------------------------------------

B: Baldrick

E: Edmund Blackadder

PR: Prince Regent George

K: Keanrick, an actor

M: Mossop, another actor

A: An Anarchist

MM: Mrs. Miggins

The Palace Kitchens

-------------------

(Blackadder walks in. Baldrick looks up from polishing a shoe.)

B: You look smart, Mr. Blackadder. Going somewhere nice?

E: No, I'm off to the theatre.

B: Don't you like it then?

E: (sarcastically) No, I don't! A load of stupid actors strutting around,

shouting, with their chests thrust out so far, you'd think their

nipples were attached to a pair of charging elephants! And the *worst*

thing about it is having to go with Prince *Mini-Brain*!

B: What, doesn't he like it, either?

E: No, no, he loves it. The problem is that he doesn't realise it's *made

up*. Last year, when Brutus was about to kill Julius Caesar, the

Prince yelled out, "Look behind you, Mr. Caesar!".

B: I don't see a point in the theatre. All that sex and violence. I get

enough of that at home. Except for the sex, of course.

E: While we're out, Baldrick, I want you to give this palace a good

*clean*. It's so dirty, it'll be unacceptable to a dung-beetle that

had lost interest in its career and really let itself go.

(The Prince calls out.)

PR: Come on, Blackadder, or we'll miss the first act!

E: (in a loud voice) Coming, sir, as fast as I can... Stick the kettle

on, Baldrick.

The Theatre

-----------

(Actors Keanrick and Mossop are performing.)

K: Now Sir, give I this advice to thee: Never never trust thine enemy.

(Keanrick fake-stabs Mossop under the armpit; Mossop dies dramatically.

The Prince watches raptly; Blackadder completely disinterestedly.)

K: Thy life is forfeit... (kicks Mossop, who is still dying noisily) Thy

life is forfeit, sir, and at an end, like our poor play. We hope it

pleased you, friends.

(Applause, except from the Prince's box.)

PR: Certainly not, you murdering rotter! Guards, arrest that man!

E: Your Highness, it's only a play.

PR: Oh, well, that's all very well, but that about the poor fellow who's

*dead*? Saying it's only a play will not feed and clothe the little

ones he leaves behind! (shouts) Call the militia!

E: But sir, he's not dead. See, he stands, awaiting your applause.

PR: Oh, I say, that's very clever. He really isn't dead. (shouts and

applauds) Oh Bravo! Bravo!

K: (mutters to Mossop) Blast, the Prince likes it!

M: Oh shit, we'll close tonight.

A: Right, everybody out! Smash the Spinning Jenny! Burn the

rolling Rosalind! Destroy the going-up-and-down-a-bit-and-then-moving-

along Gertrude! And death to the stupid Prince who grows fat on the

profits!

(He tosses a lighted bomb to the Prince. The audience scream and run for

cover, except the Prince.)

PR: I say, how exciting! This play's getting better and better! Bravo!

Bravo!

E: (voice from behind Prince) It's not a play anymore, sir. Put the bomb

down and make your way quietly to the exit.

PR: Blackadder, you old thing, your problem is you can't tell when

something's real and when it's not! (the bomb blows up)

The Prince's Lounge

-------------------

(The Prince's head is wrapped up in bandages, with some band-aids on his

face.)

PR: I must say, Blackadder, that was a close shave! Why on earth would an

anarchist possibly want to kill *you*?

E: I think it might've been *you* he was after, sir.

PR: Oh hogwash! What on earth makes you say that?

E: Well, my suspicions were first aroused by his use of the words, "Death

to the stupid Prince!"

PR: It was a bit rude, wasn't it?

E: These are volatile times, your Highness. The American Revolution lost

your father the Colonies, the French Revolution murdered brave King

Louis and there are tremendous rumblings in Prussia, although that

might have something to do with the sausages. The whole world cries

out, "Peace, Freedom, and a few less fat bastards eating all the pie."

PR: Well, yes, quite, something must be done! Any ideas?

