All language subtitles for Upstart Crow s03e07 A Crow Christmas Carol_Eng

In faith, I'm gonna
say something,

I really am gonna say something.

(SNORTS)

There is a tide in the affairs
of men which, taken at the
flood,

leads on to fortune,
and I am definitely gonna say
something.

(HACKS)

- Definitely.
- (SPITS)

Something needs to be said,
and I'm gonna say it.

I'm gonna take that something
and give it a blooming good say
it.

Er, excuse me, I'm...I'm
awfully sorry, but do you mind?

Done it, said it! Something
was said!

The quiet man roars,
the sensible majority found its
voice!

I said that something
for England!

Of course, you should've said.
Help yourself, my friend.

Er, yes, thank you, very kind.

(SNORTS)

Colin's my name.

I travel in...in jingly hats.

It's a big time of year for me,
with Christmas coming, you know.

It's very seasonal, my game.

Oh, God, it gets worse
- we've connected.

He thinks we're having
a conversation.

I'm trapped!

The abyss yawns beneath me.

The gates of hell spring open.

My only hope now is if I die of
gastro from the bastable's chop.

What's your game?

I must not tell him that
I'm a playwright,

for then will he regale me
with jingly hat stories,

ever certain that they're
hilarious and I could use them
in one of my plays.

Think, think...

I'm a playwright.

A playwright!

Oh, I could tell you
a few stories.

You will never believe
the hilarious things that happen

in the jingly hat game.

So many funny stories!

I remember one year we were
ordering jingly hats for
Christmas,

they only had...

(SOLEMNLY) You are
sad, my friend.

You mourn your son

and curse whatever God or faith
it was that took him.

What? How?

Your pain has turned to anger,

but only love can heal
a broken heart.

If you know me, stranger,

you must know
that my heart will never heal.

I will tell you a story
to pass the journey.

A timeless tale
for now and every Christmas

about a lonely man

who had let his heart
grow flinty,

hard and bitter.

The child was thin
and starved...

And they rejected him,

for he loved only money.

Grave yawned open...
Ghost came a-knocking...

"What vision is this, Spirit?"

Fat Christmas goose!

All rejoiced and
made most merry.

God bless us, everyone.

Goodness, sir, that is
a wonderful story.

Where did you hear it?
When was it written?

I told you, it is timeless.

Maybe yesterday,
perhaps a thousand years ago,

perhaps it is not written
and will not be for centuries.

Now, that is spooky.

What's spooky?

But you were...

Where's the...?

You fell asleep. I often find
my stories have that effect.

I think it's because
they're so hilarious

that people get a bit overloaded
and they just shut down.

Yes, I expect that's
probably it.

WILL: Father is here
and 'tis almost Advent.

Last trip home before
the holiday.

Did you have a good
journey, Dad?

Well, astonishingly -

I might almost say
spookily - I did.

Goodness, does that mean
that the long-promised
improvements

to public transport
have actually occurred -

more frequent and
faster services?

Cleaner, less-crowded coaches?

Compensation paid out promptly
for late arrivals and
cancellations?

- No, family, it does not.
- Oh.

Because, in fact,
those are not promises at all,
but jokes,

told for the amusement
of Her Majesty's ministers,

wearied by luxury and power.

And like all good jokes,
they will bear constant
retelling

and will, I imagine, still be
being told even unto the next
millennium.

So how come you did have
a good journey, then, son?

Did you catch the eye
of some slapsome doxy

and play flirty wirty footsie
wootsie winky wonky with her

all the way from Slough
to Banbury,

and then actually cop a proper
feel behind the pie shop in
Chipping Norton?

Not that that's ever
happened to me.

No, Father, I did not,

but I did hear
a most marvellous Christmas
story,

a story of a soul redeemed,

and it made me think that
perhaps, in this Christmas of
our sadness,

we...we might redeem
our own souls a little

by doing some good in the world.

How do you mean, Dad?

Well, we have suffered
a heavy loss,

and I confess that sometimes,
in my grief,

I have succumbed to anger
and bitter rage at cruel fate.

Me too.

