Oh, Hamnet, you do look lovely. Every heart will melt.
Oh, Nan!
A proper little English gentleman on the most important day of his life.
Most important, Mum? Really?
It's his confirmation, will.
He's to be welcomed into the Church.
And if you go spoiling it with your bloomin' scepticism,
I shall never forgive you.
How can you suggest such a thing, Anne?
I will treat the spectacle of our corrupt and drunken old sot of a vicar
taking a large wodge of my cash
to induct Hamnet into his mob of murderers, inquisitors,
hypocrites and perverts with due solemnity.
Now, just you look here, Will Shakespeare.
I know there's plenty of wrong ‘uns in the clergy,
but Hamnet ain't being welcomed by them.
Not in my mind.
He's being welcomed by God and the love that surpasseth all understanding.
Hm, well, you've got that right.
A love that consists principally of torturing and burning people
who believe in exactly the same God as you
but use slightly more candles and wear slightly sillier hats while doing it
is pretty hard to get your head round.
Don't do this, Will, I'm warning you.
Hamnet's confirmation means a lot to me,
and you absolutely promised you'd be there.
I know that, wife, and I will.
Although I can't imagine God's bothered either way.
What would you know about what bothers God?
I don't think you even believe in him!
For the avoidance of being burned alive, Mum, I do.
We have so much to be thankful for!
One in three kids dies before they're 11, you know.
Ours have all made it.
I'm aware of the child mortality rates, Anne.
Another aspect of God's love that definitely surpasseth all understanding.
Life's a mystery, Will, and you may have a very big brain,
but there are more things in heaven and earth
than are dreamt of in your philosophy.
In faith, she may be an illiterate milking-slap but she can coin a phrase!
That was a corker!
Discreetly will I jot it down.
Anne's right. It's time you counted your blessings.
You're richer than your dad ever was, and he's been thieving all his life.
Not thieving, love, not any more.
Common people are thieves,
and I am a gentleman now.
So it's just creative accounting.
And the more you do of it, the more likely you'll get a knighthood.
Oh! Husband, such a giddy prospect!
Do you think you could steal enough to earn a knighthood?
As an English gentleman, it is my duty to try.
Dad, you've got a letter off the London coach.
Oh, thank you, Judith. Wonder what this could be.
Oh, my giddy, goody godlingtons!
There's to be London theatre awards!
What's that when it's at home?
A glittering, star-studded evening in which the cream of London's theatre
will compete for curiously shaped statuettes.
There's to be awards for best play, best comedy, best revival,
and I am nominated in all categories!
This is absolutely brilliant. I shall win the lot.
Well, how can you be so sure?
Because I'm the greatest writer that ever lived.
But also because the last plague forced most of London's companies on the road.
There's scarcely been any shows in town but mine all year.
I'll sweep the board.
The ceremony's on the second Tuesday after Michael-Maundy Thursday.
That's the date of Hamnet's confirmation.
You'll have to change it.
Change it? Will, this isn't a bloomin' tea party.
Actually, it /s a tea party, Mum.
You've invited all the aunties round for cake.
Snotty, stuck-up bitchingtons.
My sisters are not snotty, stuck-up bitchingtons.
Gran, they so are!
They are not!
They are as down-to-earth and as approachable as I am.
Exactly!
Hamnet has an appointment with God, and you promised you'd be there.
What could be more important than his spiritual wellbeing?
The London bloomin' Theatre Awards, that's what!
And, quite frankly, if God considers that
Hamnet's soul will be of greater spiritual value
because you've dressed him up in a ruffle and invited the aunties round for cake,
then, for an omniscient deity, I fear he lacks self-confidence.
I'm going to my bloomin' awards night, and so if you want me at Hamnet's confirmation
you'll just have to go to the vicar and change the date!
You're a selfish man, will Shakespeare! A horrible, selfish man!
But, wife, a horrible, selfish man who's been nominated in several categories
at the London Theatre Awards.
Happy in my own skin.
Well, this is most unexpected.
A summons from the Master of the Inns of Court
to give a private Sunday-night performance.
