[entering with a letter] Mr. Blackadder?
Leave me alone, Baldrick. If I wanted to talk to a vegetable, I'd have bought one at the market.
Don't you want this letter, then?
No, thank you. God, I'm wasted here. It's no life for a man of noble blood, being servant to a master with the intellect of a jugged walrus and all the social graces of a potty!
I'm wasted too. I've been thinking of bettering myself.
Oh really, how?
I applied for the job of village idiot of Kensington.
Oh. Get anywhere?
I got down to the last two, but I failed the final interview.
Oh, what went wrong?
I turned up. The other bloke was such an idiot, he forgot to.
Yes, I'm afraid my ambitions stretch slightly further than professional idiocy in West London. I want to be remembered when I'm dead. I want books written about me. I want songs sung about me. And then, hundreds of years from now, I want episodes of my life to be played out weekly at half past nine by some great heroic actor of the age.
Yeah, and I could be played by some tiny tit in a beard.
Quite. Now, what's this message?
I thought you didn't want it.
Well, I may do, it depends what it is.
So you do want it?
Well, I don't know, do I? It depends what it is.
[frantically] Well, I can't tell you what it is unless you want to know, and you said you didn't want to know, and now I'm so confused, I don't know where I live or what my name is!
Your name is of no importance, and you live in the pipe in the upstairs water closet. [opens the envelope] Oh god. Was the man who gave you this, by any chance, a red-headed lunatic with a kilt and a claymore?
Yeah, and the funny thing is he looked exactly like you.
My mad cousin MacAdder. The most dangerous man ever to wear a skirt in Europe.
Yeah, he come in here playing the bagpipes, then he made a haggis, sang Auld Lang Syne and punched me in the face.
Why?
'Cos I called him a knock-kneed Scottish pillock.
An unwise move, Baldrick, since Mad MacAdder is a homicidal maniac.
My mother told me to stand up to homicidal maniacs.
Yes, if this is the same mother who confidently claimed you were a tall, handsome stallion of a man, I would treat her opinions with great care.
I love my mum.
And I love chops and sauce, but I don't seek their advice. I hate it when MacAdder turns up. He's such a frog-eyed, beetle-browed basket case.
He's the spitting image of you.
No he's not! We're about as similar as...two completely dissimilar things in a pod! [opens the letter] What's the old tartan throwback banging on about this time? "Have come south for rebellion." Oh god, surprise, surprise. "Staying with Miggins. The time has come. Best sword in Scotland. Insurrection, blood, large bowl of porridge. Rightful claim to throne." He's mad. He's mad! He's madder than Mad Jack McMad, the winner of this year's Mister Madman competition! [the service bell rings] Ah, the walrus awakes.
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