How come little Hamnet was taken

while a wicked old goat like me
is allowed to live?

It ain't fair, makes no sense.

I'd have gone in his place
a hundred times.

We all would.

But we can't.

Instead, we must try and heal,

perchance through love,
through charity.

You and Mum give quite a bit
to the poor already, Dad.

Yes, daughter, 'tis true.

We...we always take our turnip
heads to the village foodbank

and...and we have our
sponsored leper.

Also, as you know, I have funded
a Cambridge research fellowship

into male pattern baldness.

Although, for the avoidance
of doubt,

I personally am not going bald -

I have shy hair.

(DOOR CLOSES)

Is that you, husband?

I didn't hear the door.

My mind was wandering.

Yes, my sweet, 'tis I.

Last trip home before
the Christmas hols.

We shan't do a lot this year.
Just church, I think.

I really couldn't
do a big feast.

She's not getting
any better, Dad.

I mean, we're all grieving,
but Mum is just in bits.

It's like you said, love,

grief fills the room up
of my absent child.

And thus am I resolved.

Family, this Yuletide,

we...we will not focus on the
love that we have lost

but the love that we can make.

This house is filled
with sadness,

and so we will spend
the season in London,

where I intend to make of myself

that which begins with
what a good dinner will do for
a man,

is followed by the
fourth of six,

then that verb that
will move a javelin,

and finally Grandad
after about four o'clock in the
afternoon.

Er, what?

Come now, daughter,
a good dinner may fill a man.

The fourth of six
is Anne of Cleves.

We throw a javelin...

Fill and throw...

And Grandad after
four each day is?

Pissed!

Exactly, I intend to make of
myself a true philanthropist.

Do you think, son,
as a favour to us all,

you might give up
your linguistical poncing
toggling

for Christmas?

Never, Father, for,
as I think you know,

linguistical poncing toggling
is what I do.

The Christmas story
has inspired me.

We have only now to find
a soul in need of redemption.

Make haste with those
ledgers, Scratchit.

I am owed many debts
and would collect my monies

or seize the goods and
properties of any who default.

But 'tis Advent already,
Mr Greene.

Do you mean to bankrupt
family men at Christmas?

Christmas? Christmas?!

Shame on you, Job Scratchit.

Any man who would hide behind
our Saviour's birth

to renege on his debts
deserves to starve.

God...

God did not send his only son

that oafs and slatterns might
gorge and quaff and rob honest
men,

just as no doubt you'll seek to
rob me of a half day's work for
the same reason.

Well, sir, begging
your pardon, sir,

but I was hoping to have
Christmas afternoon off,

so as to make the season full
merrily with my family, sir.

Full merrily, on what I pay you?

And you, with a wife and six
children in the house.

If you are stupid enough to
make merry under those
circumstances,

then you deserve your
poverty, sir.

We have love, Mr Greene,
that makes us merry.

- (BELL RINGS)
- I'll get the door, sir.

Love...

Love!

Can a man eat love?

Will it clothe him
in princely silk and velvet?

Will love buy medicine
for his sick children?

Of course not.

Love is worth nothing.

I will have none of it.

Good day to you, Mr Greene.

Miss Kate, what business
brings you here?

I am come collecting monies

to bring comfort to the needy
this Christmas.

Ha! Ha!

Bah!

Are there no prisons? No
poorhouses? Let the poor go to
them.

And if they cannot find a place,
let them die and be quick about
it,

and so relieve the
surplus population.

How can you be so
mean and nasty?

It's a gift.

Good day.

Can't say I'm looking forward
to Crimble much this year,
Botski.

I'm gonna skulk about
disguised and cloaked,

because "you're supposed to be
dead" can really constrain a
fella's roistering.

I thought you were pretending
to be your own brother?

Turns out, being a celebrity
relative is a pretty tough gig.

At least it is if
you wanna party.

Everyone thinks I'm trying to
cash in on my bro's fame.

I mean, how craplington is that?

I suppose Will will
be off to Stratford.

I suppose so. I reckon you're
well out of it - Stratford's so
dull.

Yes, remember last year -
it was all a bit quiet. Oh!

