Blackadder's Christmas Carol Page #6

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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.

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