Episode 1 Horrible Histories

# Terrible Tudors, gorgeous Georgians Slimy Stuarts, vile Victorians

# Woeful wars, ferocious fights Dingy castles, daring knights

# Horrors that defy description Cut-throat Celts, awful Egyptians

# Vicious Vikings, cruel crimes Punishment from ancient times

# Romans, rotten, rank and ruthless Cavemen, savage, fierce and toothless

# Groovy Greeks, brainy sages Mean and measly Middle Ages

# Gory stories, we do that And your host, a talking rat

# The past is no longer a mystery Welcome to...

# Horrible Histories. #

The Roman army defeated all who stood in their way

as they marched through Europe

and generals who were outstanding in battle

were honoured with a victory parade called a Roman Triumph.

-4,996.

-What are we on, Calculus?

4,996 barbarians killed, sir.

What about that one there with the axe?

-I can't give you that one, sir. He's still moving.

-You can now.

4,997.

This will be the first time I've ever killed 5,000 enemies

in one battle and qualified for a Roman Triumph.

Just need three more. Ha!

Two more and then yours truly will be parading

in a chariot through the streets of Rome

to the wild adulation of the crowd.

Oh, please. Oh, please.

-Ooh, is that one there?

-Yes, I'll give you that.

He's moving, but he's not going anywhere without his head. 4,999.

Get in! Come on!

One more.

The might of Rome is too much.

We surrender.

What's that? You refuse to surrender?

Carry on fighting, everyone.

The battle is over. You have won this day.

Ha, look he threw his weapons at me.

Fight on, men.

-No, General, he's surrendered.

-La, la, la. I can't hear you.

We can't keep fighting them if they've surrendered.

I only need one more death to get my Triumph, my parade.

Just write one down, will you? Look, that one looks dead there.

He's waving.

Are you going to help me or not?

I will not lie on my battle report.

You're either with me or against me.

Thank you.

And one more enemy dead, makes 5,000. Yay!

5,000.

Got 5,000.

-How did we lose to this lot?

-5,000, 5,000. Come on, everybody.

5,000.

If you were awarded a Roman Triumph,

you paraded through the streets of Rome on a chariot.

You can read all about it in a book.

That's right, a book.

An exciting new Roman invention.

Intuitive, revolutionary.

Ancient Rome is delighted to announce

the launch of the all new aBook, the take-anywhere reading solution.

aBook is amazing. Up until now the only way to get your

poetry to the masses was by writing it down on long, awkward scrolls.

Or by shouting really loud.

Now aBook has changed all that.

With new aBook you simply turn the page,

using the unique turnable pages to reveal new information.

By writing data on both sides of the page, new aBook holds

more information in less space than anything that's gone before.

What's more, the unique hardwearing cover means

your writing is safe from anything the Roman world might throw at it.

Well, within reason.

Incredibly clever yet incredibly simple,

aBook is the new book that rewrites the book on writing books.

-And coming soon from the makers of aBook, aNother Book.

-Oh, no.

I just got used to using this one and they're bringing another one out?

Typical. Ha-ha. Funny.

Bonjour and welcome to Middle Ages France.

Home to poor peasants like me and rich aristocrats like this prankster.

Woo-hoo! Hey. What's up, prank fans?

My name is Robert Artois and you are watching You've Been Artois'd.

The red-hot hidden camera show that is both wook and gnarly.

You see, I know those words. I am street, no? Woo-hoo, that's right.

OK, as usual we have rigged up

my beautiful French crib with the coolest, most up-to-date pranking

technologies the Middle Ages can offer.

All we need now is some friends to come round,

some dukes and duchesses, and then we crank up the pranks.

All right, top of the pops. Let's go.

Woo-hoo! Looks like we got a bite, my prank friends.

Right there is Angelina, she's a good friend of mine,

a real good friend of mine.

She's also a princess from the neighbouring county.

Awesome.

Woo-hoo. Now, what Angelina does not know is

I have buried this water pipe in the middle of my garden path.

It is specially designed to spray cold jets of water

up ladies' dresses.

Boom-boom bang-bang, baby.

Ssh.

SHE SCREAMS

Yeah! Woo-hoo! Ha, ha.