Apart, of course,
from Greene turning up with
soldiers

and carting me off to the Tower!

What Stratford-on-Avon needs
is some sort of notoriety

or thing of interest
to give it a reason to exist.

- Like that's ever gonna happen.
- Yeah.

Bottom, prepare spare beds
and order extra pie.

I've decided that the whole
family will spend the season in
London this year.

- Oh, good thought, that man!
- Brilliant!

Yea, let's try and have
a proper party.

I don't know if we could quite
handle a party this year, Kit,

but I have another plan,
if you be willing.

Anything you like, mate,
you know I'm here for you.

And me, I'm here for you, too.

Well, obviously - you're hiding
out in my house rent free, Kit,

and I pay you to
be here, Bottom.

Anyway, I was thinking
that what we need this year

is a sense of purpose,

a noble project to help us
rise above our own sorrows

and honour the memory
of our son.

I recently heard a lovely story
of Christmas redemption,

and thus do I seek
a soul to save.

The only question
is, whose soul?

I can't believe it,
I simply cannot believe it,

the man literally has no soul.

He's a monster!

- What up, lady? Who's a
monster?
- Mr Greene.

Greene, Kate? What about him?

What about him?

He is a heartless swine
and a sanctimonious hypocrite,

that's what.

Many a time and oft
have we heard

his claims to piety
and a Christian conscience,

and I am here to tell you
that it's all utter...

...utter...

Well, if I am to say
what his claims to piety are,

then, in order to spare my
maidenly blushes,

I must needs do as you do,
Mr Shakespeare,

and resort
to linguistical poncing
toggling.

Oh...

God, really, must you?

Yeah, this could take a while,
I'll get more ale.

(CLEARS THROAT) Intrigued
am I, Kate.

If what you wish to say
of Greene's claims to piety

be indeed too coarse a thought

for a delicate maid to utter,

then by all means must you
resort to linguistical poncing
toggling.

Right, in that case,

his claims to piety are

what a bull leaves behind him,
hot and steaming in a field,

but which be not a deeply
satisfied cow.

Ki...kind of feel in this case
that the linguistical poncing
toggling

might actually feel a bit ruder

than the phrase you're trying to
toggle your way out of.

You mean he's talking bullshit.

Yes!

He claims the moral high ground,
and yet,

when I asked him for monies for
the poor at Christmas, he said

they'd be better to die
and decrease the surplus
population.

Oh, that is grim.

I even heard him muttering
that love was worthless.

What?! That's just potty!

Love is the very reason to be
alive, particularly at
Christmas.

Exactly!

And for all I despise Mr Greene
for being a heartless brute

and for talking a lot of
hypocritical, sanctimonious

what a bull leaves behind him,
hot and steaming in a field,

but which be not a deeply
satisfied cow...

...I actually feel
sorry for him.

Me too. Sort of.

I mean, it's terrible to be
without love at Christmas.

He is rich and powerful,
and yet his bitter heart

and dead, empty soul
make him poor indeed.

You're right, it is sad,
but I can't worry about him now,

I'm trying to find
a dead, empty soul to save

so that, through such
a redemption,

I may make some peace
with my own sad loss.

Hang on. Hang the futtock on!

Christmas in London,
such a treat!

- We must do our best to enjoy
ourselves.
- For Hamnet.

I shall perambulate the Dilly

- like the gentleman what I am.
- Oh!

And I shall go into every
single shop on the Strand.

Both of them!

Never forgetting, of course,
that we have in mind a noble
purpose.

Er, shopping is a noble
purpose, Dad.

A nobler purpose.

I think he's talking about this
soul he's been banging on about
saving, Mary.

But how are we to do it, love?

Well, we certainly
can't do it alone.

We need a larger cast of
characters than our small
family can allow.

Kate will help, she's on her
own again anyway because...

My mother is on yet another
slap-and-ticklish winter break

with her latest bit
of saucy ruffington.

And Kit's up for it,
being at a loose end, having...

Faked my own death
for reasons too dark and
disgraceful

to discuss in delicate company.

Bottom...

Does what he's told.

Exactly.