Oh, what's the play?
A revival of Robert Greene's Friar Bacon And Friar Bungay.
Oh, dear God, no.
Oh, worst play ever. Even 7can't make it work, and I'm a genius.
Yes, ‘tis a very mystery why anyone would wish to revive it.
- I'm not interested. - Nor me.
The money's good and a fine dinner promised.
-TI'lldo it. - Me too.
So dispiriting!
I've been standing in the market all day,
and not a single mark be made upon my petition.
- Petition, Kate? - Yes.
I plan to appeal to the municipal authorities to ban bear-baiting.
Why would you want to ban bear-baiting? It's a laugh.
Get a bear, you tie an enraged and distressed ape to its back,
tether it in an arena and then set a pack of half-starved dogs on it.
I mean, what's not to like?
That it's sickeningly cruel and disgustingly savage!
As I say, what's not to like?
Come on, Kate, it's funny.
Watching the big old bear swatting and clawing at the dogs
as they tear lumps out of its flesh.
Life's brutal and hard, Kate. Man needs his sport.
Yes, I do understand that,
which is why I'm trying to promote a meat-free alternative.
Meat-free bear-baiting?
Pear-baiting!
Take a ripe pear, impale a juicy raspberry upon its stalk
and set a pack of reasonably hungry gerbils on it.
All will be merry as the furry creatures nibble ferociously at the juicy fruit.
How long till the pear be eaten?
Who will get the biggest chunk?
It ain't gonna happen, Kate. Man is cruel. It's a fact of life.
But slowly he improves.
Why, in Roman times, "twas not animals
but humans who were savaged to death for entertainment,
so there has been progress.
Which reminds me.
They're disembowelling Catholics at Tyburn this afternoon, Bottom.
Thought I might mooch along.
Love it!
Amazing how long them Catholics stay alive.
I mean, even after they've been disembowelled
and had their privy parts struck
from their bodies and placed within their screaming mouths.
I'm like, "Come on, just die, it's getting boring!"
We could take a picnic.
Oh, except... Damn, I keep forgetting! I'm in hiding.
Zounds! I really wish I'd thought this plan through.
Being dead really limits your social life.
Bottom! Bring ale, bring pie! Your master is returned.
"Please" might be nice. Manners cost nothing.
You, on the other hand, cost a penny a week, so get my bloomin' ale and pie.
Did you have a good journey, Mr Shakespeare?
No, Kate. The natural order remains intact.
Night follows day, the Queen sits upon the throne,
and I had a truly crapsome journey.
Jam-packed and reeking!
I thought you'd decided to pay the ha'penny weekend upgrade
to sit on the posh bench,
so, despite the coach being packed, you'd still have space and comfort.
1did, Bottom, but mark this.
When the coach was packed, those who had not paid the ha‘'penny upgrade
to sit on the posh bench simply thrust themselves upon it anyway.
But did not the coach guard inspect each ticket with stern, unflinching gaze
and order those with standard tickets to vacate the posh bench at once
or suffer a heavy fine?
Yes, Kate, he absolutely did.
Except, hang on, no, he didn't.
He sat atop his distant perch muttering a series of semi-comprehensible remarks
about not stopping at watford,
whilst beneath him all order was forsaken and chaos ruled.
Funny how when the coach be but half-filled with blameless gentlefolk,
the guard is ever-diligent,
forcing sweet old ladies to fossick deep in their satchels
and nursing mothers to lay aside their suckling infants
that they may reach the pockets of their gowns.
But when the coach is ram-packed with strutting hooligans
and their gobbly, over-entitled tarting-slaps,
this same knight of the road be nowhere to be seen.
Thus did I end up paying an upgrade to be forced flat against a window
by three snotsome teenage grotlings
who I knew had not paid the upgrade,
but for 27 hours I had not the gutlings to challenge them!
Harrowing story, master.
You should tell it to a leper or a plaguey some time.
Might help them take their minds off their running sores.
You need to count your blessings.
Yes, Bottom, like having a servant to put my problems into perspective.
So much handier than having one that can cook an edible pie.