E: Yes sir. Next week is your royal father's birthday celebrations. I

suggest that I write a brilliant speech for you to recite to show the

oppressed masses how unusually sensitive you are.

(Blackadder holds a vial of smelling-salts under the Prince's nose.)

G: PPHHHGGTTT! Well, tell me about these "oppressed masses", what are

they so worked up about?

E: They're worked up, sir, because they're so poor, they're forced to

have children simply to provide a cheap alternative to turkey at

Christmas. Disease and depravation stalk our land like.. two giant..

stalking things. And the working man is poised to overthrow us.

(Baldrick enters carrying a mop.)

PR: Oh my God, and here he is!

E: Don't be silly, sir. That's Baldrick, my dogsbody.

G: What's silly about that? He looks like an oppressed mass to me. Get

him out of here at once!

E: Shoo, Baldrick, carry on with your cleaning elsewhere. And by the end

of tonight, I want that dining table so clean I can eat my dinner off

it.

(Baldrick leaves.)

PR: Cripes, Blackadder, I'm dicing with death here. The sooner I can show

how unusually sensitive I am, the better. (burps) Oh, I just had

another brilliant thought.

E: (sceptically) Another one, Your Highness?

PR: Yes, another one, actually! You remember that one I, I had about, uh,

wearing underwear on the outside to save on laundry bills? Well, what

I'm thinking to myself is, "Hello, why don't we ask those two actor

chappies we saw tonight to teach me how to recite your speech?"

Brilliant, eh?

E: No, Your Highness, feeble.

PR: What?

E: I would advise against it. It's a *feeble* idea.

PR: Well, tish-and-pish to your advice, Blackadder! Get them here at once!

Damn it, I'd fed up with you treating me as if I'm sort of like some

kind of a thickie! It's not me that's thick, it's you and you know

why? Because I'm a bloody Prince and you're only a *butler*. And now

go and get those actors here this minute, Mr. Thicky-Black-Thicky-

Adder-Thicky.

Mrs. Miggins' Coffee-Shop

-------------------------

E: Mrs. Miggins, I'm looking for a couple of actors.

MM: Well, you've come to the right place, Mr. B. There's more

Shakespearian dialogue in here than there are buns! (laughs) All my

lovely actors pop in on their way to rehearsals for a little cup of

coffee and a big dollop of inspiration.

E: You mean they actually rehearse? I thought they just got drunk, stuck

on a silly hat and trusted to luck.

MM: Ohhh no. There's ever so much hard work that goes into the wonderful

magic that is theatre today. Haa-haa... still I don't expect you'd

know much about that, being only a little butler. (laughs and pinches

Blackadder's cheek)

E: They do say, Mrs. M, that verbal insults hurt *more* than physical

pain. (holds up a three-pronged fork) They are, of course, *wrong*, as

you'll soon discover when I stick this toasting fork in your head.

(Actors Keanrick and Mossop enter.)

M: (from outside) Ladies and gentlemen, will you please welcome Mr. David

Keanrick.

MM: (squeals as usual) Oh hurrah!

(Keanrick enters, followed by Mossop.)

M: And the fabulous Mr. Enoch Mossop.

MM: (applauds, continues to swoon) Gentlemen, gentlemen!

K: Settle down, settle down, settle down.

M: I'm sorry, no autographs.

K: The usual, Mrs. M.

MM: OOoooohh, coming up, my lovely.

E: (noticing there's no one surrounding the actors) Ahh, if I can just

squeeze through this admiring rabble... (mimes wading through a crowd)

Gentlemen, I've come with a proposition.

M: How dare you, sir. You think, just because we're actors, we sleep with

*everyone*!

E: I think, being actors, you're lucky to sleep with *anyone*. I come

here on behalf of my employer, to ask for some elocution lessons.

K: Haa-ha, I fear, that is quite impossible. We are in the middle of

rehearsing for our new play. We cannot possibly betray our beloved

audience by taking time off.

M: Oh no, mustn't upset the punters. Bums on seats, laddie, bums on seats.

E: And what play is this?

