I don't own both
those wonder about Squaddie and those never heard, they're part of Extended Railway Series
Episode Two
Born to be King
An green-faced, kilt-clad Scotsman sends waves of shock through the court of Sodor with his treachery, murder and Scottish dancing.
Guest Starring
Niel the Box Tank Engine as Lord Neil the Duke of Ballaswein
Cranky the Crane as Jumping Jew of Jerusalem
Fergus Duncan the Small Controller as Sir Fergus Duncan of Arlesdale
Bill the Tank Engine Twin as 2nd Wooferoonie
Ben the Tank Engine Twin as 3rd Wooferoonie
Harold the Helicopter as Messenger
Caption: In 1486, the second year of Gordon IV's historic reign and also the year in which the egg replaced the worm as the lowest form of currency, King Gordon departed Sodor on a Crusade against the Germans.
King: As the good Lord said: "Love thy neighbour as thyself, unless he's German, in which case, kill the bastard!"
Caption: He left behind him his beloved son Prince Edward to rule as Regent in his stead. (Edward looks as though he doesn't quite remember the line about thy neighbour in those words.)
King: Farewell, dear Edward.
Edward: Farewell, Father.
Caption: ...and his slimy son Thomas to do the tasks most befitting him.
King: Edward... (rides off)
Oliver: My Lord, with the King gone...
Thomas: Hmmm? Of course! At last, a chance for some real power! (laughs in his ridiculous-sounding evil way)
**Caption: Twelve months later**
(Thomas is on horseback, with his sword raised in the air. He shouts.)
Thomas: On! Onward! I want you scum back to the castle by sundown, or you'll all be slaughtered! Onward!
(sounds of 'Baaa' are heard as Thomas speaks to his flock of sheep, in heavy snowfall)
Thomas: Come on! Come on! Keep going! I've just about had enough of you!
Sheep: Bbbbaaaaa!
Thomas: Shut up!
Sheep: Bbaaaa! (They begin to run.)
Thomas: Come on! No, that's not the way you're going. Stop! Where are you going? No, not away from the castle!
Sheep: Bbbaaa!
Thomas: Shut up!
(cut to room in the castle)
Edward: (standing by the fire, reading a note) Splendid! Splendid!
(Thomas enters the adjacent hallway)
Thomas: (to sheep) Now look, you're not supposed to be here. That's far enough, now get out! (shuts door, begins to walk down the hallway) If I could get my hands on that bastard brother, Edward...
Edward: Ah, Thomas! (Thomas stops dead in his tracks in surprise, then continues walking, as though not hearing, behind a bit of wall). Thomas? (Thomas reappears, in the next doorway) Ah, there you are. Splendid news, Thomas - Father's coming home! He writes here that he'll be back by St. Hatt's Day. Excellent! So we can celebrate both events together!
(Thomas has just got to the fire, but now Edward pulls him aside, across the room. Thomas tries to turn toward the fire, but to no avail. He is frozen stiff.)
Edward: Now then, I shall handle the visiting royalty, of course, er, the guards of honour, and the papal legate; and you can, er, you can sort out the frolicks.
Thomas: The frolics?
Edward: Yes, the Morris Dancers, the fatties, and the bearded women - you know: the traditional St. Hatt's Day entertainments. Oh damnation, though, I don't think I'm going to have enough time to attend to the drains. Thomas, you'll have to look into those as well.
Thomas: (shivering from cold) Oh, er, yes, fine, fine. I'd, I'd be honoured.
Edward: Good. You won't let me down, now, will you?
Thomas: No, no, no, no. I'm, I'm really looking forward to it already. Thank you so very much.
Edward: Splendid! (exits)
(Thomas is in the room alone)
Thomas: (returning to the fire) Twelve months of chasing sheep and straightening the royal portraits, and now this! The bastard! The BASTARD!
(enter Oliver)
Oliver: If only he were, My Lord.
Thomas: What?! (dramatic organ music begins)
Oliver: If only he were a bastard, My Lord, then you would be Regent now.
Thomas: Ah, yes. And then, one day...
(enter Lord Percy)
Percy: You would be King, My Lord.
Thomas: Ah yes, yes. I would be King! And then what?
