Alice, I've been doing a bit of research into my ancestry at that well-known website,

Ancestral.com. And this is incredible. I am actually descended from true blue blood.

Wow.

Basically a baron.

So from now on, I would appreciate it if you would address me correctly as Your Excellency.

There's absolutely no way I'm going to do that.

If you refuse, it's treason.

Well, wait a minute.

I don't know if I trust your printouts from this dodgy website. Maybe I'm from aristocracy. Hmm. I'll check yours. Just as you're from rural loser stock, you just worked with the soil. I mean, mole people, it's as bad as it gets. Loser stock doesn't even... Wait a sec, you've mixed up your papers. That says Alice on it. And that says Matt, I'm the royal one.

Yeah, I'm fine with that because that, well, that explains where I get my work ethic and my strong values because I've had to fight against that injustice and that inequality all my life. Whereas you, you just have it handed you on a plate.

Oh my God, I'm so sorry, I'm reading upside down.

No, you are the royal one and I am the mole people.

Get out of my side, you peasant filth.

June 1973, Crown Office, Royal Courts of Justice, London.

51-year-old Geoffrey Russell strides through the grand entrance hall, gripping his briefcase.

His mother's face flashes in his mind.

She's waited her whole life for this moment, even fought for it in these very courtrooms.

He doesn't want it dragged out any longer. He's determined that by the time he leaves this building,

he'll have written confirmation that he's the fourth Baron Amthil.

He reaches the clerk's office and rings the bell,

impatiently drums his fingers on the counter.

Geoffrey sighs as the clerk disappears,

...