M: It is a piece we penned ourselves, called "The Bloody Murder of the

Foul Prince Romero and His Enormous-Bosomed Wife".

E: A philosophical work then.

K: Indeed yes, sir. The violence of the murder and the vastness of the

bosom are entirely justified artistically.

E: Right, I'll tell the Prince that you can't make it.

K: Prince?

E: Sorry, yes. Didn't I mention that? It's the Prince Regent. Sorry you

can't make it. So...

M: No, no, no, no please, no. Please wait, sir. (to Keanrick, who is

clutching at him) Off, off! I think we can find some time, do you not,

Mr. Keanrick?

K: Definitely, Mr. Mossop.

E: No, no, you've got your beloved audience to think about.

K: Sod the proles! We'll come.

M: Yes, worthless bastards to a man.

E: It's nice to see artistic integrity thriving so strongly in the

theatre. Well, this afternoon at four then, at the Palace. (exits)

The Prince's Lounge

-------------------

(The Prince is wearing a long cape and a false moustache.)

PR: Well, what do you think?

E: Are you ill or something?

PR: No, I'm simply trying to look more like an actor.

E: Well, I'm sure you don't need the false moustache.

PR: No?

E: No. (tears off the Prince's moustache)

PR: Oowwwwh! (bumps into a cabinet; Baldrick emerges clutching a

feather-duster) Egads, it's that oppressed mass again! (starts to

strangle Baldrick)

E: No sir, that is Baldrick spring cleaning.

PR: Oh yes, so it is.

E: Ummpf, finish the job later, Baldrick.

B: Very well sir. The cleaning or the being strangled?

E: Either suits me.

PR: Look Blackadder, this is all getting a bit hairy, isn't it? I mean,

are you sure we can even trust these acting fellows? Last time we went

to the theatre, three of them *murdered* Julius Caesar, and one of

them was his best friend, Brutus.

E: As I've told you about *eight* times, the man playing Julius Caesar

was *an actor* called Kemp.

PR: Really?

E: (sharply) Yes!

PR: Thundering gherkins! Well, Brutus must have been pretty miffed when he

found out.

E: (very sharply) What?

PR: That he hadn't killed Caesar after all, just some poxy actor called

Kemp. What, d'you think he went round to Caesar's place after the play

and killed him then?

E: Oh, God, it's pathetic!

The Kitchens

------------

(There is a rapping at the door. Blackadder walks down the stairs.

Baldrick looks up from his silver-polishing.)

B: Is that the door?

E: Oh, don't worry, it's just the actors.

(Continued rapping. Blackadder pours himself a cup of tea.)

B: My uncle Baldrick was in a play once.

E: Really?

B: Yeah, it was called *Macbeth*.

E: And what did he play?

B: Second codpiece... Macbeth wore him in the fight scenes.

E: So he was a stunt codpiece. (sips his tea) Did he have a large part?

B: Depends who's playing Macbeth.

E: Oh, incidentally, Baldrick - actors are very superstitious. On no

account mention the word *Macbeth* this evening, alright?

B: Why not?

E: It brings them bad luck and it makes them very unhappy.

B: Oh, so you won't be mentioning it either?

E: No... well, not very often.

The Prince's Lounge

-------------------

E: You should have knocked.

K: Our knocks, impertinent butler, were loud enough to wake the hounds of

hell!

(The actors give Blackadder their hats.)

K: (to Mossop) Lead on, McDuff.

M: I shall...

(They enter. Blackadder dumps their hats on the floor and kicks them into

the hall.)

M: ..lest you continue in your quotations and mention the name of the

"Scottish Play".

K: Oh-ho... never fear, I shan't do that. (laughs)

E: By the "Scottish Play", I assume you mean *Macbeth*.

(The actors perform a ritual warding off of bad luck.)

As: Aahhhhh! (slapping each others hands, pat-a-cake fashion) Hot potato,

off his drawers, pluck to make amends. (pinch each others noses)

Aaahh!

E: What was that?

K: We were exorcising evil spirits. Being but a mere butler, you will not

know the great theatre tradition that one does *never* speak the name

of the "Scottish Play".

