Original subtitles

The sudden death on live television of a man claiming to be Nikita Khrushchev

and managing editor Harry Stringer's discovery that he was actually a

mental patient have scuppered plans for Fleet Street's biggest ever exclusive by

Twiggy Rathbone's Daily Crucible.

Now, editor Russell Spam is concentrating all his energies on a new

the paper's circulation.

Statistical breakdown in this category, therefore, can be extrapolated as

follows.

Small but young and tender, 15 .3%. Firm and well -rounded,

33 .5%. Large and bouncy, 41 .2%. Thank you, Max.

The ideal breast end, gentlemen, is this one here.

Max, we commissioned a second market research report.

on how much people like to see them wobbling about.

Morning, John.

Morning, Bill. A bit warmer today, I think. Morning.

Quivering gently like a jelly.

27 .5%. Flapping right up and down.

That's got 51 .6%. What are you asking?

You're passing on the Eldon Marbles.

I think we should run it in full.

See what you think.

Will do, Harry.

Bye.

We conclude, therefore, that this particular motion has the proven maximum

appeal right... It's the only way to demolish the competition, Harry.

They've done pictures of topless girls, they've done coloured pictures of

topless girls, but we've got to go one better.

Moving pictures of topless girls.

I think I can feel one of my headaches coming off.

Now, what do you see?

Three different colour pictures, one on top of another. Now then, put these on.

What is this?

The glasses contain three different coloured filters. Now, push them very

quickly back into place faster.

The faster they... Harry!

See how they bounce up and down.

Plus, they put a million on sales overnight. The Crucible unveils its

weapon in the circulation war.

What was this?

This is monstrous, Russell.

I've never seen such a... I've never seen such lurid rubbish in all of my

I agree, Harry. We withdraw it immediately. I don't care. I absolutely

What? You've opened my eyes, Harry. It's cheap. It's tawdry. We'll ditch the

whole thing at once.

Oh, well... No matter that we've already spent half a million on the printing

and the glasses and another half a million on promotion.

I'll ring up the board straight away.

Oh, Rob Paul.

I'll tell them that Harry Singer says a million pounds is a small price to pay

for editorial integrity.

Russell, put that phone down.

Yes, Harry?

As long as they don't wobble about too much.

I want to speak to one of your reporters.

Urgently.

I'm sorry I didn't get in, Bill. The hangman piece.

I know how much you had to dig to get that one.

Needless. Do you want some finger licking?

That damn Khrushchev farce.

Even I believed it was him. That's what really worries me.

Thought I must be a moron.

Yeah.

Mustache was the story.

Some woman with a story she wants to tell. Oh, right. See you then.

If her tits wobble, I'll get her picture, all right.

So what are the contenders for the front now, picture -wise?

Why, they're down to two, really.

The earthquake at Santiago, or Mr Rathbone's Angel of Mercy mission to

Bangladesh.

Angela Murphy, twiggy rapper.

Hey, out of the goodness of his heart, our publisher has just flown halfway

round the world in the cause of international famine relief distributing

the needy. Food?

Six million rat -bite chocolate bars.

They're naked by the Cocoa Products division of Rat House International. If

isn't a gesture of generosity deserving front -page coverage, I don't know what

is. How about a follow -up on hanging?

Labour's pledged repeal as soon as they're re -elected.

Lovely news, Harry. They've been saying that right through the campaign. I see.

We didn't carry it then. Why should we bother now?

I hope you're not trying to steer this paper to the right behind my back,

Russell. May God strike me dead, Harry. What have I got to gain by sucking up to

McNamara and his Tory government anyway?

A knighthood in the birthday honours list? You caught me out of words with

rumour, Harry. I suppose I've heard of that.

I won't stand for what you know, Russell.

Reds under the beds, left -wing scare stories.

character assassination for political gain. I've seen it happen too often.

That's like a knife through my heart, Harry, to think that I, who worship

everything you stand for, should take some innocent citizen and turn him

overnight into a national left -wing bogeyman just for cheap sensationalism.

Madam. Ah, is that the religious affairs correspondent, Father Teasdale, here?

No, no, you've been put through to the wrong extension.

Ah, good. I wondered if you could include a small paragraph to let people

that I should be staying on for a while at Trinidad.

I was moving out, but what with my varicose veins... This is the editor's

office. But I don't see why they should close the church door just like that, do

you? In fact, I'm thinking of writing to the bishop. You shivering old fool!

Some senile old devil wants to stop his church being shut down, just as if I...

Max?

Give me Greg Kettle in here.

At once.

I swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.

Thank God.

Are you sure all this is necessary, Mr Kettle? It's standard practice in

newspaper interviews, Father. We have to separate fact from fiction.

But I am a member of the Catholic Church, you know.

Richard Nixon was a quaker, but he didn't get the better of us.

What am I supposed to have done wrong? Well, that's what we're here to find

isn't it, Father? Father!

