All language subtitles for Hot Metal s01e06 The Respectable Prostitute.eng

Father Teasdale, subjected to a left
-wing witch hunt by Twiggy Rathbone's

Crucible, at the hands of its editor,
Russell Spam, has tried to take his own

life by hammering a kebab skewer into
his heart.

Reporter Bill Titler, meanwhile, still
investigating a tip -off that a mental

patient who claimed to be Khrushchev was
murdered in a television studio, sees a

Russian trade delegate hand over to a
detective from Special Branch a bundle

papers that may hold a clue to the whole
mystery.

Yes, I 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,
uh... 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.

This is what we call the sub -editor's
desk. This is where we write all the

headlines. Now, a headline has to be
short and snappy, but nice and clear so

everyone can understand what it means.
You see?

Wog -jibe race chief slams glue -sniff
coma girl quiz game.

Wog -jibe race chief slams... This one?

Slow -flow mail row boss wrapped in
green paper.

Has anybody got any questions?

Yes? Why don't you resign now? Why's Sue
got some integrity left?

I think that's when an eight -year -old
schoolgirl starts to notice I think the

time has come for me to move on.

As a matter of fact, I've had a very
tempting offer from the States.

There's the senior lecturer in media and
communication studies at the University

of Boston.

Well, the money's good. They want me to
start next semester.

Funny, isn't it?

How casual a remark from a little girl
can finally make up your mind for you.

There you are, a nice bag of sweeties.
And don't eat them all at once.

Oh, night.

Oh, when it happens, I turn into a
werewolf.

Nurse,

nurse.

Father Teasdale?

I can't seem to breathe, nurse.

Well, we shouldn't go driving wooden
stakes through our hearts now, should

Father?

Perhaps you have a temperature.

Good one, Mike. That'll look fine. Now,
let's try one with the thermometer now.

What's happening?

No cause for alarm, Father. It's all
quite official.

Perhaps it's time I revealed my true
identity.

Yes, it is I.

Greg Kittle, her baddest distress.

A minor masquerade as a senior osteopath
to help gain me admission.

Could we try a few goose shots now,
please?

All right,

Bill. So whoever Keith called up on that
phone to say he'd got these

documents... Has got to be Mr Biggs.

The one who got Sharon Chandler to bump
off Kabelsky and the one who is now

paying everyone to keep their mouth
shut.

Speculation, Bill.

When am I going to get some hard facts,
huh?

Prince Harry has a small red pimple on
his left buttock.

A Paris spokesman confirmed today.

Hard facts.

One star George Michael's live -in lover
had a great uncle who was Hitler's

chiropodist.

Documents aren't guesswork, Russell.

They could be the key to the whole
story.

We need a fast translation, Bill.
Someone we can trust.

I'll get straight on to it.

Incidentally, Harry, I'm sorry to hear
you're leaving us.

Marjorie, I think you've made a wise
career decision.

Henceforth, you'll impart your treasure
trove of knowledge to a whole new

generation. The genius of Harry Stringer
belongs not to the crucible, but the

world. No finer press man ever graced
the hallowed portal... Oh, piss off.

had time to reflect on your sins,
Father. You now repent your old Marxist

do you, and sort of pray to God for
forgiveness?

Fine. Well, thank you for this most
illuminating interview.

I hope you get well soon.

You murdered him?

The man you thought was Khrushchev?

The old man?

You murdered him?

You knew, as a trained nurse, that the
injection would prove fatal. Yes, you

right to confess, my child, but I cannot
grant absolution.

You must own up.

It is wrong to try to protect this man.
What man?

Wrong to protect him. Which man? Protect
who?

Good afternoon, Harry. I just dropped by
for no reason in particular to make

sure everything's okay. No problems, I
trust?

I've decided to resign, Mr. Rathbun.

Problems are the mouthful of pips in the
fruit of a man's labors.

Ever since you became managing editor,
the crucible has forged ahead of every

other paper.