E: What, *Macbeth*?

As: Aahhhhh! Hot potato, off his drawers, pluck to make amends. Ohhh!

E: Good lord, you mean you have to do *that* every time I say *Macbeth*?

As: Aahhhhh! Hot potato, off his drawers, pluck to make amends. Owwww!

M: Will you please stop saying *that*! Always call it the "Scottish

Play".

E: So you want me to say the "Scottish Play"?

As: YES!!!

E: Rather than *Macbeth*?

As: Aahhhhh! Hot potato, off his drawers, pluck to make amends. Owwwwww!

(Prince George enters.)

PR: For heaven's sake, what is all this hullabaloo, all this shouting and

screaming and yelling blue murder? Why... it's like that play we saw

the other day, what was it called... umm..

E: *Macbeth*, sir?

As: Aahhhhh! Hot potato, off his drawers, pluck to make amends. Owwwwww!

PR: No, no, it was called Julius Caesar.

E: Ah yes, of course. Julius Caesar... not *Macbeth*.

As: Aahhhhh! Hot potato, off his drawers, pluck to make amends. Owwwwww!

E: Are you sure you want these people to stay?

PR: Course, I asked them, didn't I, Mr. Thicky-Butler.

K: Your Highness, may I say what a great honour it is to be invited?

PR: Why certainly.

K: Thank you. (dramatically) What a great honour that it is to be invited

here to make merry in the halls of our King's loins' most glorious

outpouring.

PR: Eeergh!

K: Now, Your Highness, shall we begin straight away?

PR: Absolutely, yes. Now, I've got this... um...

M: Now, before we inspect the script, let us have a look at stance.

PR: Right.

K: Yes. The ordinary fellow stands like well... as you do now.

M: Whereas your hero... stands thus.

(The actors assume a heroic stance - legs spread wide, hips thrust

forwards. The Prince follows suit.)

PR: Right. Well, that's sort of like this...

K: Excellent, Your Highness. Even more so...

PR: What, oh, like that? (Even wider, standing as if on a ledge. A creak

sounds.) What was that noise?

M: It wasn't *me*! We are used to standing in this position.

(Another creak.)

PR: It came from over here. (opens a trunk to find Baldrick) Anarchist!

B: Cleaner!

PR: So you've had a wash, that's no excuse! (starts strangling Baldrick

again)

E: (Enters, amidst the screams) No sir, that is Baldrick spring cleaning.

PR: But he's, look, he's got a bomb!

E: That's not a *bomb*, sir, that's a sponge.

PR: Oh yes, so it is. Well, get it out of here at once before it explodes.

(Exit Baldrick, carrying the sponge very gingerly at arm's length.)

PR: (continuing) Um, now, stance. I'm sorry about that. I think we really

had something there, too.

K: Oh yes, Your Highness. Why, your very posture tells me, "Here is a man

of true greatness."

E: Either that or "Here are my genitals, please kick them."

M: Sir, I really must ask that this ill-educated oaf be removed from the

room.

K: Yes! Get out sir. Your presence here is as useful as fine bone china

at a tea-party for drunken elephants.

PR: Is that right? Well, yes, hang it all, get out Blackadder, and stop

corking our juices.

E: Certainly, Your Highness. I'll leave you to dribble in private.

The Kitchens

------------

(Blackadder enters, fuming, and kicks a bucket down the stairs.)

B: Is something wrong, Mr. B.?

E: (angrily) I just about had it up to here with at that Prince. One more

insult, and I'll be handing in my notice.

B: Oh, does that mean I'll be butler?

E: Not unless some kindly passing surgeon cut your head open with a spade

and sticks a new brain in it.

B: Oh, right.

E: I don't know *why* I put up with it. I really don't. Every year at the

Guild of Butlers' Christmas Party, I'm the one who has to wear the red

nose and the pointy hat for winning the "Who's-Got-The-Stupidest-

Master" Competition. Well, all I can say is, he'd better watch out!

One more foot wrong and the contract between us will be as broken as

this milk-jug.