Oliver: (puts his hands together, then moves them apart, making \ a large globe motion) You'd rule the world, My Lord! \
Percy: (moves an outstretched arm across a flat plane) /
You'd rule the world, My Lord! /
Thomas: Precisely! It's just not fair, you know. Every other damn woman in the court has bastard sons, but not my mother, oohhh no... She's so damn pure, she'd hate to look down in case she notices her own breasts.
(cut to hallway outside the throne room. Thomas's mother, the Queen, speaks to Countess Isabella.)
Emily: You must be so looking forward to the King's return, Your Majesty.
Queen: (surprised at the remark) No.
Emily: No, My Lady? But think: he will come to your chamber and make mad, passionate love to you!
Queen: Yes, I wish he wouldn't do that. It's very difficult to sleep with that kind of thing going on, you know; being used all night long, like the outside of a sausage roll...
Emily: Well with Neil with him so no worries, and we've got the St. Hatt's Day celebrations to look forward to: the jesters, the jugglers...
Queen: The great brown ox steaming and smouldering all night long...
Emily: (excited) Oh yes - the feast!
Queen: Sorry? No, I was thinking of something else.
Emily: I particularly hope they've got the Morris dancers. I *love* them.
Queen: Yes. I like the fatties.
Emily: Oh yes, the fatties! Ah, I wish I owned one.
Queen: I wish I'd married one.
(cut to Thomas's quarters)
Thomas: (speaking to a woman who looks very apologetic) No, no; fine, fine; it could've happened to anyone. Never mind, never mind. (shuts door) Oh, God, I don't believe it. We've only got one act, and she shaved her beard off.
Percy: There's always the fatties, My Lord.
Thomas: Oh yes, so? The fatties and the Amazing Beardless Woman. What a show! Percy, there must be someone else, there must be! Look...
(they look through some papers on the desk)
Percy: Ah, there's The Jumping Jews of Jerusalem, My Lord.
Thomas: What do they do?
Percy: (as though that was a silly question) They jump, My Lord.
Thomas: What?
Percy: They come in, My Lord, and they jump ... a lot. It's a humourous act.
Thomas: Nah dah dah! There must be something else, surely! Ah, what's this? " 'The Death of the Ceaser': Sir Fergus Duncan and His Magnificent Wooferoonies perform the tragic ancient Roman masterpiece, 'The Death of the Ceaser'." Well, that sounds funny.
Percy: No, no, no - I find that very moving, My Lord.
Thomas: Well, it better be funny, or Prique will get his come-uppance, I can tell you. Now, book him.
Oliver: My Lord, what about McColl and His Six Thousand Spartan Chickens Vs Trotter's Million Persian Chickens.
Thomas: (sarcastic) What do they do? Lay eggs?
Oliver: Yes, My Lord. But they recreate the Battle of Thermopylae, chicken style.
Thomas: (desperate) Oh, all right, all right, we'll have them, we'll have them.
(There's a knock at the door. Percy opens it to find the messenger holding out a note.)
Messenger: M'Lord...
(Percy takes the note and slams the door in the messenger's face. He gives the note to Thomas, who opens it, reads it, and closes it.)
Percy: Wha- what is it, My Lord?
Thomas: (slowly, seriously) The fatties have cancelled.
Oliver: Oh dear.
Thomas: Ha! I should have known - never trust a fatty!
Percy: What are we going to do?
Thomas: Well, I know what I'm going to do. Oliver, give me an execution order. I'm gonna teach them a lesson they'll never forget. I'll remove whatever extra parts of their bodies still remain.
(Thomas makes out the order, and goes to the door. Upon opening it, he finds the messenger still waiting for his tip, holding out his hand.)
Messenger: M'Lord . . .
Thomas: Take that to Lord Chancellor, thank you. (Puts the order in the messenger's hand then slams the door) Oh God, this is desperate! Desperate!
Percy: We could have the Morris dancers, My Lord.
Thomas: Now look, we are not *that* desperate! Jim dancing is the most fatuous tantuate entertainment ever devised by man - forty effeminate blacksmiths waving bits of cloth they've just wiped their noses on... How it's still going on in this day and age, I'll never know.
Percy: (confused) Sorry, so do you want them or not?
(Thomas hits Percy over the head with a scrolled paper as Edward enters.)
Edward: Ah, Thomas!
(Thomas begins jumping, hitting Percy and himself with the paper, looking like a Jim dance. Percy and Oliver join in, all of them hitting each other on the head with bits of paper.)
Thomas: ...and rest.