However, I shan't allow anything to dent my mood today because, guess what,
I am returned with amazing news.
There's to be a theatre awards night!
And since my plays are currently the only ones running,
I'm bound to scoop the lot!
Goodness! Congratulations, Mr Shakespeare!
All but one award, actually, because, believe it or not,
they're going to honour you, Kit, posthumously,
which, ironically, I also win because I wrote all your plays.
Clean sweep for me. Amazing!
Me? Nominated at an awards ceremony!
Such larks!
Yet I can't go, cos I'm dead.
Curse this ruse of mine.
I wonder who they'll get to collect it.
Oh, they'll try and get in touch with some member of your family, I suppose.
No luck there. All gone to hell years ago.
Unless...
Gadzungles! I begin to see a way out of my current fix
and enter society once more!
Will Mrs Shakespeare be accompanying you to the ceremony, Mr Shakespeare?
I'm sure she'd be thrilled.
Well, I-I know I should ask her, but,
well, these awards will be London's most glamorous night in years.
Sophisticated men, beautiful women...
Are you saying you don't think your wife would be fitting company
for such an occasion?
Duh! She's a milkmaid.
Mr Shakespeare, she is your loyal and loving wife!
I cannot believe that you would
not want her on your arm at your moment of triumph
but would instead seek out some young tarting-slap.
Have you no decency?
No loyalty?
Come on, Kate, this is a work night for me,
a chance to get in with the pamperloins
who despise me as an upstart country bum-shankle.
Having a bit of beautiful, refined and intelligent young totty on my arm
would really help.
So, what I was wondering, Kate, is...
Oh, my goodly godlingtons!
Yes, yes, yes, yes!
Of course I'll be your tarting-slap!
I can't believe it. Me going to the theatre awards
with London's leading playwright!
You-You didn't let me finish, Kate. I...
I was wondering if you'd take a letter of invitation to Emelia Lanier.
Oh-oh, watch out. He's back on the gorgeous, sultry Emelia.
The "dark lady" of his smutty poems.
They were not smutty!
Excuse me.
"Wilt thou, whose will is large and spacious,
"not once vouchsafe to hide my will in thine?"
Eh? We all know what you meant.
Yes. Although I still can't believe you thought a girl would be flattered
to be told she has a large and spacious lady grotto.
And I also can't believe you want me to take your invitation round!
Just thought it was a bit classier than sending Bottom.
I mean, you shouldn't be inviting a woman other than your wife.
Unless, it seems, that woman happens to be you.
Yes. Because you don't want to hide your will in mine,
but you are on record as wanting to hide it in Emelia Lanier's...
large and spacious one.
I thought you were over this "dark lady", master.
Only by necessity, Botsky.
She hinted that I desired her in vain.
You mean she told you she wouldn't want to be seen dead
with a fartsome old baldy-boots from the Midlands like you.
Yes. That's right.
But she might be prepared to be seen with me
at the most glamorous night of London's social calendar.
Right, I'm off to Lucy's for a celebratory quaff.
Wish I could invite you, Kit, but...
Yes. I know. I'm dead.
But watch this space, i' faith,
because I've been nominated for a posthumous theatre award.
This bad boy's back in the game.
Mr Burbage not here, Miss Lucy?
Nor Condell or Kempe?
They rarely miss their Sunday-night quaff.
They have a gig, Mr Shakespeare. Private function at the Inns of Court.
Oh, I see. Some spoilt little girl's 21st, no doubt,
and doting Daddy has booked the big London stars
to do the arse-kicking routine at midnight.
Personally, I think that sort of gig is totally selling out.
You mean, being the writer,
nobody ever pays you a fortune to do a celebrity gig
and you are eaten up with resentment and jealousy.
Yes, that's it, exactly.
Anyway, ale, if you please, Miss Lucy, and pie.
I'm celebrating being nominated in all categories at the London Theatre Awards,
which I'm certain to win, as there appear to be no rival contenders.
Ah-ah-eh-eh. No rivals?
Ha! Where is the fun in that?
In my village, the winner of any contest
was expected to cut off the head of his rival and boil the brains for soup.