B: But that milk-jug isn't broken.

E: You really do walk into these things, don't you. (Smashes the milk-jug

on Baldrick's head.)

The Prince's Lounge

-------------------

(The Prince is practicing his heroic stance and face.)

M: Excellent. And now, sir, at last, the speech.

PR: Right. (unfolds his speech and prepares to read it) Ahemm..

K: No, no, no, no... Your Royal Highness. What have you forgotten?

PR: Oh now look, if I stand any more heroically than *this*, I'm in danger

of seriously disappointing my future Queen.

K: No, no, Your Highness, not the stance... the *roar*.

PR: You want me to roar?

M: Well, of course we wish you to roar. All the great orators roar before

commencing with their speeches. It is the way of things. Ah, Mr.

Keanrick, from your Hamlet, please.

K: Hh-hmm... (orates) OOOOoooohhhhh... To be or not to be.

M: From your Julius Caesar.

K: OoooHHHHOOOOHHH... Friends, Romans, countrymen...

(Blackadder enters, carrying a tray.)

M: From your leading character, in a play connected with Scotland.

E: That's *Macbeth*, isn't it?

As: Aahhhhh! Hot potato, off his drawers, pluck to make amends. Owwwwww,

oh, oww..

M: (very nasally) Let's all roar together, shall we? One, two, three...

(The actors and the Prince roar - the Prince's roar being louder and

embarrassingly long.)

K: Excellent, Your Highness. Now shall we try putting it all together?

PR: (adopts his heroic stance, screws up his face) RRROOOAAAAHHHHHHhhh...

(glances at his speech) Unaccustomed as I am to public speaking...

K: No, no, no, alas, I fear you mew it like a frightened tree. May I see

the speech? (the actors mutter together, laughing) Who wrote this

dribble?

(All look at Edmund.)

E: Is there a problem with the speech?

(The actors laugh.)

PR: Well, yes, there is a problem, actually. The problem is that you wrote

it, Mr. Hopelessly-Drivelly-Can't-Write-For-Toffee-Crappy-Butler-Weed!

(The actors laugh again. There is a long pause, then Blackadder drops his

tray, obviously insulted.)

E: Whoops!

The Kitchens

------------

B: They want their supper, sir?

E: Yes, preferably something that has first passed through the digestive

system of the cat. And you'll have to take it up yourself.

B: Why?

E: Because I'm leaving, Baldrick. I'm about to enter the job market.

(reads the newspaper) Right, let's see... Situations vacant: Mr. and

Mrs. Pitt are looking for a baby-minder to take Pitt the Younger to

Parliament... there's a fellow called George Stevenson has invented a

moving kettle... wants someone to help with the marketing... oh, and

there's a foreign opportunity here. Treacherous, malicious,

unprincipled cad, preferably non-smoker, wanted to be King of

Sardinia. No time wasters please. By Napoleon Bonaparte, PO Box 1,

Paris. Right! We're on our way!

The Prince's Dining Room

------------------------

M: Oh, ah, sir... about costume. Any thoughts?

PR: Well, enormous trousers, certainly. And I thought perhaps an Admiral's

uniform, because we know what all the nice girls love, don't we?

(They all laugh.)

PR: I'll tell you what, why don't I go and try them on for you?

M: Oh, super.

G: Help yourselves to wine. You'll need a stiff drink when you see the

size of these damn trousers!

(The actors laugh again. The Prince leaves; the laughter dies abruptly.)

K: Oh, my dear, what a ghastly evening!

M: You're so right, love.

K: Look, while he's gone, why don't we have a quick read-through of "The

Murder of Prince Romero and His Enormous-Bosomed Wife"?

M: Act 1, Scene 1?

K: Hmmm.

M: Spring has come, with all its gentle showers. Methinks it's time to

hack the Prince to death.

The Kitchens

------------

E: Baldrick, I would like to say how much I will miss your honest and

friendly companionship.

B: Aaahh, thank you Mr. B.