And talking of forged papers, an
anonymous source I was playing golf with

morning tells me there's some bunch of
anarchists on the loose circulating

counterfeit documents to try and
discredit certain well -known public

Look, I said I'm going to... What?
Should the Crucible come into possession

this bundle of dupery, I'd hate to feel
we fell for it and took them at face

value.

I'm sure we'd confine them to the weight
bin where they rightfully belong.

What's all the cloak and dagger in Adolf
Harry? Something in the wind?

I just want to be careful, Max.

Now.

Yes?

Russell who?

Russell, where are you?

Locked in the executive dining room,
however did that happen?

That's terrible, Russell.

I'll get straight on to maintenance.

Now then, let's look at what we've got.

A man who, to all intents and purposes,
is Nikita Khrushchev is murdered in a TV

studio. Why?

We don't know.

But we think it may have been carried
out by the staff nurse working on orders

from someone up above. Now, until today,
that was just a hunch.

But now, thanks to what Greg tells me,
there can't be any doubt.

You knew as a trained nurse the
injection would be fatal.

Teasdale, in his delirium, was obviously
reliving the moment when she admitted

her grisly deed in the confession box.
He also said, you must own up. It's

to try and protect this man.

But what man?

So far, the only evidence we've got is a
bundle of papers in Russian which are

being translated now.

Papers this man was obviously desperate
to get hold of.

This afternoon, I had a visit from
Citizen Rathbone.

He knows we've got those documents, and
yet he was trying to palm them off as

fakes.

Now, why would he say a thing like that?

Unless... Christ.

Rathbone. Well, look at his motive.

A multi -million pound contract to sell
rat cola to the Soviet Union.

Worth a fortune.

And negotiations were all too delicate.

and if Khrushchev had spilled out
secrets that were embarrassing to

could have blown the whole deal.

If only we could get that nurse to go on
the record, we'd have him. But she's

left the country. She said to go on her
letter. She's gone to work in

Bangladesh.

Unless that's what she wanted us to
think.

Sure. So that we'd stop looking for her
back here.

How are you going to find Sharon
Chandler now? It's impossible. She's

hiding to escape the press.

The person has not yet been born, Max,
who can escape the press.

If she's still in Britain, we'll find
her.

The photograph.

Her and an elderly couple.

Her parents, like us, must.

They were in a garden.

There was a big lion behind them. A big
white lion carved on the side of a hill.

Whipsnade Zoo.

Get the veg spurnbock.

Check out every charter until you find
them. Don't say who you are and then get

out there.

And don't show your faces in this office
again until you've got the whole bloody

story. And move it, for God's sake.

All right, thanks.

There's a Professor Irem G. Quigley in
reception.

Come to discuss your syllabus for the
media studies course.

Oh, tell him to stop his bloody
syllabus.

I've got a newspaper to bring out.

I'll go.

Good afternoon.

Mrs. Grace Chandler? Yes? Greg Kettle,
Her Majesty's pet.

I wonder if I could... I don't want to
talk to you. Go away.

Oh, what a pity. You see, I'm doing a
feature on glamorous grandmothers of the

Chilterns. I was invited to the
Dorchester Hotel to have your photograph

with Sylvester Stallone.

But you don't want to talk to the press.
There we are. I'll bid you a good day.

No, wait. Come back.

I'll come with you.

Let me just get my coat.

I can't believe this.

Sylvester Stallone at the Dorchester
Hotel.

Hello, Sharon.

Great, Greg.

Is Bill with her now?

What?

No, I don't know anyone who looks like
Sylvester Stallone.

Well, hang on a second.

No.

Just use your initiative, but keep her
out of the way.

First time lucky they've found her.

I've got the translations, Harry.

My God, is this a big one.

What are they?

Love letters and diaries, mainly.

Evidence of a wild and stormy sexual
relationship.

Between?

I think you'd better sit down, Annie.

Poking, prying, hounding people.

You never give up, do you?

You're not kidding me, Sharon.

You want us to publish this story. You
want it more than anything else in the

world. Oh, yeah?

You wanted us to print the truth about
this right from the word go.

That's why you rang us up in the first
place.

Only Big Keith shoved a gun up your nose
to make sure you wouldn't talk.