Edward: (applauds) Oh, splendid! and how are the rest of the entertainments coming along?
Thomas: Erm, very very well indeed. Umm, I think it's going to have a slightly Elite look.
Edward: What, Spartan?
Thomas: Er...yes, that's right. Yes, um...Spartan.
Edward: Oh good. Everyone turning up?
Thomas: Oh absolutely everyone. So many people in fact, I'm afraid I've had to let the fatties go.
Edward: Oh no no no no no no!
Thomas: No?
Edward: No! That won't do at all - not on St. Hatt's Day, because, well correct me if I'm wrong, Lord Percy, but, er, St. Hatt himself was fatty.
(Thomas, behind Edward, shakes his had 'No' at Percy.)
Percy: (obeys Thomas's head movement, but knows the correct answer) Yyyyyes, that's right.
(Edward, confused at why Percy was shaking his head, turns back to Thomas, who, still shaking his head, suddenly hits himself on the head with the paper, as though he was just dancing again.)
Thomas: Well, that's why I thought it might be more tactful if-
Edward: Oh no no no no no no no. To leave out the fatties on St. Hatt's Day would be like, well, it would be like leaving out the Jim dancers, or the bearded women!
(Thomas, Percy and Oliver all pretend to laugh at the absurd thought)
Edward: Besides, Lord Neil, the King's Supreme Commander, is expected at the feast, and, as you know, fatties are his particular favourite.
Thomas: (confused) Hmm?
Edward: He's Scottish, you see.
Thomas: Ahhhh!
Edward: Good, good. Well, I'm relying on you, Thomas. Carry on. (exits)
Thomas: So! Some spinach-faced, thistle-arse Scottish orangutan wants a fatty, does he?
Percy: Apparently he's a great warrior, My Lord...
Thomas: Yes, that's what they all say, those Scots. They're just barbarians! Half of them can't even speak Sudairn.
Oliver: What do they speak?
Thomas: I don't know - it's all Viking to me.
Percy: They speak Viking?
Thomas: No, I mean it sounds like Viking.
Percy: Well, if sounds like Viking, it probably is Viking.
Thomas: It's not Viking!
Percy: ...but it sounds like Viking. "What's not Viking but sounds like Viking?" That's a good one, My Lord!
Thomas: Look, it's not meant to be a brainteaser, Percy! I'm simple telling you that I cannot understand a blind word they're saying!
Percy: Well, no wonder, My Lord - you never learned Greek, of course.
Thomas: (calmly) Percy, have you ever wondered what your insides look like?
Percy: Sometimes, My Lord, yes.
Thomas: (holds up a knife, shouts) Then I'd be perfectly willing to satisfy your curiosity! Is that clear? Is it? Oh my God, this Scotsman's beginning to annoy me already. I'm the Duke of Ffarquhar, you know, and Laird of Ulfstead, Hackenback and Rocks. I can make things very difficult for him. As for these entertainments, oh, I don't know...
Oliver, you've got a beard - go and get yourself a nice dress.
Oliver: (excited) Oh, great, My Lord! (exits)
Thomas: Percy, you'd better go and get Henry the Bear Baiter...
Percy: Yes, My Lord. (begins to leave)
Thomas: ...looks like we'll be needing him. Oh, and, Percy...
Percy: Yes, My Lord?
Thomas: Tell him to bring Bear this time. (Percy leaves; Thomas speaks to himself) Derek last year was pathetic; always hissing, puking, exploding diarrhea, farting, belching and act like dogs with rabies!
(in the dining room)
Edward: (stands) Now then, Mother: a toast to Father's return.
(a fanfare plays; enter a man, on horseback, wearing a horned helmet)
Edward: What the Britt?! (then he realizes who it is) It's Neil! (Queen is excited, too)
Queen: Neil!
(Neil dismounts, removes his helmet, giving it to a guard, then takes a couple bags from his horse, and approaches the table)
Neil: Noble Edward, Prince of Brendam, Neil greets you, and lays at your feet the spoils of an enemy at war.
(he dumps the contents of a bag on the table; a severed human head)
Neil: Oh, sorry - that's my overnight bag. (he dumps the other bag on the table; gold Germans goblets etc.) Behold! Treasures torn from the homes of the Germans!
Edward: Oh, Neil! It fills me with joy and hope to see you! (they shake hands firmly) What news of my father, the King?