E: But as we both know, it'll be an utter lie. I will therefore confine

myself to saying simply, "Sod off," and if I ever meet you again,

it'll be twenty billion years too soon.

(Blackadder walks out of the room...)

B: Goodbye, you lazy big-nosed, rubber-faced bastard.

(...but not out of earshot; he comes back in. Baldrick looks worried.)

E: I fear, Baldrick, that you will soon be eating those badly chosen

words. I wouldn't bet you a single groat that you can survive five

minutes here without me.

B: Oh come on, Mr. B., it's not as though we're gonna get murdered or

anything the minute you leave, is it?

E: Hope springs eternal, Baldrick.

(Blackadder leaves; the bell rings.)

B: Coming!

The Prince's Dining Room

------------------------

(The actors are still rehearsing their play. Baldrick opens the door and

listens.)

K: Oooooaaahhh, let's kill the Prince. Who will strike first?

M: Let me, and let this dagger's point prick out his soft eyeball and sup

with glee upon its exquisite jelly.

K: Have you the stomach?

M: I have not killed him yet, sir, but when I do, I shall have the

stomach and the liver, too, and the floppily-doppolies in their horrid

glue.

K: If a servant shall hear us in our plotting?

M: Ah ha! Then shall we have servant sausages for tea!

K: And servant rissoles shall our supper be!

(Baldrick runs off in terror, in search of the Prince.)

The Prince's Dressing-room

--------------------------

B: (shouting) Murder! Murder! The Revolution's started!!

PR: (wearing a huge pair of trousers) What?!

B: A plot, a plot to kill you!

PR: Ah, so you've come clean at last, have you, you bloody little poor

person!

B: No, look, the actors downstairs, they're anarchists!

PR: Anarchists!?

B: Yeah, I heard them plotting. They're gonna poke out your liver, turn

me into rissole, and suck on your exquisite floppily-doppolies!

PR: Oh, what are we going to do?

B: Well, Mr. Blackadder says, "when the going gets tough, the tough hide

under the table".

PR: Blackadder, of course! Where is he?

B: Oh, he's in Sardinia.

PR: What? Why?

B: You were rude to him, so he left.

PR: Oh no! What a mad, blundering, incredibly handsome nincompoop I've

been! What are we to do? If we go downstairs, they'll chop us up and

eat us alive! We're doomed, doomed!

(Baldrick whines. Suspense music strikes up...)

PR: SHhh! Oh...

(Baldrick whimpers. We hear footsteps, getting closer. Baldrick and

George clutch each other. There is a creak, just before... Blackadder

enters.)

E: Good evening, Your Highness.

PR: Oh, Blackadder.

E: Four minutes, twenty-two seconds, Baldrick. You owe me a groat.

PR: Thank God you're here! We desperately need you!

E: Who, me, sir? Mr. Thicky-Black-Thicky-Adder-Thicky?

PR: Oh tish!

E: Mr. Hopelessly-Drivelly-Can't-Write-For-Toffee-Crappy-Butler-Weed?

PR: Yes, I'm...

E: Mr. Brilliantly-Undervalued-Butler who hasn't had a raise in a

fortnight?

PR: Take an extra thousand? Guineas? Per month?

E: All right. What's your problem?

PR: Well look, the actors have turned out to be vicious anarchists! They

intend to kill us all!

E: What, are they going to *bore* us to death?

PR: No, no, no, stab us! Baldrick overheard them.

B: I did!

E: Are you sure they meant it, sir?

PR: Quite sure, Baldrick, how far apart were their legs?

B: Oh, this far. (spreads his legs)

PR: And their nipples?

B: That far. (indicates on his chest)

E: Alright, sir, I'll see what I can do.

The Prince's Dining Room

------------------------

M: To torture him, I lust. Let's singe his hair, and up his nostrils hot

bananas thrust.

E: Rehearsal's going well, gentlemen?

M: Begone. A mere butler with the intellectual capacity of a squashed

apricot can be of no use to us.

K: Indeed yes, sir. Your participation is as irritating as a potted

cactus in a monkey's pajamas.