This is your last chance to unload it
all, Sharon.

Don't throw it away.

Go on.

Kill me.

You want two murders in your conscience?
Fair enough. That's up to you.

Two murders?

What are you talking about?

We know you were forced into it, Sharon.
The courts will take that into

consideration. My God.

You don't think I murdered the old man?

We just want you to go on record. We
know you've confessed all to Father

Teasdale. Confessed? I'm not even
Catholic.

You don't know, do you?

You really have no idea what actually
happened.

Six and a half hours trapped in a room
with a hysterical waitress. And to run

for this match, mark my words.

Now, are we off the copy?

What's the splash? Wild baby in bum
pimple sensation?

I think we can now mock up a special
picture.

I've spiked the royal baby's story.
Russell, it was mindless pap.

Really, Harry?

Have you got something better?

Uh, well, how does this sound?

The wife of Prime Minister Gerald
McNamara murdered a 75 -year -old mental

patient to protect her husband from a
massive sex scandal.

When he learnt of the crime, the Prime
Minister himself ordered a route to

up operations to take his wife Iris from
the gallows.

Are you out of your mind, Harry?

Bill's just come back with a full story.

The nurse told him everything.

Do you think it's good enough at the
front, Russell? Or do we shelve it to

way for Frank Bruno's cookery column?

I'm listening, Harry.

In the 60s, Gerald McNamara was attached
to the British Ministry of Defence.

While in Moscow one year, he had a
secret affair with a member of the

government, Mr.

Gregor Trezhnikov.

His wife found out but stood by him.
Together they managed to keep it a

for over 20 years.

Well, Trezhnikov's now dead, but his
diaries and his correspondence with

McNamara, all in Russian, were passed to
another lover, Mr.

Kuznetsky. Yes, whom I met, concluding
the Ratcola deal.

The whole affair was dead and buried,
and McNamara thought he was safe until

day we came along with Nikita
Khrushchev.

Now, as I'm sure you'll remember,
Russell, Mr. Khrushchev was all set to

the sex secrets of the Kremlin.

Mr. and Mrs. McNamara began to panic. If
his past indiscretions were suddenly

made public, it would be the end of his
political career.

And then, on March the 31st, Mrs.

McNamara found herself with an amazing
opportunity.

She'd gone along with the Prime Minister
to the television studios where he was

recording an interview about the
following day's hanging debate.

As they were leaving, Mrs. McNamara
remembered she'd left her scarf behind

the dressing room. She went back to find
the room had now been allocated to

yourself and Kubelski.

emptying the insulin files and filling
them with water, she knew as a former

nurse herself, it would kill the man she
believed was Khrushchev and save her

husband's neck.

Sorry, I was just looking at her.

I just went back to fetch my stuff. I
left it behind.

Deprived of his insulin, the old man
died a short while later.

Mrs McNamara told her husband what she'd
done.

We also know she confessed to her family
priest, Father Teasdale.

Now, the Prime Minister, who didn't want
to see his wife hanged, ordered a heavy

from the special branch to go back the
next night and destroy the only

the remaining piles of water.

That was when Sharon first met Keith.

She was warned to say nothing about it
if she wanted to stay alive.

After wrestling with her conscience,
Sharon rang us.

Unfortunately, her phone was being
monitored by a sophisticated new

Scotland Yard.

Five minutes later, Keith, the man in
charge of the cover -up, was round at

flat. And he made sure that when Bill
called, Sharon Chandler had nothing to

say. What no one knew was the special
branch computer had a conscience.

Using a speech synthesizer over the
phone, it started to give Bill Titler

-offs based on the information it was
recording, until Keith found out and

pulled all the plugs. And that was the
end of the story.

In the meantime, McNamara was still
trying to destroy all evidence of his

homosexual past.

Kuznetsky, the man who had the letters,
came over with the trade delegation to

sign the Ratcola deal.

and passed the documents to Keith, at
which point we intercepted them.

Now, it's not for me to speculate,
Russell, that the Prime Minister may

used his influence with our proprietor
to try and suppress these papers. I'm

sure Mr Rathbone has far too much
integrity to interfere with the story,

for the sake of the peerage of the
birthday on this list.