-You've been Artois'd.

-What?

-You've been Artois'd.

-What do you mean?

I mean you've been Artois'd, as in me, Robert of Artois. You know me?

We met at the Count De Crystal's dinner party.

You looked so beautiful that night...

That is not important. What's important is you've been Artois'd.

-Why do you keep saying that?

-Because you've been Artois'd, girl.

Woo-hoo. Look who else has popped by to say hi.

It's my main man, the Portuguese ambassador.

Boom, baby. It's my spitting statue. Ah, and he's fallen in the nettles.

Excellent. Time for me to go and say hello.

Ah, I will kill whoever did this.

Maybe I just leave it for a little bit, OK? OK.

Ssh.

Woo-hoo! Ha-ha.

My best blood the Lord D'Enfry has just been Artois'd.

You've been Artois'd.

I think I need a doctor. My leg is broken.

All right! Top of the pops.

OK, I think you will agree,

these dudes have made excellent sports, no?

Ha-ho! High five, big brother.

-Who are you?

-OK, then.

Next week we have more fun, we have more pranks...

-Ha, you've been Artois'ded.

-It's Artois'd. Artois'd, yeah?

No, that is not cool.

That is not cool.

I thought you were my friend.

Ah, this is the life, isn't it?

Me own boy joining me in the family business.

So proud of you, son.

Right, let's get cracking.

This poo isn't going to shift itself.

-Dad?

-Yes, son.

I'm not sure this job's for me.

Is it me? Is it my chatter? I know I can go on a bit.

No, Dad. It's not you.

-It's the poo.

-What about the poo?

-Don't tell me you can't smell it.

No.

If I'm honest, when you first told me I was going to be a gong farmer,

I pictured fields and fresh air.

-Not this.

-Look, gong means poo

and your family has been shovelling it up for generations.

Plus, you get sixpence a day and it's a regular nine-to-five job.

I mean, granted it is nine in the evening until five in the morning,

-but you can't have everything, can you son, eh?

-It's no good, Dad.

-Gong farming just isn't my thing.

-What are you going to do?

My friend's dad is taking me on as an apprentice. He's a tanner.

-A tanner?

-I'll learn how to make leather.

-What about the family business?

-I just don't want to work with poo.

That's it, lad. Shove the dead animal skin right into the poo, right down.

Smells like it needs a bit more chicken poo.

Did you know the stinky fumes were sometimes so bad that gong farmers

passed out and drowned in poo?

There's no nice way of writing that obituary, I can tell you.

There was no sewer system in Tudor times.

Instead, toilet waste collected in cesspits,

which sometimes had to be emptied out.

KNOCKING

Your Highness,

honour that cannot be expressed in words and joy that cannot be...

-Yes, yes. Do you have a toilet?

-Your Majesty?

Oh, come on, it's a perfectly simple question, Sir Thomas.

-Do you have a toilet?

-Yes, yes. It's up the stairs.

Excellent. Yes, this will do.

The toilets at Hampton Court

are having their annual clear-out, emptying out all of the um...

-Oh, what's that word that queens don't say?

-Poo, Your Majesty.

Exactly. The problem is it makes the palace

rather smell of um... Say it.

-Poo, Your Majesty.

-Exactly.

Which is rather unpleasant on my delicate little nose.

So I thought I might come and stay here.

-Of course, Your Majesty.

-For a couple of months.

-Months?

Is there a problem, Sir Thomas?

Bearing in mind that I am the queen and everything.

Not at all, Your Majesty.

My house is your house.

Well, it's not really, is it?

Your house is much smaller

and less impressive than my house but it doesn't smell of...

-Poo, Your Majesty.

-Exactly.

But does my queen not worry that my

humble accommodation may simply not be big enough for us all?

Hm, yes. You might be right.

Right, well, you and your family had better clear off.

Go and live in a tent for a few weeks.

-I don't think...

-Excellent, then it's decided.

I shall move in here with my furniture, servants and courtiers

and you and your family shall go and live in the garden.

-Any questions?

-Well...

-Good.

If there's anything else you need don't hesitate to...

Key.

Cheers.