Goodness, Lucy. Can such savagery be true?
Ah, of course not. I make up that stuff for the tourists.
It is actually customary for the victor to say to the rival,
"No, really, you should have won, you were much better.
"I was just lucky, really.”
Hm. I can see that is a less interesting anecdote.
Can't believe Emelia‘s actually coming!
First time I've met her
since the unfortunate misunderstanding over sonnet number 130.
When you mentioned her eyes were dull, her hair like wire,
her skin a dullish grey and her breath reeked?
Yes. And, amazingly, she failed to spot
that I was satirising traditional romantic poetry.
You've asked her round pretty early.
The awards aren't for hours.
Are you hoping to grab a chance to hide your will in hers?
No! I... I'm taking her to supper at Lucy's.
What a night!
Dinner with a beautiful, sophisticated girl,
then showing her off during my triumph at a star-studded awards ceremony.
It does not get any better than this!
Mr Shakespeare, I really think you need to remember that you are a married man!
Look, I'm just taking her to dinner.
You can tell yourself that if you like, Mr Shakespeare,
but you and I both know that, given half the chance, you'd be in there
like the eager rodent up the proverbial piping drain!
Oh, God, she's here! This is it!
I'm actually going to take Emelia Lanier on a glamorous night out.
Master...
Madam, this is the greatest moment of my life.
Well, that's nice, love, because I have made a bit of an effort.
Anne!
You're in London?
Yes.
Well, I was sorry that I've been so cross about your big night,
and when you made me change the date of Hamnet's confirmation
I decided I'd come and support you.
Like you said, it's the greatest moment of your life.
What?
Oh, yes, of course. Yeah.
In fact, it's almost like you were expecting somebody.
Are you expecting somebody, Will?
No! Of course not.
Who's that, then?
Nobody! Kate, run and tell Bottom to make sure there's nobody at the door,
and if there is, tell them I've got the plague.
You stay right where you are, Kate!
If there's nobody there, then it won't matter if we find out who it is, will it?
Master... It-It... It's... Mr Shakespeare!
I'm so looking forward to coming to the awards ceremony.
Oh, my God, it's that tart you wrote them smutty poems for!
I beg your pardon?!
William?
Who is this oikish milking-slap?
It's Mr Shakespeare's wife, Emelia.
No doubt come to accompany him to tonight's awards.
Perhaps you and Mrs S would like to join me and Emelia for dinner.
Kit Marlowe!
Ahhh! I thought you were dead!
The resemblance /s shocking, I know, but not Kit.
Kurt.
His ravishing blond twin invited to the awards ceremony to collect Kit's award,
which was why I asked will to invite you on my behalf.
You meant so much to Kit, after all.
Well, yes. I remember his poem.
"Emelia, Emelia, by God, I'd like to feel ya."
So much better than Mr Shakespeare's disgusting sonnet
about putting his will in my...
well, exactly.
Will and I were hoping that you would be my date in memory of Kit.
- Isn't that right, will? - Yes, absolutely.
I'd thought to go alone, but now you are here, my darling Anne,
things couldn't be merrier.
Ooh, I'm having a lovely time quaffing ale and gorging pie in a London tavern!
Who'd have thought it, eh?
Me, a common milk-slap from Stratford?
Woohoo!
D'you know, I think I'll spend some more time with you in town, Will,
now that the kids are getting older.
Won't that be wonderful?
Yes, my love.
Wonderful.
Ah, Will and... Good God, it's a ghost!
No ghost, Mr Burbage.
I'm Kit's brother, Kurt, come to collect his posthumous award.
Well, you've certainly got the better hair.
Well...
Welcome, Kurt, and an exciting night of awards ahead, I think.
Hm. Exciting? Ha-ha, don't think so.
Not Italian, is it? It's just London, so...
Shut up, Kempe.
Are you nervous, Mr Shakespeare?
Like the tired antelope who thought his wife nodded at a leafy glade
and said, "Lie down there,"
only to discover she said, “Lion down there.”
‘Tis I who am the lion tonight, Miss Lucy.