And I think it's fair to say
that we do it because we are
your friends,

Mr Shakespeare, and
we love you all.

Which is very heart-warming,
Kate,

but even we happy band of
brothers and sisters,

are not sufficient for the plan

I have in mind,

and thus do I intend
to enlist the services

of Burbage and the
acting company.

Oh, ouch! That's gonna
cost you, Will.

Christmas rates for luvvie
kisses are arse-watering!

You'll be paying top groat.

I don't intend to
pay them at all.

I'm offering an incentive
that no actor can resist.

He wants us to work for nothing?
At Christmas? Outrageous!

Mad outrageous, I
ain't doing it.

But, my dear fellows,
you didn't let me finish.

Mr Shakespeare writes
that this is for charity.

Oh! Oh, well,
of course that changes things
entirely.

I mean, being an actor,
I do an enormous amount for
charity.

Me too. Like, loads.

But ironically, obviously,
keeping my edge.

For instance,
if I was raising money for
lepers,

I'd do gags about losing limbs.

So, "Oh, come on, let's
give 'em a hand. Ah!"

Only a bit of armless
fun. Crr! Ah!

Which would be deeply offensive.

Possibly, from a lesser comic,

but from a genius like me -

brave, confronting,
taboo shattering!

So...

Shut up, Kempe!

As actors, we all have our
causes about which we feel
passionately.

As actors, our charity work
is very important to us.

But we don't like
to talk about it.

Oh, absolutely not,
heaven forfend.

I hate talking about
the enormous amount I do for
charity.

- Oh, likewise.
- Same.

The simple fact is,

I'm too busy doing an enormous
amount for charity

to have time to talk about
the enormous amount I do for
charity,

and I make that very
clear to people.

So we are agreed.

We will lend our sublime talents

and the vast wells of public
affection we enjoy

to Will and his charitable
endeavour.

But we won't talk about it.

- Definitely not.
- I intend to make that very,
very clear.

What's the plan, Will?

How are we to redeem this soul,
and whose soul is it anyway?

That of mine own worst
enemy, Anne,

a man with the moral compass of
Henry VIII's marriage guidance
counsellor.

Robert Greene.

Dad, he hates your gutlings,
why would you wanna help him?

Because, daughter,
it is Christmas.

And what is more,

this isn't just about healing
his soul but healing ours.

To give to others is
also to heal oneself.

That, I believe, is the message
of the story the stranger told
me.

But what is the story?
What are we to do?

How are we to save
this wicked soul?

Well, to begin with, Mr Greene
is shortly to encounter a ghost,

a ghost who will point him
towards the error of his ways.

And how's that gonna work?
Do you know any ghosts?

Oh, most definitely.

I...I live with one.
Don't I, Kit?

- Woo!
- (OTHERS GASP)

And so the story begins.

Right, Susanna, Judith,
you know what to do.

(KEYS JINGLE)

Oh, sir, will you spare a coin
for a hungry child at Christmas?

Please, sir, it's so cold,
and I have no shoes to wear.

Be off with you
before I call the night's watch.

It'll mean we starve.

Well, if you must,
you must, child,

and I will do you the service
of not prolonging your suffering

with my hard-earned coppers.

Stingy, grotsome
old arse-mongle!

Bah!

Sue, that last line was
not in the script!

I was improvising.

I thought it was brilliant,
aren't you pleased?

Judith, you're the daughter
of a writer.

You of all people
should understand

that the last thing a writer
ever wants from an actor, ever,
is improvisation.

Next thing, Sue'll be claiming
she basically wrote the scene.

Well, I sort of did.

My line was definitely
the best bit.

How sharper than a serpent's
tooth it is to have a thankless
actor.

Don't be a bitter writer, Dad,
it's not a good look.

All writers are bitter, Judy.

We do 90% of the work,

and then the actors get given
the best tables in restaurants.

It's just not blooming fair!

KIT: Will!

Shall we get back to the plan
before Greene lets himself in?

Yes, absolutely, Kit, you're on.

GREENE: Starve!

What care I if two
children starve?

KIT: Greene!

