Original subtitles

Twiggy Rathbone's Daily Crucible, in the hands of its editor, Russell Spam, and

reporter Greg Kettle, has seized on Father Teasdale's mild protest to stop

parish church being closed down and blown it up into a major left -wing

story, despite managing editor Harry Stringer's desperate efforts to maintain

the paper's integrity.

Reporter Bill Titler, meanwhile, has received an anonymous tip -off that a

former mental patient who claimed to be Khrushchev and who died during a live

television interview was murdered.

I wouldn't wrap chips in this edition, Ross.

Why are we going on and on about this poor man, Father Teasdale?

Twenty things you never knew about the Pink Padre.

One, he was born under the same star as Lenin.

Two, his dental records are remarkably similar to those of Ho Chi Minh.

Three, he has never formally denied being a member of the Baader -Meinhof

Hard facts, Harry!

It's not for us to brush tooth under the carpet.

Harold Stringer.

Now, Mr Rathbone, only I'm in the middle of some very pressing... Yes, all

right, in your office.

First -rate job, Harry. This edition marks a new pinnacle in journalism.

I'm very flattered, Mr Rathbone, but I really don't feel... Flattery is the

floating cockroach in the milk of human kindness. I didn't come here to butter

you up.

Take a look at this.

That's a spitting image, isn't it?

Sunday's episode. I'll just fast forward through and stop it anywhere at random.

Ah, come in, spare.

What's our latest gimmick to boost circulation?

Well, how about this one, your most tricky rathbonus? From tomorrow, with

copy. Daily Crucible, you get a free naked lady.

Naked lady.

Yes, and you just open the paper like this, and I'll drop the real line.

give away a free naked lady.

Oh, don't break, sir. I think I'm going to have an orgasm.

I'm big enough, Harry. I can take it.

It's the royal family I feel sorry for. They can't...

That kind of savage caricature's water off a duck's back to me, Harry.

I shan't be after the blood of those Oxbridge rejects with that schoolboy

humour.

I can take a joke.

Morning, Mr Rathbun.

So, you and the editor were with Kubelski in the green room for seven.

You broke for supper, went on the air at nine, and it... Two minutes past, the

old man was dead, apparently from a heart attack.

Does all this really matter now, Bill?

The Khrushchev house is ancient history.

Suppose my contact's on the level. Suppose he didn't die a natural death.

contact? A lobotomy case who rings you up in underground car parks and calls

himself sore throat?

If we printed every story we got from Cracks, there'd be no space left for the

real serious news.

Now, this is the one I want you to... I want you to cover this one.

An old man in Falkirk who's got a ferret that looks like Princess Margaret.

Nice one, Russell.

Find some more and work it into a feature.

The gerbil that looks like Viscount Linley.

The natterjack toad that's a dead ring of Queen Beatrix of the Netherlands.

Mr. Stringer did expressly say I was to dig around in this one for a bit. Is

Andy out there?

Get him in here the moment he comes back, will you? Now, the only people who

would get near Cabelgate were yourself, the editor, the interviewer and the LWT

staff nurse. Do you really believe that geriatric lunatic was murdered? Do you

really believe nobody else would have found out by now?

Do you believe anything?

I didn't believe he was Christian.

Ben!

What's the latest on Father Teasdale?

57 more priests on strike today, Russell.

They see the threat to close St Ninian's as the tip of the iceberg.

Of course, the church is denied having any hit list, but then so did Henry

There's a lot of priests still trying to work normally, but being hampered by

mass picketing.

I saw a christening today where the baby had to be passed down a line of

policemen like a rugby ball.

You stay with it, Greg, but whatever you do, keep close tabs on Teasdale. He's

the key to the whole story.

He looks a bit fierce, Mrs Beattie.

He doesn't bite, does he?

He's a guard dog, Father. Of course he bites.

I didn't borrow him to run up to an intruder and have his tummy tickled.

I'm going to give Lobo his supper. Whatever you do, don't open the door to

more reporters to hear me under any circumstances.

Come on. Of course I won't, Mrs Beattie. Of course not.

No.

Goodness me.

Oh, man.

Father,

what are you doing? He's having a heart attack. We must wrap him in a blanket

and get an ambulance.

Let me in.

You're obstructing a citizen from going to his place of work.

I'll have your assets sequestrated for this. Get out of this house.

Stop it. Nothing, Father.

Do away.

Please go away. We don't like you. We don't want you here.

I'm frightfully busy. I can't possibly talk.

No, actually, this time I came to talk about... Mr. Kubelski, yes?

Well, I suppose someone told you I gave him an injection before he went on the

air. All right. Yes, I did. What of it?

There's nothing sinister in that, is there, Mr. Titler?

Why does everyone keep hounding me?

For Christ's sake, leave me alone!

Oh, sorry to drag you from your work again, Harry. This seems to have been

delivered to my office completely by mistake, not like a freelance submission

for a TV column.

Libby Molesworth, bitch of the box.

Freezy and biting, she comes out fighting.

At a glance, I'd say it was well worth inclusion.

A good comedy show on TV is like a drop in the ocean. Spitting image is like a

plop in the lavatory.