Have we put this to Downing Street yet?

Bill's trying to get through now.

Hello.

Mr McNamara.

Yes, I'm sorry to trouble you this hour,
Prime Minister.

I just wondered if we could have your
comment on a story we're planning to

in tomorrow's crucible.

That your wife committed murder in order
to save you from a scandal about your

homosexual affair with a Russian
diplomat.

Prime Minister.

Are you still there?

And I'll have every one of your arses
for breakfast.

You print this pack of lies, and Jesus
Christ almighty, I'm getting on to my F

for Freddy lawyers.

And then he put the phone down.

I think we can take that as a denial,
Harry.

It's all manner. The way he reacted.

He's as guilty as hell, I know it.

This is the most explosive thing since
Hiroshima, Harry.

If we're right, we shall make newspaper
history if we've got our facts wrong.

Defamation, criminal libel, sedition.
There's no telling what they'll hit us

with.

Run the story.

And welcome back on this morning of
utter news sensation. I think we can

actually talk now to the executive
managing editor of The Crucible, Mr

Springer, who's currently in custody at
Highbury Police Station on charges of

seditious libel.

Can you hear me, Mr Springer?

Yes.

Hello, Nick.

Good morning. Mr Springer, are you
having second thoughts at all now about

wisdom of calling the Prime Minister's
wife a murderer?

Um, no, I stand by the story.

You're still confident, are you, that
your reporters have got it right and

you won't, say, spend the next ten years
of your life behind bars in Parkhurst?

Yes, I'm totally confident.

And let me just say this, Nick.

Though we seem, I'm afraid, to have lost
Mr. Springer there, but we have been

joined now by the proprietor of the
Crucible, Mr.

Terence Rathbun. Mr. Rathbun, good
morning to you.

Now, I gather the first that you heard
this quite astonishing story was when

got up this morning.

It ill behoves me to lay down the law to
the press of this country, Nick.

But I'm not ashamed to confess that I
wept.

over my rat -brand, fibre -rich
breakfast plate.

To see so fine and well -loved a
national figure, pilloried and defiled

sake of cheap sensationalism, it's
shabby tabloid journalism in its worst

And shabby tabloid journalism is the
tongue down the back of the throat in

Kiss of Death.

I have no truck with it, and I...

utterly dissociate. I'm sorry, I'll just
have to stop you there for a moment,

Mr. Rathbone. We've just got some news
coming in at the moment, in fact, that

just a few moments ago, Mrs. McNamara
broke down in tears and admitted that

every word of the story is, in fact,
true.

Now, the Prime Minister has gone off to
see the Queen.

And MPs are calling for an emergency
vote of no confidence in the government.

And you still dismiss the crucial story,
even after this.

The Crucible story.

I thought we were talking about the
front page of this morning's Sun.

Prince Harry has a pimple on his left
muzzle.

Of course I stand by our story.

I never doubted it for an instant.

The Crucible has this day rewritten
history, Russell, thanks to the

of one man.

Harry Stringer bestroids our narrow
minds like a colossus. He's the acme of

journalistic perfection in whose shadow
we all pale. I agree, Russell.

Future generations will scarce believe
that such a man in flesh and blood did

work in Gray's Inn Road.

And now, if you'll forgive me, I have...
luncheon appointments with the leader

of the opposition, the Prime Minister
-designate, who wishes to reward us. The

service is rendered. I understand the
subject of the birthday honours list may

not be excluded from the agenda.

Well, I think we... Frank!

Harry! Harry who?

They can't get the key to open his cell
door.

Don't worry, Harry.

We'll carry on without you.

I can speak on Harry's behalf. Where is
the like of two peas in a pod?

Serpies scare.

And across the top we can run Ken Barlow
wig on rates shock sparks mass toupee

claim crisis.

And down the inside column, Busty Brenda
jilts Jim Slip Judge for beer gut

darts. Do you know a picture on that
one?

Would you like to feed me some dinner?

I told you you're not to feed them.

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

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