Robert Greene! Do you know me?

Marlowe, can it be you,
with hair as white as snow?

Absolutely, it's me, all right.

Although it's not white,
more a platinum blond.

Be you not dead?

Dead, but not at peace.

I am Marlowe's ghost, condemned
to walk the night in chains

as punishment for being such a
legend of a bad boy while I
lived.

I quaffed and gorged
whilst the poor starved,

which was definitely not cool.

Do not make the same
mistake, Greene.

Remember me.

Remember me...

A dream, surely?

Marlowe was dead to begin
with, and yet...

...and yet it was...Marlowe.

A toast, to the successful
first act in the battle to save
Greene's soul.

- Oh!
- Uh-uh.

Eh-eh, trying to save Mr
Greene's soul is a fool's
errand.

It is like the assegai spear

which breaks in the thick hide
of a raging bull elephant.

Whatever do you mean, girl?

Pointless.

I applaud the vigour of your
imagery, Miss Lucy, but I
cannot agree.

The story the stranger told
showed me that we're all
redeemable,

even Robert Greene.

Hm, if you believe that,

then you are like the hunter
who attempts to retrieve the
broken spear

from the thick hide of a raging
bull elephant.

Slaughtered? Maimed?

Stupid.

Miss Lucy's probably
right, love.

Greene may be even too wicked
to be redeemed.

Well, not by Marlowe pretending
to be a ghost anyway.

Greene'll just think
he ate some bad cheese.

Ah, but there's a lot more to
this idea than Marlowe's ghost.

We've scarcely even started yet.

Now, Kit, you say that when you
knew Greene at university he
did love?

Oh, yes, absolutely.

Little Bessie Watkins,
the dean's daughter.

Pretty as a picture.

Then tomorrow night,
Mr Greene will see his Bessie
again.

Does she still live?

Afraid she died, mate,

but I've heard she
had a daughter.

That'll do.

I'm Ephie Watkins,
Mr Shakespeare,

but 'tis said that so alike am I
to my dear mother,

it's almost as if
she still lives.

But this is brilliant! Perfect!

And did your mother ever speak
of Robert Greene, Miss Ephie?

He broke her heart.

She loved him and he loved her,
but he loved power and money
more.

Well, now you can help us
show him what he lost.

We will conjure up a vision
of a Cambridge Christmas

from long ago,
when Greene was merry and did
love.

We will show him his Bessie
in the full bloom of her youth,

thus will he know what he has
sacrificed for greed.

What a wonderful plan!

And the fact that
I am absolutely identical to my
mother

in every way makes it perfect.

Exactly, you can really show Mr
Condell how to play her.

He's waiting in the antechamber.

Oh, Mr Condell?

Miss Ephie, it will be an honour
to play your mother.

Now, I take my character
research very seriously

and shall study your every
glance and gesture.

See, I have your smile already.

I will also commission a new set
of coconuts, the better to
match your own.

Um, Mr Shakespeare,

can't help feeling
like we're missing a trick here.

As I mentioned,
I am actually identical to my
mother.

Such delicate beauty.
Isn't she exquisite?

So maybe kind of...I
should play her.

Bitch!

Money...

Fame...

Power!

Lucky you can pick
a lock, Botski.

Ah, I've got a lot of skills
I've not shown you, master.

Yes, not least cooking a decent
pie and sweeping the floor
efficiently.

You can't be nice even at
Christmas, can you?

I am being nice, just not to
you. I'm saving a soul.

Ah, Miss Ephie, you
look marvellous.

Mr Kempe,
ready to give us your young
Greene?

Neh, zneh, bah, Bacon
And Bungay.

Just keep your back to him
and say nothing.

This is all about Miss Ephie.

Do you think I should kiss her?
I reckon I should kiss her.

Since we're sweethearts,

I should definitely kiss her.

May I remind you, Kempe,
that this is a safe-space work
environment

with a rigid code of practice
on harassment?

Even if I claim later
it was done ironically

and in a spirit of banter?

Touch me once and you'll be
wearing your scroting sac as a
cravat.

So no kiss, then?

Probably better, leave
it in the subtext.

