All language subtitles for Horrible Histories s03e01 Rotten Romans.eng

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.

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...

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.

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