Original subtitles

Editor Russell Spam has run a front -page story in Twiggy Rathbone's Daily

Crucible, claiming Catholic priest Father Edward Teasdale is a werewolf.

While managing editor Harry Stringer tries to repair the damage, reporter

Titler continues his hunt for the killer of former mental patient Donald

Kubelski. But his inquiries have been dealt a crushing blow by the sudden and

mysterious silencing of the anonymous source known as Saw Throat.

Thank you.

readers, are you getting it regularly?

Then why not let me pop mine through your letterbox?

Do you know what I'm talking about?

It's tops for news and sport and it's... Makeup.

Are you sure there's nothing we can do about the nose?

Maybe if we try changing lenses.

It's looking great, Harry!

You take the cameras like a duck to water.

I still say you should be doing this commercial, Russell. I'm not at all...

You're the managing editor, Harry. You're the man who commands trust and

respect.

Try shining a light up his nostrils.

We'll move on to the next speech, Mr Springer. Now, remember, the pickling

is coming in from the right, OK? Yes, I think a pickling jar. What pickling jar?

Going in. Three, two, one.

Action. Yes.

The Crucible has always been a paper with a heart.

Well, now we're a paper with kidneys.

Every day this week, we're giving away one of these six human kidneys to

patients with chronic renal failure.

Simply fill in the human kidneys?

You told me we were giving away a mini -metra. BL pulled out, Harry.

We thought this one had greater human interest.

I don't believe it. Oh, sorry, Harry. I thought you knew. We did discuss it at

last week's conference.

Oh, that must have been the afternoon you were caught in the revolving door at

Selfridges. My God, Father Russell, if we put this out, there'd be a national

outcry. I can personally guarantee it. I want this whole idea spiked

immediately. I agree, Harry.

Only a man with your breadth of vision could point out the insensitivity of

giving away human kidneys in a newspaper.

Spike it, we shall.

I've never seen anything like it in my life.

Hold it like that, Mr Springer. The nose looks great.

For the latest information, gentlemen, 378 Catholic churches are now on strike

in sympathy.

And yesterday, police stopped nine coachloads of flying Jesuits on their

from Durham.

The time has come for a messianic figure to step in and mediate, and that is why

I, Terence Rathbone, have pledged my services night and day until a

is reached.

Night, that's when it happens.

That's when I turn into a werewolf.

Let's see what your newspaper has done to him. He's a nervous wreck.

Take that string of garlic off your neck, Father.

That's for vampires.

You say you want to help us reach a compromise, Mr. Rathbone, but I don't...

Compromise is the heaving buttock in the thrust of my argument card.

The strikers are demanding St Ninian's be kept open. You are determined it

close. Only a man steeped in the supreme subtleties of diplomacy could hope to

find a way out.

Gentlemen, we have found a way out. If the dispute is over, St Ninian's will

remain open. I have personally put the church in touch with an anonymous

businessman.

Well, generously agreed, Mr. Knight. 80 ,000 pounds for the upkeep and

maintenance of the building. Of course, I'm unable to divulge the identity of

the mystery benefactor, but I have here a short statement issued on his behalf.

I am proud to give this 80 ,000 pounds without recourse to any cheap public

relations exercise. For cheap public relations exercises are the speaky lido

the corridors of power.

And now, gentlemen, perhaps you'd care for a picture of the three of us

together, if we could just... Oh,

I'm

sorry, Your Eminence.

It was the only way.

Where have you hidden it, Russell?

Where's the announcement about the kidneys?

In the small ads, used kidney for sale, only one previous owner.

Harry, it's your droll quips that make working on this paper a constant joy.

What have you got, Max?

Well, there's this computer break -in. It's quite interesting.

Special Branch had this top -secret third -generation computer installed for

personal surveillance, phone tapping, general invasion of privacy.

National Council of the Civil Liberties broke in to try and sabotage the thing.

Found somebody else had got there first.

Wires pulled out the lock.

I'm not dancing a jig on the desk with excitement.

Well,

there's Father Teasdale impaling himself on a meat skewer at lunch this morning.

What?

Let the... Blas, everyone.

Take the red in Hart's fear death bid. Wolfman fears prompt preachers panic

at peace talks.

Craig's down in the hospital now keeping a 24 -hour vigil. Any developments

he'll ring straight to here.

Oh, my God.

You should lose some weight.

What do you want?

Her Majesty's press. I'm afraid I shall have to commandeer this phone.

And I'll thank you not to eavesdrop on my conversation. I've little time for

snoopers. Copy? Now, Greg Kettle, I've got the Teasdale story.

Catch line, bloodbath.

Maniac Marxist Red Ted Teasdale was today... After driving a wooden stake

through his heart in a dramatic bloodbath of such and such...

Keep it down, would you?

Out of consideration for others, the shocked suicide attempt came seconds

a... Look, I won't tell you again.