Mr Condell, you ready?

I suppose so, although
I'm still not happy

about having to play
the Ghost of Christmas Past

while you give the leading
female role to an amateur, and
worse - a real girl!

I've told you, Mr Condell,
Bessie is just a support part.

The ghost is the
lead female role.

But why must I wear this
childish wig and silly dress?

It's most unflattering!

It's not a silly dress,
it's a 14th-century nightgown.

You wear it and the childish wig
because you're a ghost,

and it is an absolute rule of
every age that, unless
otherwise stated,

all ghosts are represented

by spooky little girls
dressed in antique night attire.

Don't know why, just is.

Now get out there
and get haunting.

(HIGH-PITCHED)
Mark me, Mr Greene, mark me.

What? Who are you, child?

What want you with me?

I am the Ghost of
Christmas Past,

come to show you the shadows
of what has been.

(WHISPERS) And action.

Another Cambridge
Christmas, ha-ha!

Let all be merry, for
I am master here,

and I demand good ale,
good vittles and good cheer for
all.

Do you recognise this place?

'Tis mine old college.

And is that fezzie bezzie tezzie
wezzie wig my old master?

The light is dim, it's
hard to see it,

but, oh, how I wish 'twere true,
such fun I had.

And what do you see
now, Mr Greene?

Why...

Is it?

Can it be my Bessie?

How beautiful, how exquisite!

Personally, I'm disappointed.

No character, no depth.

(WHISPERS) Stick to
the script, Condell.

But it's such a shame,
and I'd so wanted her to be
good.

See now,
who is it sweet Bessie spurns?

Be gone, you miserable miser.

Good day.

Why, 'tis mine own younger self.

She weeps.

My Bessie weeps.

Bessie has rejected you
because you were cruel.

You lost her through your greed.

Well, actually, little bit
more to it than that,

very much faults on both sides.

I mean, I'll admit she did
complain about me being
ambitious,

but I honestly think it was all
about her wanting me to focus
on her.

She was quite clingy like that,
little bit needy,

which at first I found
endearing, but eventually
became really suffocating.

Yeah, I mean, she'd be jealous
if I went out with my mates,

and she was always asking me

what I was thinking,
which...which I hated.

I mean, if she was angry
about something,

instead of just having it out,

she'd go into these long sulks,
which was really draining.

Better wind it up, Mr Condell.

Yes, he is rather hogging
the action.

The night grows dark,
the vision fades,

look you last upon
your beloved Bessie

and consider what you have lost.

Mm, no, I honestly think
splitting up was the right
thing.

We could've gone on torturing
each other for a year or two,

but it was never going
to work long term.

Hm!

Anyway, a great gig, I think.
We've definitely given him a
scare.

And the Ghost of Christmas
Present should really shake him
up.

Yes, er, what's the
plan for that, Will?

Creating some half-glimpsed
dreams of the past was possible
with smoke and mirrors,

but I can't see us pulling that
off for Christmas Present.

W-We won't need to create
anything this time -

the present is all too real.

Greene will witness the poverty
of his own employee,

his scrivener, Job Scratchit.

Mr Shakespeare, I really must
protest against this appalling
business

of using real people
instead of actors.

Yes, it's very worrisome, Will.
Where will it end?

Will there be a day when actors
are surplus to requirement

to the entertainment industry?

I've gone all cold.

A day when lush and expensive
dramatic productions are
forsaken

in favour of some form
of reality entertainment?!

I admit, Burbage, that, as a
writer, I-I do see the danger,

but what if one day people gave
up on tragedies and comedies

in favour of simply watching
groups of real people
interacting

in various locations?

Ah, that's never going to
happen, Mr Shakespeare.

I hope you're right, Miss Lucy.

There'd have to be at least the
semblance of some extra idea

to justify the exercise.

Oh-ho, pretending they all have
to survive in a jungle together,

for instance,

or six pouting tarting slaps
and six strutsome humping knaves

roistering together
on a sun-kissed island.

Actually, you know,
I think that could work.

Money, power...

Being chased...

I'm falling!

Taking an exam naked...

