

- Erm...

- I want a pressie!

Give me something nice and shiny.

If you don't, I've got something

nice and shiny for you: an axe!

- Erm, well..

- Right, that's it!

Any last requests before I chop

your block off for the Chrimble tree?

Erm, well there is one, actually, ma'am.

You know how I've always been

a great admirer of you both.

I was wondering if I could have your autographs

to keep me company

during the final tragic, lonely hours.

- Oh, all right.

- Thank you, ma'am.

And Lord Melchett. Just there. Thank you.

- Oh, dear me!

- What is it?

Why, this piece of paper

that Your Majesty has just signed

turns out to be some sort of death warrant.

Oops!

And I can't retract it without destroying

the whole basis of the British Constitution.

I fear not.

- Is there a name on it?

- Yes, actually, it says "Lord..."

Oh, I can't read this terrible childish writing.

"Lord Melchett." Lord Melchett, that's it.

Ma'am, it's a trick! You've been tricked.

Oh, good!

Christmas is a time for tricks

and japes and larks of all kinds.

Tell you what, that's so brilliant

I'll execute Melchett instead.

You're very kind, ma'am.

I suppose that means that everything

of Lord Melchett's becomes yours.

I suppose it does.

Merry Christmas, ma'am.

Good Lord!

Horrible, eh? What a pig!

Yes, but clearly quite a clever, charming pig.

But no, as you say, his behaviour, disgraceful.

You're a great improvement on them all

You're a good boy.

Them? Are there more?

Oh, yes. Have a shufty at this.

Right, Balders.

I'm sick of the Prince Regent

getting all the presents.

So here's the plan:

we play our traditional game of charades,

and when he gets bored and asks for a story,

you stick the dress and the hat on

and knock on the door.

- Got it?

- Got it.

You certainly will get it if you mess this up.

Hurrah! Welcome, lads! This is the stuff, eh?

Christmas sherry and charades

with honest, manly fellows.

What can I do with a girl I can't do with you, eh?

I cannot conceive, sir.

There's that, of course. Now, who's first?

I'd ask Horatio, but he's out of it.

So it's the little monkey fellow first, is it?

- It is indeed.

- Excellent. I love charades.

OK. Off you go, Baldrick.

- A book.

- Well done.

Didn't think you'd get it that quickly.

Yes, I must say that was damn clever.

Another great Christmas tradition.

Explaining the rules eight times

to the Thicky Twins.

The round hasn't started yet.

It must be a specific book.

For the Bible, I'd do that

to indicate it has two syllables...

- Two what?

- Two syllables.

"Two silly bulls"? I don't think so, not in the Bible.

I remember a fatted calf,

but that was a sensible animal.

Ah-ha, yah, is it Noah's Ark?

With the two pigs, two ants and two silly bulls...

- Two syll-a-bles?

- What?

We're getting confused. Let's start again.

No, let's not. I think the whole game's

getting a bit syll-a.

How about a Christmas story?

What a good idea.

I'll get rid of the servant, shall I?

There's a limit to how long roasting chestnuts

can blot out the aroma of Baldrick's trousers.

Don't forget the dress and the hat, Baldrick.

- Shall I begin the Christmas story?

- Absolutely.

Provided it's not that depressing one

about the chap born on Christmas Day

who shoots his mouth off

then comes a cropper with some rum coves

on a hill in Johnny Arab land.

- You mean, Jesus?

- Yes, that's the bloke.

He always spoils the Xmas atmos.

Instead, I shall tell you a story...

Ah! Oh, my God, I've gone blind! Blind!

That's better.

As I was saying, this is a story

about a handsome young prince.

This is more like it. What?

Good-looking, lovely hair perched on his head

like an exceptionally attractive loaf of bread?

- Exactly.

- I can imagine him. Excellent fellow.

It's a tale about him and a sad, lonely old granny

who's dying of cold on a cruel Christmas night.

- Not a comedy, then?

- No, sir.

When she thought

that she'd die on Christmas night

and be swept up on Boxing Day morning,

mistaken for a huge dirty handkerchief...

..then she knocked on the door

of a handsome young prince named George,

who gave her all his massive

collection of Christmas presents,

and she lived happily ever after.

Oh, by Satan's sausage,

Bladder, what a fine tale!

I'm quite moved to tears.

Oh, good.

I wonder who that could be.

On a cold, dark, cruel Christmas night, tricky one.

Could be a robin.

Why, rather coincidentally,

it is a sad, lonely old granny dying of cold.

Shall I fling her out saying

there's no room in our Christmas

for a sad, virtuous, silver-haired

old elderly angel like her?

No, Blackadder, you swine, bring her in!

- The trolley's a nice touch.

- Take all you want.

You've found Georgy-Porgy, a handsome prince.

Thank you, sir.

Shall I make sure she doesn't steal the silver?

- No, no. Tell her to take it.

- You're very generous, sir.

Excellent, excellent, Baldrick, a triumph.

Baldrick? Baldrick!

Sorry, Mr B. I was just showing

a sweet old granny to the door.

- Are we ready yet, sir?

- What?

I answered the door and it was

this sweet granny collecting for charity.

- So I let her in.

- Ahh.

Something wrong, Mr B?

No. I shouldn't have trusted a man

with the mental agility of a rabbit dropping.

- Sorry, Mr B.

- It's all right.

It's not your fault.

Still I fear for a frail, elderly woman

Iaden with valuables, travelling

the inadequately-lit London streets.

- Yes, she's not safe, sir.

- Well not from me, certainly.

- Very amusing!

- In what way?

The wigs. Very amusing wigs.

But his behaviour, as you say, disgraceful.

But... But he actually got the presents.

Y... Y... Yes.

So there is something

to be made out of being bad.

Technically, yes. But that's not the point, is it?

It's the soul, the soul.

As a matter of interest, what would

happen in the future if I was bad?

Erm... Is that the time? I must be off.

I'd love to see Christmas Future.

No, no, no, it's terribly melodramatic.

Look, just show it, please.

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