There was a nasty piece of work from the gutter place.

Came round a minute ago, but I managed to get rid of him. He was trying to... I

told you you're not to see him. The father's got flu.

He may have typhus or chronic ringworm, madam. I won't catch it. Oh, I come from

a very sturdy stock.

I've interviewed lepers before today.

But thank you anyway for the tip. Perhaps you could breathe away from me

whenever possible, father.

You are Father Edward Teasdale, incumbent priest at the parish of St

here in Islington?

Yes. A church which the authorities say must close due to falling attendance.

Yes, yes. Yet you are still here, Father.

Well, I thought I'd try and stay on and change the bishop's mind. You see, what

I really want to do... You are, in effect, staging a wildcat sit -in to

your employers butchering the industry.

Right, that's quite... Father Teasdale, how long have you been a radical

Marxist?

Miss Chandler?

Yes.

Miss Sharon Chandler?

Yes. Oh, your voice sounds different on the phone.

Sharon's washing her hair. What do you want?

Bill Fittler, Daily Crucible. She rang us up. Sounded urgent.

Hang on.

I was just washing my hair.

So I see.

Well?

Come in.

So, I wonder if we could just go over the story of yours once again, only we

want to be dead sure we've got it right with something as big as this, don't we?

Basically, your pet tabby cat, Gertrude, looks like Princess Michael of Kent.

Right.

Every time anyone sees her, they always say, my goodness, that cat looks exactly

like Princess Michael.

Correct.

Now, Gertrude is grey and white in colour, with big blue eyes and a

snout. She's six and a half years old, and her favourite food is liver, rabbit

and kilt.

As I say, I'm sorry she's not here for you to see.

Only my boyfriend... Keith.

I had to take her to the vets this morning to have her put down.

Yeah, that's why Sharon seems a bit upset, you see.

Fine.

Well, thanks very much for calling me up. And, uh, here, don't go giving this

story to the Guardian now, will you?

No, of course not.

Thank you for calling, Mr Titler. Pleasure.

Uh, I hope you don't mind me asking this, Keith. You see, the thing is, I've

a bit of a problem. I can't find clothes to fit me.

Sorry. Well, you see, that suit you're wearing, that's obviously a hand -cut

-made -to -measure job.

Now, what is that? Savile Row, is it? Well, look.

Buttons, off the peg.

Pull the other one.

Oh, straight up.

No, really, where did you get it?

Italian, is it? Oh, my life, look.

Shame about the shoes.

Incredible. All these years that I never realised I was a radical Marxist.

I have a knack of winkling these things out. Is this your diary?

Yes, sir.

I'm afraid I shall have to confiscate it.

And we shall also need an up -to -date photograph of you.

So I'll have to ask you to accompany me back to the office to have one taken.

Can you do that?

Yes, I'm afraid so.

I'll just get my coat on then. And be quick about it, if you would.

It doesn't do to keep Her Majesty's dress waiting.

I'm ready, look.

I won't have to wear handcuffs, will I?

It's rather up to you, isn't it, Father?

Come on.

Start your day with a sizzle from the white -hot crucible and see the

discovery of the age, wobble vision.

Favorite luscious lovelies in full quivering glory with the special glasses

in every issue.

Only in the crucible, the paper with integrity.

Let the Red Blast Church Act Threat.

A fanatical left -wing priest from North London this week launched a massive

campaign of bully -boy tactics designed to bring the country to its knees.

Speaking to our reporter at his criminal -style headquarters, a man who has been

dubbed Casto in a classic denied any political motive behind his protest

church closure.

But sources... close to the militant Jesus week, they'd be hell -bent on the

destruction.

This is disgraceful. Absolutely disgraceful, Mrs Beattie. How they ever

dreadful man like that become a priest after all.

You're talking about you, Father.

I knew we should never have left that snake in the grass in here.

And how you could ever...

Never let them persuade you to have your picture taken.

We said it would be more natural if I was reading a newspaper.

But the morning star farmed.

Speaking to Lloyd, Richard and Kelvin at lunch, Max, they said none of their

papers had the slightest intention of copying our wobbling girls' idea. That

means every tabloid in Fleet Street will have them by next Monday.

Well, you know what they say, Russell.

Tits sell newspapers.

Fortunately for us, they also buy them.

the Teasdale leader column, a pox on this creature of pestilence as the

speaks its mind.

It's a shame Harry Springer can't be here to oversee this editorial.

It's the one thing he was obsessed with keeping an eye on.

No news out there still, I suppose.

No.

No, he's still trapped down there, Russell.

Electronic locks must have jammed on his doors and windows.

He's been in there seven hours now.

Company cars all over. Still, I can speak for Harry.

Word of one mind, he and I. Now, then, where were we? Power -crazed parson, Ted

the Red.

Teasdale is a cause for national shame. Ted the Red underlined, I think.