Well, it's always nice to have visitors.

It's false.

Urgh!

Four eager chefs, four historical eras, but just one prize.

Who will be crowed Historical MasterChef?

We are looking for an exceptional cook

who does exceptional cooking, exceptionally.

I'm shouting for no reason whatsoever.

28-year-old Kamaho has come all the way from Mexico in the 1300s

and is hoping to wow the judges with some Aztec home cooking.

So, Kamaho, what are you cooking for us today?

-Argh!

-Well, I was going to do crickets as the starter.

Oh, hang on, you've got one on your head. Don't move.

-Missed.

-No, I think you got him.

Now his starter has escaped,

Kamaho must impress the judges with the rest of his Aztec meal.

There are so many fantastic Aztec dishes to choose from.

Iguana, salamander, howler monkey.

What's a howler monkey?

It's a monkey whose howl is so loud it can be heard three miles away.

-Must be the loudest creature on Earth.

-It's one of them.

-What's that?

-Carrot.

-Yeah, I know.

I was a greengrocer.

Kamaho is serving up a main course of hot dog surprise.

-Now, I suppose the surprise is it's real dog.

-Oh, no. Of course not.

I mean, it is real dog.

We Aztecs eat dog all the time, so that's not the surprise.

The surprise is I stuffed the tortilla full of red-hot chillies.

Argh! Argh!

After the reception for his main course,

Kamaho is pinning his hopes on his final dish.

I'm getting freshness, coolness. It's soothing.

-What is it exactly?

-Frogspawn with tadpoles and lake scum biscuits.

Kamaho, your starter went missing,

your main course was inedible, your dessert was untouchable.

But I really like what you've done to Gregg.

-Argh.

-For that reason, you're through to the next round.

-Congratulations. You agree, don't you?

-Urgh.

-That's a yes.

The Aztecs used to eat a special breed of small dog which

had virtually no hair. The dogs didn't need it in the hot climate.

I ate some dog once, but I had trouble keeping it down.

Down boy, down. Ha, ha, ha!

Aztecs really did eat dog though, as well as howler monkeys.

SHOUTING: I've worked out why we keep getting hunted by Aztecs.

Oh, have you? Why's that, then?

It's cos we make such a loud noise we're easy to find.

Oh, I see.

So that's why we're whispering.

Precisely.

The comfiest of beds. The tastiest of food and five-star service.

Stay here and you won't want to leave.

In fact, you won't be able to.

It's a prison.

Yes, here at Newgate Prison,

you'll be able to enjoy the utmost Georgian luxury.

As long as you've got the money to pay for it.

Yes, in return for a simple bribe, they'll unlock your manacles

for a while,

let you receive visitors in your private room

and even let you keep pets.

I'd like a pig.

Pigs aren't allowed, filthy animals.

In fact, here at Newgate Prison you can live in comfort and luxury.

As long as you don't run out of cash.

Right then, you.

Let's get you out of this private room, get you in a crowded cell

with the rest of the criminal scum. Come on!

You're in luck, a room's just become available.

Newgate Prison.

Book early to avoid disappointment.

If you couldn't afford the nice rooms,

conditions in Newgate were quite disgusting.

The prison was riddled with lice and fleas and, believe me,

I know what that feels like. Oh!

Oh! So Newgate was the most famous Georgian prison,

time to meet the most famous Georgian criminal - Dick Turpin.

Ow, ow, ow! No biting, no biting.

Everyone thinks they know the story Of Dick Turpin's highway glory

But my past is far more gory I was no saint

You think life is one big antic My profession is romantic

Hate to be pedantic But it ain't

-Ho!

-As a butcher down in Essex I was handy with a knife

Had a side-line as a poacher Led a less than honest life

The notorious gang of Gregory Liked my style and dedication

They signed me up and gave me a real robber's education

# We rampaged through the Essex farms

# We stole and robbed and fought

# But when the law came for us I escaped and they got caught

-# I became a highway man Was daylight robbery

-Ho!