After a brilliant 11th hour settlement to the church dispute, engineered by the

Crucifix proprietor, Mr Terence Rathburn.

to get out when I saw you in the operating theatre now, will you? Hello?

Hey, Dr.

Martin, it's Mrs. Sankey. The multiple births on its way.

I take it you want to keep them.

Well, if it's convenient, Keith.

I don't know what fairy tales you've been hearing from our friend Sore

but you can take it from me. There's not an ounce of truth in any of it. Well,

I'm not so sure.

Oh, haywire.

Everything you heard from that computer was the product of a malfunction.

You understand me? A computer?

Jesus.

Malfunction, I've got you. Good.

I do hope we understand each other now, Mr Titler.

Because if I catch you snooping around here once more, you'll find out what

brain damage is really about.

little mazes. Wait!

I think I can see another one in there.

There's one more there. I can definitely see it. What are you doing here?

I wonder if he will just talk us through that last one again.

Then I got back to the office.

I found this letter from Sharon.

Since you won't stop bothering me, Mr Titler, I have decided to leave the

country. I am flying to Bangladesh to work as a nurse in that para where there

has just been a major outbreak of food poisoning. And that para, isn't that

where... Mr Rathbone handed out six million rat -bite chocolate bars.

Look, with respect, Bill, there's one area of this case we've so far

Who'd have a motive to kill Kubelski? Who'd have a motive to kill Kubelski?

Here.

It's not to be someone who thought he was Khrushchev.

Someone who didn't want him to spell out a load of secrets that might be

embarrassing to the Russians.

Exactly. What I can't get out of my head, though, is the last thing Thor

said to me.

Who do you know with the power that influenced the money?

Who?

That's what I said, Russell. A major multi -million pound contract with the

Soviet Union.

Rathaus International have today reached agreement with Moscow to supply them

with rat cola mineral drinks for the end of the century.

Only a true businessman like yourself could have pulled it off, Mr Rathbone.

That's not for me to say, Russell.

And own the daily crucible lock, stock and barrel as I do it, but be wrong for

me to advise you how big to run the story.

Suffice it to say that it marks a sensational new boost.

To East -West Detente.

Not content with bringing peace to major industrial disputes, you now bring hope

to humanity, sir. The world's cast deserves a man of your calibre.

Now this tin of rat cola with my compliments, sir.

I'm not worthy to drink it, sir. I'll treasure it all.

No! I've told you, I'm not interested.

Now listen, Mrs Sankey.

How long do you think you'll be able to provide for six little ones like that on

your wages from a wimpy bar?

I think you should reconsider my offer.

No.

Look, for the last time, I don't want to sell my children to a newspaper.

Mrs. Sanky, perhaps I haven't made my position totally clear.

We are prepared to offer you this sum.

I don't care what.

Actually, sign this, Greg.

And you'll see that I've inserted a 12 -month guarantee clause, Russell. So if

any of the babies die, she has to give us a refund.

That's it all out, Greg.

This is tomorrow's front two and three.

Well, I've heard of buying the mother's story, but buying the babies?

It's called a scoop, Matt.

What are we going to do with six babies?

Matt?

Harry who?

dentist appointment go?

You what?

Trapped in a telephone box?

Can't you?

Some idiot lorry driver's parked on the pavement right up against the door.

No, he can't get out and he's only got one ten -pee piece.

What the hell?

Well, can't you?

Oh, no.

He didn't even have time to say where he was.

Then answer me, Russell. What the hell are we going to do with six babies?

Six little miracles.

They captured the hearts of the nation. Now, exclusively through the Crucible,

one of the Sankey sex duplets can be yours. I don't believe that. Yes, no one

can believe it, but it's true.

Every day this week, we're giving away a super sex duplet to one of our readers.

I've never seen anything like it in my life.

Yes, it's baby freebies all this week in the Crusading Crucible.

Just write to us, including proof of sterility, and the first six childish

couples out of the sack will take home a toddler. I can personally guarantee it.

The Crucible. The PayPal with integrity.

What can I say, Harry? When you said spike the babies, I thought you meant

them all onto metal spikes.

How could you do it, Russ? Your word is my command, Harry.

They're going to hang me for it, Russell.

A tragic loss to the world of journalism, Harry. No fine newspaper man

walked the earth.

But I didn't kill them, Russell. You did.

It wasn't me. It wasn't me.

I didn't kill them. Harry, wake up!

Where am I?

You just passed out, Harry.

Must have been that six and a half hours you spent stuck in a telephone box

yesterday.

You were starting to say something about... the shanky sex tuplets.

Sex tuplets?

Sex tuplets.

Oh, my God, Russell. What have you done? It's an outrage.

Russell's found something. Giving away babies is worse than kidneys.

I agree, Harry. We'll spike them at once. Yes, you do that.

No, don't spike them at once. What are you going to do?