(BOOMING) Wake up, Greene.

And the compliments
of the season!

- (LAUGHS)
- Another spirit come to haunt
me?

'Tis I, the Ghost of
Christmas Present,

destined to live but one day,

but such a day!

Come, Greene, we're
off to a party!

(CHUCKLES)

Why, this is the home of my
scrivener, Job Scratchit.

They seem so happy.
Such peace and contentment on
their faces,

and yet their fire is meagre
and their shelves so bare.

How can they be happy
when they are so poor?

It defies logic.

Surely only money can
bring happiness.

Look.

Such joy, husband,
such happiness.

It is Christmas time
and we're all together.

Aye, wife, we are poor,
but we have love.

And tomorrow I shall order a
fat sparrow for our Christmas
feast.

A sparrow! A whole one?

Yes!

I've been saving up all year,

and seasoned with the love
that we shall each bring to the
table,

- it will taste like the finest
goose.
- Oh!

Mother, Father,
it all looks so beautiful.

Tiny Todge, you should
be in bed.

I'm too excited thinking
about Christmas.

Are we really to have
a whole sparrow?!

Yes, Tiny Todge,

with half a potato
and eight peas each, too.

Then God bless Mr Greene,

for without the coppers he pays
Father, we could not afford
such a feast.

Yes, God bless Mr Greene,

for he has no love in his heart,

so we must wish him
a little of ours.

I'm finding these Scratchits
a bit pukesome.

Yes, I will admit,
I did find the similar family

in the stranger's story
to be a tad on the gooey side.

I think if I ever write this up,
I'll tone them down a bit.

No, let the Scratchit family
stand forever as a symbol

of simple faith and kindness.

You don't think maybe just an
edge of social realism?

Make the mum a depressive,
the dad an alcoholic,

the whole family locked
in a cycle of poverty and
dysfunction.

It's Christmas, Mr Shakespeare,
keep it sugary.

Tell me, Spirit, will Tiny Todge
live?

I see an empty chair

and an unused crutch
leaning in the corner.

Can no-one help him?

Are there no prisons?

Are there no poorhouses?

If Tiny Todge is like to die,

then better surely
he does it now

and decreases the surplus
population.

You turn my words against me,

the very words I used...

God's bodykins, I smell a trick!

Those words are exactly the
ones I spoke to the girl Kate,
Shakespeare's friend,

when she came collecting alms.

And yet, this spirit claims
to have been born but this
morning.

And what is more,
this spirit seems familiar.

The voice, the girth...

Can it be?

I will test him.

Spirit, 'tis a goodly thing you
do, walking the night a-saving
souls.

A goodly charitable thing.

Perchance you do an awful
lot for charity?

Well, yes, I do, actually,
but I don't like to talk about
it.

Ha, discovered! He is an actor.

This spirit is none but Burbage,

who, like the girl Kate,
is also Shakespeare's friend.

I smell a trick, a trick that
began with yet another of
Shakespeare's friends,

Marlowe, who rumour has
long had it still lives.

Ah, the Crow seeks to
gull me with tricks.

Well, the gull shall
gull the guller.

Spirit, can I expect another
ghost to visit tomorrow night,

on Christmas Eve?

You will, Greene,
and mark him well,

for 'twill be the most
terrifying of all.

Remember me.

Remember me...

I will remember you, Mr Burbage,

when I expose this trickery.

I will remember you all!

Right, this is the big one,
the final ghost.

In the story the
stranger told me,

the antihero is shown a vision
of the future.

Oh!

An old man has died but none
mourn him, all despise his
memory.

Dad, you will play
the nasty old undertaker.

And, Mum,

his wicked, avaricious wife.

Woo!

Anne, you are the landlady,

stealing the pennies
from the corpse's eyes.

Mr Condell and Burbage,
you are sneering neighbours
come to gloat.

- Gloat!
- Sue and Judy, children come
to laugh.

And, Mr Kempe,
you will play the final spirit
of all,

the Ghost of Christmas
Yet to Come.

Top-billed ghost,
obviously, so...

Mm, money,

gold, title...

And yet, I only pretend
to sleep.