Neil: When I last saw him, he swore he would be back for the Feast of Hatt, or die in the attempt.
Edward: God forfend! We shall pray for his safe return. Join us! Join us! You must be starving.
Neil: (motions behind him) And young Lochenbaugh
Edward: (looking toward the doorway) Oh yes, and him too.
Neil: Come on, Lochenbaugh! (he leads his horse to the table; Queen is a bit shocked. He steps over the table and sits down beside Queen, where Edward had motioned for him to sit)
Neil: (to Queen) You must be the King's wee bit of rumpy-pumpy, eh?
Queen: (confused) I am the Queen.
Neil: Aye, aye. Listen, I got a message for you. My father asked me to send his regards to you.
Queen: Do I know him?
Neil: Oh, I think you can say that, yes - he's Neil, Third Duke of Ballaswein. (laughs)
Queen: (very shocked) Oh...
(There is an extremely poorly played fanfare; Thomas enters, sneering at the trumpeter)
Edward: Ah, Thomas, there you are. Neil, this is the man who's providing entertainments for us tomorrow.
Neil: Ah, the fatty! (hands Thomas a coin) Here's a goat for your trouble.
Thomas: (holding back his anger, which raises the pitch of his voice) Agghh, I am not a fatty.
Neil: You sound like one to me.
Thomas: (clears his throat) I am not a fatty. I am the Duke of Ffarquhar.
Neil: (chuckles) Oh, you are, are you?
Thomas: Yes!
Neil: (to Queen) Same old story, eh? The Duke of Ffarquhar's about as Scottish as the Queen of Sodor's tits!
(Queen is enormously shocked.)
Neil: Sorry - ahem, mere phrase, Your Majesty.
Thomas: I'm sorry, you're in my chair.
Neil: Don't apologise.
(Thomas is quite inflamed; he goes down to his knees (there are no chairs left).)
Edward: (stands, holding a large document) Well, now we've all got to know each other, I have rather a special announcement to make.
Neil: Don't tell me you're a fatty as well...!
Edward: Neil, as reward for your heroic deeds in battle, my father here empowers me to grant you anything that
you may desire of me.
Thomas: (sotto voice) If he's got any sense, he'll ask for a haircut.
Neil: (stands) My Lord, I'm honoured. All I ask for is a scrap of land. Grant me fair Ffarquhar, and the noble sire of Ulfstead..
Thomas: (stands) What?!
Edward: Very well. By the power invested in me-
Thomas: Er, excuse me... Erm, I'm sorry to dip my little fly in your ointment, but, er, those lands do, in fact, belong to me.
Edward: (as if to say 'So?') Yes?
Thomas: Well, so, perhaps, perhaps he'd like to choose somewhere else.
Edward: Neil?
Neil: No, no; I'll have Hackenback and Ulfstead.
Thomas: But that leaves me with Rock!
Neil: Oh, aye! and Rock.
Thomas: B- b- but...
Edward: Are you trying to say something, Thomas?
Thomas: Well, I don't know, I mean, some people might say, "Well! What an absurd idea, giving away half of Sodor to a kilted maniac for slaughtering a couple of syphilitic Germans!"
(Neil reaches across the table and grabs Thomas)
Thomas: Au contraire! I say, "Let's reward him."
Edward: Good, good! So be it! (him and Neil laugh and shake hands)
Thomas: (still being held firmly by Neil) Hurray!
(cut to Thomas's quarters. Oliver is in a dress and wig, twirling around in front of Percy, who nods; Thomas enters)
Thomas: I'm gonna kill him, and I'm gonna kill him now!
Percy: Who, My Lord?
Thomas: That stinking Scottish weasel!
Oliver: Why, My Lord?
Thomas: Because he's a thieving stinking Scottish weasel, that's why! (he goes to get a knife)
Percy: How?
Thomas: I'm gonna stab him!
Oliver: Where?
Thomas: In the Great Hall and in the bladder! (he begins to sharpen a knife)
Percy: But if you do it in front of everybody, won't they suspect something?
Thomas: Ah, yes - a drawback. Yes... Perhaps we need something a little more cunning.
Oliver: I have a cunning plan.
Thomas: Yes, perhaps, but I think I may have a more cunning one.
Oliver: Well, mine's pretty cunning, My Lord.
Thomas: Yes, but not cunning enough, I imagine.