Just give them back to their mother, Russell. Just give them back to their

mother. Give them back?

But the Crucible's just paid this sum for them, Harry.

I don't care what, sir.

Yeah, thank you.

I don't think there'll be any giving back just yet, Russell.

Camdenbury Council have made an application to take the kids away from

put them into local care.

From now on, it's all in the hands of the law courts.

This is a historical day for us in the Soviet Union, Mr. Rathbone. What more

could any civilized nation ask for than the chance to drink 500 billion gallons

of rat cola?

No, we have now truly entered the age of technology.

Of all the merchandise that I produce, Mr.

Kuznetsky, rat cola is the apple of my eye.

No other product gives me such a sense of pride over two months.

Not for me, I think. Not for me.

Harry, you'll have some more, won't you, Harry?

Well, I don't think I've got room for any more. He can't get enough of it.

Look,

Mr. Rathburn, I wonder if I could have a private word with you. There's

something I'm very worried about.

Why is the polluted trout in the stream of consciousness, Harry? You didn't get

it off your chest to me.

Excuse us, gentlemen.

It's Russell, sir.

This time he's gone beyond the pale.

Buying newborn babies, for God's sake. And for this son.

And now it's all going to be dragged through the courts. The crucible's name

will be mud.

Something's got to be done about it.

I agree, Harry.

Fire him.

What? Fire him. If you're not happy with his work, kick him out.

Can I do that?

You're the king of the castle, Harry. You reign supreme. You could have sacked

him whenever you wanted. I didn't put Spam in that job as some mindless puppet

to do my every bidding.

If he's overstepped the mark, he'll have to go.

Good Lord.

Well, if it's as simple as that... Couldn't be simpler, Harry. We'll hold a

special meeting of the board of Rathouse Newspapers.

Convince them...

And spam will be out on his ear. You have my solemn, binding word on that.

I'm off to have lunch with the board now, Max.

Can't say too much at this stage, but I might have a spot of good news for you

when I get back.

Good news?

No use to me, Harry. Got a paper to fill.

Greg, great news. Wait till Harry Stringer hears about this one.

You've just missed him. What's up? Something broken?

You tell Max what you just told me, Greg.

Well, I've just come from court, Max. The care order hearing on the Sankey

sextuplets. Social services officer, Mr. F .L. Wilkie, testified that upon

calling at Mrs. Sankey's flat in Rhododendron Terrace to interview the

he found not Mr. Sankey, who it seems left home 15 months ago, but a gentleman

known as Big Mick.

described in court as a cross between giant haystacks and a small brewery.

Mr Wilkie attempted to question the man about his viability as a kind, caring

father for six newborn kiddies and was promptly escorted down three flights of

stairs with the aid of a ratchet spanner.

In short, Max, the babies would have gone back to live with a drunken

psychopath.

If the crucible hadn't intervened, now they'd be taken safely into care where

-one can harm them.

They'll owe their lives to the Crucible.

Bash it all out, Greg!

Crucible averts barbaric baby -butter tragedy.

J .P.'s praise press -scoop -tot -dealer -sankey -six -cheap -drunken -thug

-dad's -raging -rampage.

This is a story even Harry Stringer will be proud of.

The members of the board are all here, Harry. They'll back you to the hilt. I

feel it in my bones. I'm very grateful to you, sir.

Thank you.

So there you have it, gentlemen. It would be no travesty of the truth, I

to say that Harry Stringer is the greatest newspaperman who ever drew

If a nuclear bomb were to fall on this man's head tomorrow, the world would

never see his life again.

The decision is yours. You, as non -partisan objective observers, must

the evidence without fear or favour.

I hear what you say, Twiggy. This man Stringer has a good deal to answer for

himself. I agree.

Look at the things he's done since he took over as managing editor.

Introduced pictures of wobbling breasts against Spam's Express.

Fell for a massive hoax by believing a mental patient was Mr.

Khrushchev.

refused to publish front page apology after his own paper had called the local

priest a werewolf. The same priest who now lies critically ill with a meat scar

through his heart. And to capital.

He's actually been ordered in Spain to return these babies to their parents.

In spite of the fact that the father is a homicidal junkard who probably dashed

their heads against a brick wall as soon as look at them.

Thank you.

Sir.

All those in favour of Harry's suggestion that we dismiss Spam as

It is all there.

Letters, diaries, everything.

It better be.

How much did we say?

Give them to him from me.

A friend of a friend.

It is enough.

Yes, I've got them, sir.

Do you want me to bring them personally or shall... Right, I'll use the normal

channels and then we can... Oh, look.

I think I'd better ring you back.

Stand up, Mr Titler.

Try not to bleed too much, won't you, Mr. Titler?

It does make such a nasty mess on the carpet.

you'll find disaster servants killing off his master and a story with some

sordid sex to feel someone's secrets we have grabbed famous facts that we have

stabbed now you know what