-# I was no Prince Charming Nothing dandy about me

-Ho! #

The truth is I was violent And with my good mate Matt King

Robbed travellers at gunpoint Money, watches, anything

My horse it wasn't called Black Bess

Although that's what you've read Was no romantic hero

Shot not one but two men dead

# The legend that surrounds me Misses out the crucial part

# I was a ruthless killer With a ruthless killer's heart

-# Was a vicious highwayman A source of pain and tears

-Ho!

-# When you hear how my story ends You won't believe your ears

-Ho! #

I ran away to Yorkshire Changed my name to John Palmer

Was sent to prison after stealing chickens from a farmer

Wrote a letter to my family A plea it did relate

The postman saw the envelope And here's the twist of fate

He had taught me how to write So he knew I'd lied

"That's not John Palmer's hand That's Dick Turpin's," he cried

-# Was a vicious highwayman My crimes had brought me fame

-Ho!

# Was stitched up by a postie

-# That's not glamorous, that's lame

-Ho!

-# No more stand and deliver You'll remember this, I hope

-Ho!

# It's no fun hanging with highwaymen

# When you're hanging from a rope. #

Ooh, thank you very much.

If you got injured in Viking times, we had some pretty strange ways of

making you better.

All right, all right.

-Don't worry, an ambulance is going to be here soon.

-Make way, make way.

Make way, make way, woman.

-Historical paramedics.

-You don't look like paramedics.

-We're Vikings.

Don't worry, we're very advanced.

We can handle anything, from setting broken bones,

to delivering babies and surgery to magic spells.

What was the last bit?

It doesn't matter, what's important is we save your friend.

-He's been stabbed.

-I don't think so.

-Clean the wound.

First things first. He could have been cursed.

We need the healing stone from the sword that stabbed him up.

It wasn't a sword. He fell off his bike.

Ah, try this. It might work.

No, it's not working, Nigel.

-We need blood. We need blood!

-What, you mean a transfusion?

No, we need the blood from a bull that this man has killed,

then we spread it over the hillside

and leave meat for the elves.

Their magic can save us.

He hasn't killed a bull.

Really? What do you people do all day?

Geoff, I think it's getting worse. This wound could be deep.

-He urgently needs soup.

-No, he needs hospital.

Will you stop making words up and listen?

We feed him a soup made of onions, leeks and herbs.

Then we sniff the wound. If we can smell the soup,

that means the belly is punctured.

If we can't smell the soup, that means the wound

isn't as severe as we first thought.

No, I can't smell anything.

-Shall we do a blood test to be sure?

-That sounds sensible.

-Start licking his shirt.

-But clearly isn't.

Internal wound blood tastes different to that of a flesh wound.

We can determine how serious the wound is by tasting the blood.

-Well?

-Strawberry. Ooh, it's nice.

But it's not blood. He's just dropped his ice cream, hasn't he?

He lives! Good work, Geoff.

Let us carve runic symbols into a whalebone to ensure

this young man's good health.

THEY CHANT AND SING

SIRENS WAIL

-Sounds like a proper ambulance. We'd best go.

-Run away, run away!

Excuse me, sir. Oh, no.

Jane bring the Medikit.

Oh, and some stain remover.

Polite Victorian society had lots of rules of etiquette

which dictated how men and women should behave towards each other.

Good day.

I just left the pheasant where it was and shot Mr Harrington instead.

Oh, Mr Darbley, I've never known such a great wit.

Oh, you're too kind.

-Well, this looks as good a spot as any.

-Oh, yes, it's perfect.

I must say, Miss Pennywhistle,

you really are the most pleasant of company.

Charming of character, bright of mind and with

as pretty a smile as I have ever...

-I have never known such rudeness.

-What's that?

Sitting next to a lady in the countryside is entirely improper.

-The very height of Victorian rudeness.

-I'm sorry.

Perhaps this humble sandwich would serve by way of an apology.

Perhaps. What, pray tell, is in the sandwich?

Cheese and onion.

Rudeness that cannot be counted on one's fingers or measured

-in one's heart.

-What now?

Cheese and onion, Mr Darbley?

There is nothing more rude in polite Victorian society

than for a man to smell of onion.

Yes, of course.

Well, happily there are plenty of non-onion

based delights within the hamper.

I'll just attend to this nosebleed you appeared to have caused

-caused and I'll... Oh, what?