The most popular TV show was a cruel and ugly rubber dolly purporting to

represent the fine aquiline features of Mr. Terence Rathbone, the distinguished

millionaire philanthropist.

Lampoon it may be, but lampoons are the embarrassing understain on the fabric of

society.

He pulls my punches, Harry.

Quiet.

Um... We have a slight problem here, Mr Rathbun, in that the NGA have a work to

rule on at the moment over manning levels.

And, um, if, heaven forbid for Ms Molesworth turned out not to be a member

the NUJ, I'm afraid they'd simply refuse to set the copy.

If we did run the column, there are some malicious -minded people who might

think we only printed it so that you could get your own back on spitting

Finish the thought, Harry. I've no axe to grind with that heap of excrement.

So, if that's all, sir.

Only I do seem to be spending an awful lot of my time up here just lately when

really I ought to be attending to matters on the paper.

I agree, Harry. Next time, don't bother me unless it's important. Good morning.

Supposing someone did want to bump the old man off.

They get the studio enough to slip something into the insulin jab, then put

frighteners on him to make sure he doesn't talk.

Yes, but, Howard, don't you ever stop eating.

No disrespect, but this is just the sort of deep scandal expose I cut my teeth

on as a cub reporter for the Osmistry comic.

The first question you've got to answer is, if Kubelki was poisoned, why didn't

it show up at the post -mortem?

If only there was some way we could find out what was in the pathologist's

report. You could try reading it.

That's one possibility.

How did you get hold of it?

Made down at the coroner's office.

As you can see, cause of death, heart failure.

Maybe worth having a word with the doctor, though.

I thought I'd pay him a call tomorrow morning.

Yes.

Right. This is very interesting, though.

That's it.

Shettles. Still out on the Teasdale story.

I think he's found some new angle on it.

That's what worries me.

A short history of werewolves?

The werewolf of serious studies.

Lycanthropes and man -beasts, do they exist in modern society?

Ridiculous. Even Kettle couldn't work these into a newspaper story.

So, in the last 25 years, that's 548 legs of lamb, 139 necks of lamb,

274 shoulders of lamb, 141 lambs' livers.

In other words, if we put all these together, Father Teasdale has, to your

certain knowledge, devoured no fewer than 137 dead sheep.

Don't mind the questions.

Out of the way, please, my dear. The Majesty's breath.

Can't I ever have an early night, Russell?

Can't I ever leave this building before the press is rolled without you

committing this sort of front -page atrocity?

I agree, Harry, the layout's an abortion. We were pushed for time.

I'm not talking about the layout, Russell. As you well know, I'm talking

this. Ted the Red in Wolfman Riddle.

Grey Kettle probes the ghastly goings -on in St Ninian's churchyard.

Speculation was growing today that militant left -wing clergyman Father

may be hiding a grim and grisly secret.

I offer no rational explanation for the macabre events that transpired when I

called on him two nights ago. Let readers judge for themselves.

Fact.

Seconds after Teasdale had disappeared from view, a hideous wolf -like beast

materialised in the hallway...

savage me to death.

Fact. Teasdale and the wolf -like creature were never seen together at the

time.

Fact. It was a night with a full moon. Fact. The wolf was still wearing a dog

collar.

The word flimsy seems woefully inadequate.

I agree, Harry.

But sensationalism for sensationalism's sake.

The crucible's duty is to give fair on... highest coverage to all citizens,

they rich or poor, black or white, human or werewolf.

Precisely. That's why he is not a werewolf.

There's no such thing as werewolves. I want a full retraction on this in

tomorrow's paper.

And no arguments.

You see?

Look at this.

Letters of complaint flooding in already.

I was appalled by such callous treatment of such an innocent man.

A spiteful attack that charted new dimensions of bad taste.

I refer, of course, to the hideous puppet of Mr Terence Frathbone that

the nation's TV.

Are all these letters about spitting image?

Came in this morning. Three shackfuls of them.

They all seem to be in the same handwriting.

I'm no expert, Harry.

And there's no address on any of them.

You know our rule, Russell.

If we can't check them out, we don't publish them.

Are you sure you don't spike them?

Greg?

I want a word.

So, you examined Mr.

Kabelsky's body, Doctor.

What exactly did you come up with, then?

Come up with?

It was a post -mortem, Mr. Titler, not a lucky dip.

One follows a precise procedure.

First, you fold back the skin and muscles, expose the thoracic cavity.

Then you look at the heart.

As you can see, this is a perfectly sound and healthy one.

That's lucky there, Nick.

No problem with the pumping action here. Now just you give that a squeeze.

if I recall.

His heart was more like a deep frozen pizza.

Hard and emaciated.

You all right, Mr. Titler?

Yes, I'm fine.

I'm supposing someone had been poisoned.

How would you find that out?

Send some blood samples down to the PATH lab. They'd run various tests.

You did that with Kabelsky, did you?

I've already told you, Mr. Titler. One look at his heart was enough to tell me

what he died of.

so it wasn't necessary to make blood tests.

Besides, one can tell a great deal about the state of the blood from a liver

biopsy. Now, if I just take a big slice...

First

time you've examined a dead body, I take it.