Power -crazed parson in 12 -point bold pipe.

OK, Max?

Father Teasdale himself was unavailable for comment as he'd gone to bed early.

Meanwhile, reaction to the Crucible story has been swift.

Seventeen other priests in North London have already announced the outcome out

on strike instantly and have protested against the church closure.

Father, Edwin O 'Brien of John the Divine Camden says it's the thin end of

wedge. We are not prepared to see hard -working colleagues thrown on the

Russell.

Mary! They've cut you out at last! Never mind they've cut me out at last.

Have you seen the news?

Have you seen what effect this Ted the Red rubbish of yours is having?

It's spreading like wildfire.

It's just the sort of thing. I am a prisoner.

Mike's going to be upstairs. I've just got some something to promote.

We'll talk about this later, Harry.

I don't think I wear a cross.

Did you get anywhere today?

There's something dodgy going on there, no doubt about that.

I just don't know what it is.

Need some ferreting out.

Can I have a pint of tantrum, please, Archie? It's criminal, Bill.

What they're doing for the Crucible. Criminal.

Circulation shot up.

Anything will shoot up if you put naked women all over it.

It's a travesty. The profession I joined 33 years ago.

When I was a reporter your age on the Macclesfield Echo, journalism was a

noble career.

To serve society through the dispassionate...

Execution.

Long to meet you.

Free from corruption.

Great!

Oh!

They've cut you out at last then, Harry.

Who were those people you were paying that money to?

Oh, uh, just, uh, ordering my Christmas card, Harry.

I used to do it early.

Oh, by the way, Bill, a letter came for you about half an hour ago. Greg, I

demand to know... Hang about, Harry.

Lots to do.

Bye.

I'll see you around, Bill.

Yeah, right. See you, Mr Stringer.

I've just been out on the stairs to read tomorrow's leader column.

Sam!

I've never seen such a piece of pernicious dribble in my life. Sorry,

we've got more pressing problems than that. Read the facts. We'll be coming in

from PA.

Yeah, go on.

Statement from BMA noon today confirms regular use of crucible glasses can lead

to migraines and permanent damage to vision.

Oh, my God.

Stop that. You'll go blind.

A witness to scenes of mob terror as pickets tried to disrupt the annual

fair. F for Freddy, A -Y -R -A.

Militant supporters of Father Teasdale were out in force as moderate

parishioners attempted to defy the strike with homemade trickle cards.

was viciously kicked in the stomach as he attempted to deliver the lucky dip.

But the ugliest moment came at 3 .35 when one of the pickets lobbed a

bomb at the church hall room.

More scenes of unparalleled violence are expected tomorrow.

This morning, just back from his mercy mission to the third world. He said it's

a shame about the wobbling breasts, but he doesn't hold it against you, Harry.

Oh, right.

What do you mean he doesn't hold it against me? I wanted to call a halt to

whole thing. It was you who insisted on going ahead, remember?

But I... That was... The only answer now is to pull the plug completely.

That's why we call this special news conference. I think this press release

it all.

Go blind, glasses, jibes, sinks, copycat, bull bounce plan.

The shock revelation that a new pair of gimmick glasses can ruin your eyesight

has scotched plans by the Middleson and Starr to launch a new Wobblevision war

in Fleet Street.

Crucible editor Russell Spammer, whose own paper courageously abandoned the

after only two days, said, the man who hatched up the whole concept, executive

managing editor Harry Stringer, has admitted he was wrong. The health of our

readers must come first.

You mean to tell me that all the other tabloids were just about to follow suit?

Between them, they've just printed eight million pairs of glasses, Harry. Now

they'll have to scrap them off.

Look, sir, if the only people who've benefited from all this are the firm

make the glasses, I just think they're laughing all the way to the bank.

That is correct. The firm which manufactured the glasses, Rat Print

Optics, is, as they say, Rat Eyes International.

It is not my policy, however, gentlemen, to make cheap capital out of the

blunders of my fellow proprietors in Fleet Street.

Making cheap capital is the dog's turd on the path to prosperity.

Instead, as a gesture of my magnanimity, I shall be donating all the profits

from the manufacture of the glasses to charity.

They'll be used to pay for the six million rat -bite bars I distributed in

Bangladesh.

YMCA car park?

Mr.

Dickler.

What is this?

You have been to see the girl, Sharon Chandler.

She told you nothing.

Yeah, well, she was being leaned on, wasn't she? Rather heavily.

Now, who are you and what's this all about?

Listen, if you're trying to wind me up... I will tell you just this much, Mr

Titler.

The rest is up to you.

The man your newspaper thought was Khrushchev, Donald

Kupelsky... The bloke that died in the box?

What are you trying to say?

I repeat, Kupelski's death was no accident.

On any page you'll find disaster, servant killing off his master, and a

with some sordid sex appeal.

Someone's secrets we have grabbed, famous facts that we have stabbed.

Now you know what?