All the other companies left town during the last plague
and are still touring.
I can't see that there's actually going to be any other nominations at all.
Can you think of any recent productions, Burbage?
Any one-off Sunday-night revivals?
Er...
Mrs Shakespeare!
So glad I caught you.
I'm afraid a letter has followed you from Stratford.
Nothing serious, it says, but Susanna and Judith are both a bit feverish.
Your mother-in-law says not to worry
but that she'd feel better if you were to come home.
Oh, dear.
Oh, how disappointing!
Who'd be a mum, eh?
Oh, I'm sorry, Will.
I so wanted to support you on your big night, but good luck.
And don't forget Hamnet's confirmation, and you come home just as soon as you can.
Of course, wife.
Burdened down by many an interestingly shaped statuette, no doubt.
Well, now, very sorry to see her go.
Very sorry indeed.
But it occurs to me, Emelia,
that it does mean that you can now be my guest, as planned.
Hm...
I kind of think I'll stick where I am.
Oh, right.
So, Mr Shakespeare...
One spare ticket, eh?
If you were in need of some highly attractive
and sophisticated young totty...
Yes, I am, Kate. Do you know any?
I mean me!
Oh. Yes, right. Of course.
Yeah, all right, hello.
Welcome to the famous Red Lion Theatre for the first annual London Theatre Awards.
I'm Will Kempe, yeah?
I'm brilliant, by the way. Hm! Just saying.
Oh, look at you all!
All thinking, "Ooh, I really hope I win!"
What for? For being rubbish at acting?
What's the difference between you lot and Mary Queen of Scots?
She only died horribly in front of a large crowd once.
I see Sir Francis Drake's just been buried at sea off Cadiz in full armour.
I bet he went down better than most of you lot.
I think he's misjudged the mood of the room.
I think he's brilliant. So dry.
So edgy.
He's just being rude.
Anyway, lovely to be here.
Well, what I mean is, lovely to be paid to be here.
I can't think of any other reason.
Unless you're some desperate old luvvie-kissie
who'll go anywhere for a free drink, like most of you lot.
Why are they laughing? He's saying they're all desperate.
He's just so out there.
Just doesn't care. Such a cooling dude.
He's just being arrogant and unpleasant.
He's just so dry and edgy.
He's not dry and edgy.
He's just slagging everyone off for being a pampered luvvie-kissie,
even though beneath the thin veneer of post-Renaissance ironic cool
he's the biggest pampered luvvie-kissie of the lot.
And if there's one thing more irritating than being a pampered luvvie-kissie
attending a gala evening forpampered luvvie-kissies,
being slagged off by a pampered luvvie-kissie,
it's having all the other pampered luvvie-kissies in the room
pretending to be wryly amused and in on the joke
in the desperate hope that it'll make them look less like pampered luvvie-kissies.
Well, I like being a pampered luvvie-kissie.
I amuse people for a living and never killed anyone,
and when I win all my interestingly shaped statuettes tonight,
I'm not going to pretend that I think that everyone else is as good as me,
because I don't.
And I'm not going to bang on about suffering and poverty,
because it's neither my fault nor in my power to change!
I'm going to whoop and cheer and possibly do a little victory dance,
because I'm bloomin' best and I want a prize.
So... first bit of pointless self-congratulation -
sorry, I meant award - is the best revival.
And to present it, we've got an actor
who has done a lot to stop starvation. Yeah?
By eating all the pies!
Please welcome Dickie Burbage.
Ah!
And the nominations for best revival are...
Richard II, by Will Shakespeare, currently enjoying
its fifth triumphant season in London repertory.
Oh, God, I so didn't expect to win this,
I haven't prepared a speech at all.
And Friar Bacon And Friar Bungay by Robert Greene,
performed for one night only at the refectory in the Inns of Court.
What?!
And the winner is...
Robert Greene, Friar Bacon And Friar Bungay!
So sorry, Mr Shakespeare. I know you wanted to win so much.
Nonsense. Like it matters. As if. It's all crappage anyway.
Besides, that was only for a revival. I'll win everything else.