Oliver: Well, that depends how cunning you mean, My Lord.
Thomas: Well, pretty damn cunning. How cunning do you think I mean?
Oliver: Well, mine's quite cunning, My Lord.
Thomas: (fed up) Alright, then, let's hear it! Let's hear what's so damn cunning!
Oliver: Right, well, first of all, you get him to come with you-
Thomas: Oh yes, very cunning. Brilliantly cunning. I ask him to come with me and then...then stab him, perhaps. How cunning can you get?
Oliver: No, My Lord - you get this enormous great cannon-
Thomas: (as though the idea is ridiculous) Oh, I see, I take him outside, get him to stick his head down a cannon and then blow it off.
Oliver: (simultaneously) ...blow it off! Yeah!
Thomas: Oh, yes, Oliver, that's (thinks about it) ...that's a wonderful idea. No! I think I have a plan that will give us a little more *entertainment*. (laughs)
(Thomas looks out the window, and sees Neil leave. He goes outside and a woman riding a horse, sidesaddle. He bows to her, then grabs her feet and pushes her off the mount. He then follows the Scotsman, who is out for a hunt. Thomas sneaks up behind, but gets caught in Neil' animal snare.)
Thomas: Aaahhhhh! (now he's hanging upside-down)
Neil: (without looking) Can I help you?
Thomas: Um, no, no. I'm fine, thank you.
Neil: Good.
(long pause)
Thomas: I'm not in your way over here, am I?
Neil: No.
Thomas: Oh, there is just, er, one thing. Um...I was wondering if you could do me a little favour.
Neil: (finally stands up and turns to Thomas) Uh huh?
Thomas: Erm, I was wondering if you'd like to help with the celebrations tonight.
Neil: How? By staying away, d'you mean?
(Thomas chuckles a bit, then starts to scream as Neil raises an axe. Neil chops Thomas's bindings; Thomas falls to the forest floor, and remains lying there, trying to look casual.)
Thomas: Erm, well, the thing is: um, we were hoping to present a mystery play by one of our leading Thespianic troupes, erm, but, unfortunately, one of their number is ill, erm, and I thought you'd be the perfect person to (stands) ... to take his place.
Neil: Well, I warn you (he swipes down at the ground, killing a badger): I'm no actor.
Thomas: Well, there shouldn't be much acting required. (Neil tosses the creature's corpse aside) Erm, it's an ancient Roman piece, er, called 'The Death of the Scotsman'.
Neil: I'll have a crack at it. (throws a knife; a creature releases a short scream before dying)
Thomas: You...you could play the Scotsman, if you like, who...who dies at the end of the play.
Neil: Oh! Acting dead! Now that I can do. (walks off)
Thomas: Yes, well, as I say: there...there may not be much acting required.
(grins evilly to himself, then walks off a bit proudly)
Neil: Oh, and er, mind the weasel pit.
Thomas: (falls in) Aaahhhhh!
(cut to the entertainments. The Jumping Jews are jumping, all at apparently different rhythms, despite the rhythmic twang of a Jew's harp. Edward and Queen look bored. Thomas takes a bit of cloth backstage, checks that no-one is looking, then replaces the fake, sliding-blade knives for the play with real ones, which were wrapped in the cloth he was carrying. After wrapping up the fake knives, he whispers to Percy, who takes the cloth-wrapped fake knives away. Then Thomas tests the real knives by sticking one into the , but he's unable to pull it out. He turns around, hiding the real knife stuck in the table, as Fergus and his Wooferoonies arrive, waving their arms in the air.)
Fergus: Tall trees! Let's see those branches waving and swaying in the breeze. Taller, taller, taller. Now smaller!
(they all crouch down) Small trees, very small...
Thomas: Ah, Sir Fergus! Have you made the necessary changes?
Fergus: Yes, My Lord.
(Thomas finally pulls out the knife, but his energy propels him into Prique and the Wooferoonies. He does conceal the knife, though, as Neil enters, wearing a ceaser's headdress and carrying an Roman cane-thing.)
Thomas: Ah! Neil! Meet your murderers.
(Fergus and the Wooferoonies continue their warmup - crouching down and then rising while saying a slow 'Woof!' Neil looks a bit baffled. The Jumping Jews finish their act, and get very little applause. They go backstage, where Fergus is singing a 'mi'. One of the Wooferoonies stops one of the Jews.)