Well, I did once interview Selina Scott.

I've answered all your questions.

Yes, thanks very much for your help, Doctor.

Oh, sorry, there was just one thing.

Kabelsky was, of course, a diabetic. That has nothing at all to do with his

death. You know, lack of, um, whatever it is, insulin.

You're certain about that?

Perfectly certain. There was no evidence of insulin deficiency at all.

How do you know if he didn't carry out a blood test?

Oh, of course, the studio knows. She'd only just given him a fresh dose half an

hour before, hadn't she? Yes, yes, that's right.

How you stick this job beats me, Doctor.

You know, half an hour I've been here and it's already affecting my brain. Do

you know, a minute ago, I thought I saw that corpse over there move.

Pathetic, isn't it?

Anyway, bye.

Thanks again.

You asked us to print a retraction, Harry.

It took me four and a half hours to find it, Russell.

Three across.

He is not really a werewolf.

I agree, Harry. Shab is not the word for it.

Shabs must have misheard my instructions. I said, print it on page

three columns.

They must have thought I said, make it into a crossword clue.

Have you any idea what it's like, Mr. Stringer?

To get threatening phone calls from sheep farmers in Inverary.

Mrs. Beattie, I really am... To wake up in the middle of the night and find the

local Tory party agent trying to fire a silver bullet through the window.

He's a frightened man, Mr. Stringer. He just sits here all day long,

convinced he can see the hair growing on his hands.

We will be making full reparations. I am personally writing a long and detailed

apology, which will appear prominently right across tomorrow's front page.

At this time, I assure you, the Daily Crucible will emerge with honour.

There must be some reason for this, Mr Rathburn.

I mean, if our advertising rates are too high, we could... Is there something

wrong with your hand?

Just a touch of writer's cramp. Anyway, my mind's...

This week I shall be cancelling all our peak -time TV commercials for the

following products. Rat bite dairy assortment.

Rat cake Yorkshire bitter.

Rat race sports cycles oil of rat baby lotion. Rat American airways.

Rat 69.

Two cyber -rich rat brand breakfast flakes. You see, to be frank, Mr.

I'm worried about our brand image.

Brand image.

The name of Rat House is a byword for quality and integrity.

Attributes not currently shared, I'm afraid, by the programs put out from

TV station.

Programs? I'm not thinking out any one show in particular. You've only got to

open the TV Times any day of the week to see the sort of garbage I'm talking

about.

Ah.

Champagne!

Don't blame yourself, Harry. It could happen to anyone.

How could they do this to me, Russell?

What does it look like?

Recent articles in the Crucible have suggested that Father Edward Teasdale

be preyed for supernatural forces.

Today, executive managing editor Harold Stringer sets out the fact in Mr.

Teasdale's defense.

Nothing! A complete lie!

They all think it's a gimmick that we're refusing to apologise. It's a disaster.

You weren't to know, Harry, that your NUJ membership had just expired.

By three days, Russell.

If they'd told me, I could have renewed.

When comps worked to rule, they worked to rule. The copy was black. There was

nothing I could do about it.

I often wonder if I should have died while I was still young.

Spam?

Oh, yes.

He's right here, Mr Rathbone.

Oh, for goodness sake, sir, if I hear one more syllable about spitting image,

won't be responsible for my... Spitting image?

I'm over that one now, Harry.

I'm just being an old fellow.

Where are we if we can't laugh at ourselves?

This show's a real tonic. All good, clean harm is fine. I can't wait to see

tomorrow night's episode.

This is...

Dog was in here, that one.

You spent for me your constant arrest, miss.

Let me massage your buttocks with my tonsils.

Tom, you grubby little hack.

What do you mean by filling my paper with these outrageous whoppers?

They are a bit lumpy round the nipples, aren't they, sir?

What are these whoppers? Labour Party rocked by new vampire scandal.

Leader of the opposition admits I sucked the blood out of babies.

Yum, yum.

The UC's general secretary is a Martian. New report says the busts are the

people's chests at dinner parties.

How can you ever forgive me your ineffableness? I'll just slice my head

a chainsaw. Don't make fun about it, Stringer.

Approximately bugger all.

The nurse who gave the old boy the injection is too scared to open her

And the pathologist who examined the body almost certainly faked a report to

make it look like a natural death.

It's a bloody brick wall everywhere I go.

And quite frankly, I'm getting a bit pissed off lurking around here in the

of night like something out of Smiley's People.

I wouldn't mind answer to a few questions.

Like, who's the bloke with the shoes who keeps getting to everyone before I do

and nobbling them?

Terrific. Can't you see it yet, Mr Titler, how big

this is?

Ask yourself, who would have this many people in his pocket?

Who is there with the power, the influence,

the money?

All right.

How about the answer to this one?

Who are you?

And how come you know so much about all this anyway?

And... Hello?

Hello?

So off -throat is it now?

Now don't tell me you've been discussing our little affairs with the newspaper.

I wasn't awfully sensible of you, was it?

Stay away from me, Keith.

Stay away from me.

Don't do that, Kate. you'll find disaster, servant killing of his master,

story with some sordid sex to steal.

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

Now you know what...