E: Well, in that case, I won't interrupt you any longer. Sorry to disturb

you.

The Prince's Dressing-room

--------------------------

(Baldrick and the Prince are cowering under the table.)

PR: Blackadder, thank God you're safe! Well, what happened?

E: Sir, there was no need to panic. It was all perfectly straightforward.

PR: Well?

E: They're traitors, sir. They must be arrested, brutally tortured and

executed forthwith.

PR: Bravo! (bangs his head under the table)

The Prince's Lounge

-------------------

(Later. The actors are tied up with two Guards holding them.)

M: But Your Highness, there's been a terrible mistake.

E: That's what they were bound to say, sir.

K: It was a play, sir, a play! Look, all the words you heard written down

on that page.

E: Textbook, stuff again, you see. The criminals' vanity always makes

them make one tiny, but fatal, mistake. Theirs was to have their

entire conspiracy printed and published in plain manuscript. (to

Guards) Take them away!

As: Mercy, we beg for mercy... please sir.

E: I have got only one thing to say to you... *Macbeth*!

As: Aahhhhh! Hot potato, off his drawers, pluck to make amends...

(The actors are led out.)

PR: Well done, Bladder! How can I ever thank you?

E: Well, you can start by not calling me "Bladder", sir. (calls out)

Macbeth!

(Distant sounds of the actors' ritual drift in from outside...)

PR: Of course, Bladder. No sooner said than done. No hard feelings?

E: No sir. It's good to be back in the saddle. Did I say saddle? I mean

harness.

PR: Bravo! So we're the best of friends as ever we were.

E: Absolutely sir.

PR: Hurrah!

E: In fact now with the evil Mossop and Keanrick have got their

comeuppance, the Drury Lane Theatre is free. I thought we might

celebrate by staging a little play that I've written.

PR: Oh, what an excellent idea! And with my new found acting skills, um,

might there be a part in it for me, do you think?

E: I was hoping you might play the title role, sir.

PR: What a roaringly good idea! What's the play called?

E: Thick Jack Clot Sits in the Stocks and Gets Pelted with Rancid

Tomatoes.

PR: Excellent!

For the

BENEFIT of SEVERAL VIEWERS

MR. CURTIS & MR. ELTON'S

Much admir'd Comedy

B L A C K A D D E R

T h e T H I R D

OR

SENSE and SENILITY

was performed with appropriate Scenery Dresses etc.

by

EDMUND BLACKADDER,

butler to the Prince,

Mr. ROWAN ATKINSON

Baldrick, a dogsbody, Mr. TONY ROBINSON

The Prince Regent, their master, Mr. HUGH LAURIE

Keanrick, - thespians, Mr. HUGH PADDICK

Mossop, / Mr. KENNETH CONNOR

Mrs. Miggins, a coffee shoppekeeper,

Miss. HELEN ATKINSON-WOOD

Anarchist, Mr. BEN ELTON

MUSIC (never perform'd before), Mr. HOWARD GOODALL

designer of graphics, Mr. GRAHAM McCALLUM

buyer of properties, Miss. JUDY FARR

designer of costumes, Miss. ANNIE HARDINGE

designer of make-up, Miss. VICKY POCOCK

mixer of vision, Miss. HEATHER GILDER

supervisor of cameras, Mr. RON GREEN

editor of videotape, Mr. CHRIS WADSWORTH

director of lighting, Mr. RON BRISTOW

co-ordinator of technicalities, Mr. RAY HIDER

supervisor of sound, Mr. PETER BARVILLE

assistant to production, Miss. NIKKI COCKCROFT

assistant manager of floors, Mr. DUNCAN COOPER

manager of production, Miss. OLIVIA HILL

the designer, Mr. ANTONY THORPE

the director, Miss. MANDIE FLETCHER

the producer, Mr. LLOYD

To conclude with Rule Britannia in full chorus

NO MONEY RETURN'D

(C) BBC MCMLXXXVII

-- August 1992

-- Transcription SCHUYJUANNAH <V128JUXA@ubvms.cc.buffalo.edu>