Wooferoonie (1): How did it go?
Jumping Jew: Er, not bad. (He removes his false beard to reveal his real beard underneath.) But, er, you know, I don't really think they understood it.
(Fergus and the Wooferoonies sheath their knives and begin the play.)
Fergus: A man with most bold intent...
Wooferoonie (1): Here by the traveller of the graceful Tiberus...
Prique: Where horses ride and river blow...
Fergus(2): To spill the blood of this Scotsman vile...
Queen: (to Edward) What is a Scotsman doing in Rome?
Edward: I'm not sure, but apparently they've had very good reviews.
(backstage)
Neil: (to Thomas) You see your mother there? I met my father on my way back from France. Apparently, him and your mother used to (he bends his arm with a clenched fist) way-hey-hey!
Thomas: Look, don't be absurd; such activities are totally beyond my mother. My father only got anywhere with her because he told her it was a cure for diarrhoea.
Neil: Don't you believe it. I got some letters I took from him, and – by Awdry! - they're hot stuff! I tell you, they certainly cast a wee shadow of doubt over the patronage of young Edward for a start!
Thomas: Look, don't be absu- (he realises what that would mean)
(meanwhile, on stage)
Wooferoonie (1): Silence!
Thomas: (to Neil backstage) What?!
Wooferoonie (2): Listen! A bagpipe strums. Behold! This way our victim comes. For never was there a tyrant (...) \
(backstage)
Neil: Oh that's my cue! I'm on! /
Thomas: Letters? Letters? Where are these letters?
Neil: They're safely hidden away. I'll show you them later. (goes on stage)
Thomas: Oh, all right. (realises that won't be possible) \
(play)
Wooferoonie (1): (...) the shadow of yonder mighty Fen Ness! /
Wooferoonie (the other): Mine McPerson, you come not a wait too soon; for is this not the weather fair for this, the ides of June?
(one of the audience shakes his head at the horrible acting and/or nonsense dialogue)
Neil: (acting really badly) Aye, it is. What business do you mean?
(backstage, Thomas is desperate. He comes up behind Percy and Oliver, who watch the play through peepholes, eagerly awaiting the murder)
Thomas: Quick! Oh my God! Neil is going to die!
Percy: And not a moment too soon!
Oliver: Spinach-faced orangutan!
Percy: Theiving Scots weasel!
Oliver and Percy: Death to the Scot!
Thomas: No, no! Look, he knows too much!
Percy: (dramatically) That is why he must die!
Thomas: No, he musn't! He musn't! He has vital information. I've changed my mind! I've changed my mind! Oh my God! What am I going to do?
Oliver: Er, stop the show, My Lord.
Thomas: How? How?
Percy: Just say 'Stop!'
Thomas: What's our reason? What's our reason for stopping the show?
Percy: Because the knives are real and Neil is just about to get killed.
Thomas: Oh, you bastard! (He picks up a knife and stabs Percy - but it's one of the fake knives. He then gets an idea.)
Oliver: Go on, My Lord! Quick!
(Thomas hurriedly fits the cloth over his head in an Roman fashion, and prances on stage just as Prique and the Wooferoonies are about to very dramatically stab Neil.)
Thomas: Stop! (trying to act) Sorry I'm late. (stabs Neil)
(confused pause)
(Thomas stabs Neil again)
(confused pause)
(Thomas pushes Neil)
Neil: Oh, aye! (falls over) Auugh!
(Edward is extremely bored. Only the man who shook his head earlier, and one woman, applauds, very slowly, as though it's quite an effort to applaud something so awful.)
(Later, Neil shows the letters to Thomas, who laughs)
Thomas: Good, excellent! It's certainly my mother's handwriting. When did you say these were written?
Neil: Er, 1460.
Thomas: The year my brother was born... (laughs) Oliver, get in here! (Oliver enters) Oliver, get out there and tell everyone that the rest of the entertainments have been cancelled.
Oliver: Why?
Thomas: 'Why'? Because I told you to, you silly little rat!
Oliver: No - why have they been cancelled, My Lord?
Thomas: Oh, I see. Well, tell them I have a very important announcement to make. (laughs)
Oliver: Does that mean I have to take the dress off?
Thomas: Oh get out, get out, get out! Out out out out!
(as Oliver leaves, Neil reaches between Oliver's legs from behind)
Neil: Y'know, if you played your cards right, you could become King.