I will make them rue the day

they ever thought to make a fool
of Robert Greene.

- (DOOR RATTLES)
- Hark, the fools assemble.

Right, Kempe, do your stuff.

Greene, Robert Greene,

I am the Ghost of Christmas
Yet to Come.

Now will I leap up
and confront them.

Oh, Spirit, let me see thee!

Robert Greene! Mark me!

I am the Spirit of Christmas
Yet to Come,

here to show you shadows

of the future,

shadows of pain and sorrow.

No, be gone, Spirit!

Do not haunt me so. Be gone!

I beg you! Do not torment me!

Spare me these visions
of horror.

Blimey, it's going even better
than I thought!

Come, come with me.

I will show you visions
of that which is yet to be.

I think he's fainted.

Job done, I reckon.

Let us hope Greene awakes
a better person.

Merry Christmas, one and all.

Yes, a quiet one this year, I
think, but merry Christmas just
the same.

Aye, wife, and we shall have
our feast just as Hamnet would
wish.

- (DOOR RATTLES)
- In fact, I hear Bottom now

with our goose, the
biggest in the shop.

- Oh!
- Master!

I couldn't get the biggest goose
in the shop cos - guess what? -

Robert Greene had been earlier
and nabbed it.

And you'll never guess why.

We've gotta get round to the
Scratchits', come on!

'Tis but a sparrow but
cooked with love.

So God bless us, one and all.

- Ah, thank goodness I am not
too late!
- (CHURCH BELLS PEAL)

Too late for what, Mr Greene?

- Why, to bring you a happy
Christmas.
- Oh!

Here be roasted goose,

and monies for your comfort,

and medicine and care
for Tiny Todge.

Goodness, Mr Greene!
Are you ill?

No, I am cured,

for I have seen the future,

and I must change it.

What future did you see?

A spirit took me there,

the Ghost of Christmas
Yet to Come.

He showed me a bare room with a
coffin, but none mourned it.

All who had gathered
did despise the deceased.

They cursed his memory
and called him cruel.

Blimey!
Our little tableau really did
work well.

I mean, frankly, I'm
gobble smacked.

Such a sad scene, Mr Greene,

but who was this figure
who none did mourn?

I will tell thee, good
Mrs Scratchit.

First, the spirit took my hand
and guided me forward.

With him were two starving
children who had leapt from a
yawning grave.

Their names were Hunger
and Ignorance.

We be finer actors
than I thought!

Yes, we do seem to have conjured
a rather more complex image

than we actually presented.

Ha, great acting, see?

It's not what you do,
it's what you don't do.

And thus did I know

that I must make amends

and bring you a happy Christmas.

Just this year, obviously,
there's no point going mad.

And so,
God bless you all and Tiny
Todge.

Brilliant, what a result.

It actually worked.

We did it, husband.

On this, our saddest
of Christmases,

we did a bit of good
in a cruel world.

Yes, I...I think we did.

Come on, dinner won't
eat itself.

I'm glad we came back here

for the last ten days of
Christmas, husband.

Life goes on,

and you have a wonderful story
to steal for next Christmas.

Although, frankly,
I think I'd change the kid's
name.

I mean, Tiny Todge... Really?

Well, interestingly,

in the stranger's tale,
the boy's name was Tiny Tim.

Oh, that's definitely
much better.

Pretty pukesome either way,
if you ask me.

But not my problem
because, in fact,

I've decided
that I will not write this
story.

Why not, love? I think
it's a cracker.

I have profited from it enough.

We've all healed a little,

which I believe is what the
stranger hoped when he told me
it.

Besides, if I'm honest,
it's not really me.

Not enough baffling minor
characters and bewildering
subplots for my taste.

And frankly, I find the
complete absence of any
cross-dressing very
disappointing.

So I...I think I'll leave it.

Perhaps in some other age,

another great English writer,

though not as great
as me, obviously,

will be searching for a
Christmas story, and the
stranger will visit him.

Let that future writer have it
from me, as a Christmas gift.

Well, merry Christmas, husband.

Merry Christmas, wife.

God bless us...every one.