-Rudeness beyond human comprehension.

-Come on!

-Blowing your nose in public is the height of bad manners.

As it would seem are most things, Miss Pennywhistle.

May I ask where polite Victorian society stands on apple pie?

Apple pie?

Is it considered discourteous, offensive or uncultured?

Well, no.

Is it rude, ill-mannered,

-improper or indiscrete?

-I don't believe so, no.

So just to clarify, you have no objection whatsoever to apple pie?

No, of course not.

Good.

Just be thankful I forgot the cream.

Well, he's the rudest man I've ever met.

But he sure can bake.

It's true.

Yes, life in Victorian England could be quite complicated.

Lady Penelope, we've been courting for ten years now

and there's something I must say to you as a matter of urgency.

Yes, Lord Percival, say it

and say it now,

for if my heart beats any faster I will surely faint.

-I...

-Yes?

-I...

-Yes?

-I...

-Yes?

Lost for words?

Then why not say it with flowers?

With the new Victorian floral messaging system

you can literally say it with flowers, because each flower

means a different thing, yeah?

A red tulip means I love you.

A forget-me-not means true love.

A cactus flower means I really love you.

Whatever you need to say, say it with flowers.

Do you by any chance have one that means "I love someone else"?

And another that means "and it's your best friend"?

I can do you a hyacinth.

-I'll take all you've got.

-Or for you, an orange lily.

Just give me the cactus. You!

Whatever you need to say,

say it with flowers, with the new Victorian floral messaging system.

Well, I think I got that message.

Anyone got any tweezers? Tweezers?

The Victorian language of flowers is known as floriography.

And here's another example, a dried-out white rose meant,

"I'd rather be dead than go out with you".

Well, either that or "I can't afford a new rose".

The famous Battle of the Somme in 1916

was supposed to be the campaign that would finish

the First World War for good, but that's not quite how it turned out.

Ah, Corporal. Do you have an update for me?

I'm pleased to report, sir, that the Somme campaign is over.

Brilliant. I told you my World War One trench warfare tactics

were state of the art.

So, how much land have we taken back off those dastardly Germans?

Well, sir, we have pushed the enemy back...

-Two miles.

-Two?

Oh, that's not very much, is it?

Well, progress nevertheless, what?

I think we should celebrate a job well done.

It has taken five months, sir.

It's always the negatives with you, isn't it, Corporal?

Modern warfare takes time, man.

It's cost us 620,000 men, sir.

Oh, that is rather a lot, isn't it?

But on the plus side we are two miles nearer to Berlin, what?

-How much further to go?

-490 miles, sir.

I see. So we've only moved two miles in five months.

At this rate we should be in Berlin by... Don't tell me.

490 divided by two, times by five, carry over the do-dah

and that what's-my-face.

It's over 100 years, sir.

Oh, well, we won't be alive then, will we?

-Not with you in charge, sir, no.

-Hm.

Not as tasty as it looks.

In World War One, bombs used the explosive TNT which is made from

glycerine which comes from fat.

So during the war we needed lots and lots of fat. Yuk!

Hello. I'm the Fat King. I know what you're thinking.

He's not fat, he's not a king. Well, you're right on both counts.

They call me that because I'm the boss here and this is my fat factory.

Yes, come down to our fat extraction factory where we'll even turn your

animal poo into fat.

# Bring us a big smelly cowpat and let us turn it into fat at... #

We'll even convert your waste food into fat.

# Don't leave food stuff for the rat

# When we can turn it into fat at... #

You'll be surprised with what we can turn into fat.

We'll even take your dead horse.

# If your horse was hit by a German shell

# Bring him here when he starts to smell

# We'll melt him down It won't take long

# And stick his remains in a big old bomb. #

The Germans will be surprised when we fire old Dobbin back at them.

So don't delay, come to the...

Today!

Girls! You're not filming, are you?

# Tall tales, atrocious acts, we gave you all the fearsome facts... #

Want some more Horrible Histories? Come with me down the time sewers.

Go to the CBBC website and click on Horrible Histories.

See you down there.

# ..a mystery

# Hope you enjoyed Horrible Histories. #