Thomas: Ah yes, one day.
Neil: Ah, sooner than you think, maybe. The last time I saw your father, he'd just charged at Berlin when they shut the gates on him.
Thomas: (excited) Oh?
Neil: Yes. Ten thousand of the Germans were there armed with axes, and your father with a small knife for peeling fruit.
(Thomas can barely contain himself, covering his mouth as he giggles.)
(Back at the entertainments, men on stage shoos away their million and six thousand chickens, who have just laid eggs and clucking wildly for preparedness of combat.)
Edward: Jerry Seinfield... another nail in the coffin of variety.
Queen: I liked Henry the Bear Baiter!
Thomas: (arriving on stage with Percy and Neil) Thank you, thank you.
Edward: Look, Thomas, is this announcement going to take long? I haven't seen hide nor shine of a fatty yet.
Thomas: Oh, don't worry, Edward - it will soon all be over. My dear mother, my dear brother, lords and ladies of the court: Today, there came into my possession, from the hands, My Lord, of your faithful servant, Neil, certain letters - rather extraordinary letters – concerning the lineage of Prince Edward.
Queen: L- l- letters? What is so extraordinary about them?
Edward: Letters?
Thomas: Well, Edward, they were written by your mother to your father.
(Edward chuckles, no longer worrying)
Thomas: Your father, Edward, being, of course, Neil, Third Duke of Ballaswein.
(Queen is extremely shocked. Oliver puts a hand on her shoulder.)
Edward: I beg your pardon!
Thomas: These letters are of quite an intimate nature. Let me give you an example. (takes one from Percy, who mouths the words as Thomas reads) "Arundel; Thursday. My dear Hairy-wairy: Often when you sit at table with my husband, probing deeply into the affairs of state, I long for the day when you will probe deeply-"
(Queen is nearly fainting from shock)
Edward: Thomas! Are you sure you know what you are saying?
Thomas: As sure as our mother was, Edward, when she wrote these words:
(takes another one from Percy, who mouths again as Thomas reads)
"Dear Big-boy: Sail south! As you know, your galleon is always assured a warm welcome in *my* harbour."
Edward: "Big-boy"? Mother, do you know anything about this?
Queen: What chance did I have? I was just a little foreign girl.
Edward: Then I must renounce the Regency and hide me to a monastery. Thomas, you shall be Regent until ... *your* father returns.
Thomas: The King will not be returning.
Edward: WHAT?
Queen: (smiling) Oh dear.
Thomas: No, when Neil last saw him, he was facing half the German army, armed only with a small piece of cutlery. So, Percy, if you'd like to start things off... (he goes to stand where Edward was sitting)
Percy: (standing on a table) The King is dead! Long live the King! (people join in) The King is dead! Long live the King!
Edward: ...*probably* dead.
(the incidental music stops suddenly; pause)
Percy & all: The King is probably dead! Long live the King! The King is probably dead! Long live the King! The King is-
(King enters)
Percy & all: ...not dead! Long live the King!
(Everyone cheers. Percy gets down from the table.)
King: BLOOD! DEATH! WAR! RUMPY-PUMPY! TRIUMPH! (tosses down his lance, then sees Neil) Neil! (they embrace) My companion in blood, and most trusted friend!
Neil: You made it!
King: I made it, thanks to my trusty fruit knife! (runs the tiny knife his throat; laughs; then sees Thomas standing next to the Queen) Wait a minute! (climbs onto the table) What's going on here? (points at Thomas) Who are you?
Queen: He's our son.
King: What?! (does a bit of a double-take) Oh, yes! Of course - Timmy!
Thomas: My beloved father, certain letters have come to light which might change things a bit around here.
King: Letters? What letters?
Thomas: They speak of acts of love between your wife and Neil, the Gay Dog of the Glens. (reads) "How I long to be in that kingdom between the saffron sheets where you and your ruler are the only ruler."
(Queen nearly faints again)
Thomas: And then acts of love consummated, "Oh, you enormous Scotsman," et cetera. And these letters are dated November and December 1460, which, Edward, in relation to your date of birth, is precisely nine months-
Edward: ...*after* I was born!
Neil: (smiling) But about nine months before *your* birth, Thomas!
Thomas: YOU BASTARD!
Edward: No - I think *you're* the bastard, Thomas.