The nominations for best tragedy are...
Julius Caesar, by Will Shakespeare...
And the winner is...
Robert Greene, Friar Bacon And Friar Bungay.
Nominations for best comedy, Much Ado About Nothing, by Will Shakespeare...
The winner is...
Robert Greene, Friar Bacon And Friar Bungay.
Best actor in a male role...
Richard Burbage
for Friar Bacon in Robert Greene's Friar Bacon And Friar Bungay.
Will Kempe as Ralph Simnel in Robert Greene's friar Bacon...
And I'intend to make an absolute beast of myself at the afterparty
in his honour!
Henry Condell for the Fair Maid of Fressingfield
in Robert Greene's Friar Bacon And Friar Bungay!
As an actor who plays female roles,
I would like to accept this on behalf of all actors who play female roles.
Their courage, their strength, their passion.
We need more and better roles for actors who play female roles.
We are not just the totty.
We are not just eccentric old ladies.
We are strong, we are passionate,
and we demand an equal voice in this industry.
Be angry, be fierce.
Dare to dream!
Thank you.
Yes, it's me.
I'm home, and, no, since you ask, Idid nothave a good journey.
My coach was massively delayed out of Long Compton because of,
and I quote, "the late arrival of the incoming service".
And this, mark you, was offered as an excuse,
as if somehow that made everything all right.
"The incoming service was late.
"whoopee! We're off the hook.
"All guilt be absolved.”
Except, hang on, who exactly was running this incoming service?
Genghis Khan, the Bishop of Bath and Wells,
the recently encountered Cherokee and Mohawk tribes
of the North American Seaboard?
No! The same people who are running my outgoing coach.
Two late coaches does not make it better.
Imagine if I tried that in the theatre.
"Sorry, no play tonight, I haven't written it.
"But don't worry, I haven't written the previous one either.”
well, hello to you lot, too, thanks very much.
And since you asked, no, I didn't win any prizes,
because Robert Greene got all his Oxbridge mates to vote for him.
Well, Bolingbrokes to the lot of them!
I am returned, as promised, for Hamnet's confirmation, so let us...
Dad... Daughter?
Hamnet's dead.
Dead?
Plague, husband.
Our one in three.
Ithank a merciful God that he left us Susanna and Judith to be our comfort.
Merciful God?
Don't, husband.
Don't hate God nor, worse, deny him.
I owe God nothing.
Our son is lost to us!
Not lost, never lost.
Just gone before.
I have to believe that, will, and that God is merciful.
Otherwise I can't...
Ican't..
He didn't suffer long, william.
A single night.
It began... just before sunset.
And he left us as the sun rose.
He said he'd see you in heaven, Dad.
But that you weren't to rush, cos he knew how busy you are.
He said we could have his confirmation then.
So just you tell me you believe, husband.
Tell me you believe we'll see him again,
that God took him for a purpose and that one day we'll be reunited!
You're the clever one.
You always know the answers, so tell me you believe!
Yes, Anne.
Yes, of course I believe.
Such a light as shone in our son couldn't be extinguished in an instant.
It shines bright and clear in heaven.
We'll see it in the stars tonight.
And they will guide us to him
when our own time comes.
Yes.
Yes, they will.
In the meantime, in the morning there'll be the cow to milk
and maize to grind and fires to set.
There isn't a family in England that hasn't got empty places at the table.
And we have only one.
Like I said, God is merciful.
Do you, Dad?
Daughter?
Do you really believe that Hamnet's light still shines?
Yes, Sue.
In you, in Judith, in his mother's heart, and in mine.
In... In every thought we have and breath we take,
as long as we live.
But in heaven, Dad?
Do you believe we'll see him again?
To hold him and kiss him, to shout at him and scold him?
No, daughter, I don't.
But your mother does.
And for all that she says I'm the clever one,
in my experience, she's right about most things.
Grief fills the room up of my absent child
Lies in his bed Walks up and down with me
Puts on his pretty looks Repeats his words
Remembers me of all his gracious parts
Stuffs out his vacant garments with his form
Then, have I reason to be fond of grief?