Blackadder's Christmas Carol Page #7

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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.

All right. Whoo-oo.

Hail, Queen Asphyxia,

Supreme Mistress of the Universe.

And hail to you, my triple husbandoid.

I summon you here to groupgreet

our swift Imperial Navies home.

Approach, Grand Admiral of the Dark Segment

and Lord of the High-slung Bottoms of Zob.

Morning.

To you, Blackadder, Thrice-endowed

Supreme Donkey of the Trouserpod,

this much greeting.

I, too, Bold Navigator,

cringe my dribblies

at your resplendent pofflesnood.

That won't be necessary, thank you.

Approach, your slave, Baldrick.

For God's sake, if you're going

to wear that ridiculous jockstrap,

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