(everyone laughs)
King: Silence! I want an explanation!
Thomas: Er, My Liege, the reason I have gathered you all here today (he gathers the letters, and approaches Neil) is to try to get some proper justice meet out against this Scottish turd who has clearly forged these obviously fake letters!
King: Let me see them!
Thomas: No, I rip them up in his face so that no hint of their filthy slander can remain. (He has done so, and picks up a piece he dropped, then rushes to the fireplace and tosses them in. He then returns to Neil.) You come in here, fresh from slaughtering a couple of chocos when their backs were turned, and you think you can upset the harmony of a whole kingdom? I challenge you to a duel!
Neil: ...to the death!
Thomas: (weakly) Erm... yes, alright.
King: Excellent idea! After all, it is St. Hatt's Day - there's meant to be some entertainment! (laughs; climbs down to them) Good. Very good. Take your places.
(Thomas and Neil go to opposite ends of the stage, Thomas clearly muttering a prayer. King goes to Neil and rubs his lucky fruit knife along Neil' sword.)
King: It is nice to see old glen shear again, eh, Neil?
Neil: Yup and the human shishkebab! (he thrusts his sword straight up; he and King laugh)
King: How could I ever forget! (shouts) Very well! Let the killing begin!
(Thomas draws his sword, and sillily waves it about, trying to look like a skilled swordsman... One of the men at the tables sighs, his eyes rolling. As soon as Thomas stops moving his sword, Neil swings and slices the blade off.)
Neil: Let's see the Blue Adder wriggle out of this one! (puts his sword to Thomas's neck)
Thomas: Er, look...
(Neil pauses)
King: Come on! What's the hold up?
Thomas: Er, I'll give you everything I own! Everything!
Neil: Uh huh?
Thomas: I'm, I'm hardly a rich man.
King: You're hardly a man at all! (laughs)
Thomas: But, but my horse must be worth a thousand ducats. I can sell my wardrobe - the pride of my life - my swords, my curtains, my socks, and my fighting cocks. My servants I can live without, except perhaps he who oils my rack.
(King yawns)
Thomas: And then my most intimate treasures: my collection of antique codpieces, my wigs for state occasions, my wigs for private occasions, and my wigs - heh - for humourous occasions; my collection of pokers, my Grendel's stretchers, my ornamental pumphries, and, of course, my autographed miniature of Diesel.
Neil: (turns to the crowd and laughs) That's nowhere near enough!
(Neil prepares to thrust; Thomas covers his face; Neil then lowers his sword.)
Neil: Och, I'm only kiddin'! (mutters to Thomas) Actually, I'm quite interested in the wigs. (shouts something ("Well done, lad"); playfully hits Thomas in the arm, then walks over to King, but shouts back to Thomas, who slowly is leaving) Hey! I hope life doesn't become too dull now that you won't be able to pass laws over Scotland.
Thomas: (nods, then turns and speaks sotto voce) I wouldn't pass water over Scotland.
(cut to room outside the throne room. King is looking out the window, bored)
Edward: We're all terribly pleased you're back, Father.
King: I'm not. I miss the smell of blood in my nostrils, and the Queen's "got a headache."
Edward: Oh dear. But we do have a fascinating week ahead. In fact, the Archbishop of Wellsworth has asked me if you'd care to join his formation Italian dance class, and I really ought to give him an answer.
King: Do you want me to be honest or tactful?
Edward: Er, tactful, I think.
King: Tell him to get stuffed!
Edward: Ah, right.
King: Has the little hooligan Neil left?
Edward: No, Thomas's giving him a last look round the castle now.
(cut to outside, at the top of the castle. Thomas shows Neil the view from an archer's battlement, then turns away)
Thomas: ...while this... (shows Neil a cannon)
(cut back to King and Edward)
King: Well, I'll be sorry to see him go.
(back on the roof)
Neil: (with his head down the mouth of the cannon) Ah, very interesting.
(Thomas moves to behind the cannon)
(Back inside)
Edward: Yes, and so will Thomas - they've become firm friends.
(a very loud sound is heard from outside)
Edward: What the Britt?!
King: The Germans!
Edward: The drains!
(Thomas runs in)
Thomas: Father! Edward! There's been rather a nasty messy accident. You must come quickly!
Edward: Oh my God! I shall need my plunger! (rushes out, followed by King)
(Thomas jumps for joy)