All language subtitles for Hot Metal s02e03 The Hydras Head

Paper! Paper!

rival newspaper, Dickie, and tell me
what you see.

I see a story claiming that Elton John's
caucus panels having a gay affair was

one of the Queen's corkies. A story
which nowhere appears in today's

because... Because I spiked it, Mr.
Rathbone.

You spiked it?

Excellent.

If you took the helm of my newspaper,
Dickie, You've raised the standard of

journalism higher than I ever dared
hope.

Readers are deserting us in their
thousands.

Sir, for the first time in nine months,
we've been overtaken in the circulation

race by the sun.

We'll win them back in no time at all,
sir. With integrity.

Okay,

everyone, this is a special crucible
reconstruction of last week's real -life

murder tragedy. The family of a High
Court judge all found slaughtered at

so we want it done with taste and
sensitivity.

Okay, right, everyone, positions!

How's it looking, Maggie?

Well, apart from the fact that none of
these people look remotely like the real

murder victim...

I thought the judge was never found
holding a knife. He'd already gone by

time the police got there.

Perfect. Great!

OK, Andy, let's try and knock a few off
quick before Dickie.

It's the best murder yarn since Lord
Luke and Dickie.

Four corpses and a judge who's done a
vanishing act. It's not the sort of

we can afford to ignore. Wait.

Maggie, I gather the police have now
launched a nationwide hunt for this man

Hitchcock, furiously known as Throat
Hack Beak.

Can Mr Justice rip them up?

What are the chances that we could find
him before they do?

Dickie, we'd respect the man could be
anywhere. This is your story, Maggie.

giving you first crack.

Well, we're up to sex discrimination.

Are you sure it shouldn't be somebody
more experienced looking for him,

like Greg Kettle? There is no one like
Greg Kettle, Russell.

I'm certainly not sending him out in a
lurid mass murder story with all the

subtlety of a ferry to the trouser
factory.

I put him in a plane this morning to
cover the worsening situation in El

Salvador. El Salvador?

Greg Kettle?

There's still too much rubbish
percolating through, Russell.

As from this moment, I want to see every
story before it's printed. Every story,

Dickie? You're talking about, well, over
200 separate... I don't care if it's

200 or 300.

I want to see every story.

Ladies and gentlemen, as from now, I'm
expanding the Crucible to carry 1 ,200

stories a day.

Six separate editions.

Constantly updated to bring the reader
all the news as it happens, when it

happens.

starting at 6 a .m. with our normal
modern edition and regular, and followed

thereafter by the noon review of the
time tittle -tattle, late night

slowdown, the midnight express, and 3 a
.m. by the homeward wandering

drunk.

Now, incidentally, let me refute this
rumor that I'm in any way launching a no

-holds -barred.

Speculation war against our competitors.

Competition in Fleet Street will
continue to be what it has always been.

Clean, fair and mature in every respect.

in San Salvador are not nearly as bad as
the news reports will have you believe.

I'll be the judge of that, Inspector, as
an ambassador of Her Majesty's Press.

Here is a list of my breakfast
requirements, which has the force of

You'll note I am entitled to four slices
of black pudding under the Geneva

Convention.

I will treat this with the respect it
deserves.

Excuse me.

You are official representative of Queen
Elizabeth.

My face is well known at Buckingham
Palace.

You must help us. The political
situation is worsening.

Repression, persecution everywhere.

I see.

And your name is?

No, no, please.

Well, I'll just put peasant.

What exactly is your problem?

Each and every morning, I leave our home
in the village.

I come into town to see the man who will
buy a horse.

When I return, my father, my two
brothers, have been arrested and

no reason at all.

I see.

Yes. You're about to sell your horse.

Your horse.

You're selling it. Why?

Well, it's very old horse.

The man at the factory pays a good...
Factory?

What sort of factory?

The factory. They buy old horses.

Forget it.

No, not of its words. You're planning to
sell off your horse to be melted down

for glue.

Is that it?

So this one now reads, News at 10,
Alistair, in bogey or nose bristle

Was it or wasn't it? No, I'm sorry, Mr.
Bradford. You have millions of homes.

Yes, I will. I don't like to rush you,
Dickie, but the noon refused you for

rolling 25 minutes.

Which of these have you checked?

Don't I check, Russell?

Right, Mr. Rathbun.

Hundreds of callers jammed ITN
switchboards with offers of tissues and

and a Tory MP has already slammed the
IBA, calling for sweeping nostril

Look, we'll just get the page up, will
you?

They're covering it as a page lead, and
spike those two. Why throw stubby to re

-read porn pics, Paula?

What? Shall we spike?

Twenty ways to tell if your teenager is
a tie -boy.

Yes.

And we print when you're waiting
condoms? Yes.

No, Russell.

I hope you're not

from one of them rubbish newspapers.

I haven't got any time for rubbish
newspapers.

I prefer the ones with the naked ladies
in them.

The quality under the mark, eh?

Got some of their facts wrong on this,
of course, but...

In what way?

Lady Hitchcock. She was on that sofa
there with her throat gashed.

Oh, you mean her head hadn't fallen off
and rolled into the fireplace like they

said in the story?

Must have been a typing error.

And son and daughter -in -law, were they
not half naked upstairs in a position

from the Kama Sutra? No, no, they were
playing chess in the front room.

So, um... I don't suppose you've any
idea where he, uh...

Might have sloped off to the old boy. I
haven't.

But, uh, rumor has it that there was a
fancy woman.

Fancy? A few weeks ago, he had me make
up a huge bunch of red roses

and sent them off by special delivery.

I, uh, held on to the address.

Miss Marion Jane Randall.

All my deepest love, from your dearest
darling, Jimsy.

Morning,

Mr. Lipson. Anything wrong?

Anything wrong?

I've just been stopped by six masked men
who stepped in a tube and forced at

knife point to buy a dozen copies of my
own newspaper.

Discarded crucible fanatics, Dickie. We
applaud their motives, but not their

methods. And furthermore, I thought it
was agreed we were running the new

missile offer on the front page, instead
of which I find this little gem from

Kettle. A new and hideous atrocity is
all set to rock the population of

torn El Salvador.

When poor, unwanted, happy the horse
goes to the pile of water to be

callously melted down and sniffed by
teenagers.

o 'clock this morning on the phone just
after I'd read out Hugh Pollard's wacky

cures for cancer.

It's inane pap and it goes no further.
Do you understand?

Kitty?

Kitty boy?

Room service?

I'd like two more bottles of chilled
shabbily and some hay.

Page 17, column 3. This one,

Dickie. A two -line filler on the
Icelandic ambassador's statement about

mackerel quotas.

Bam! Greg!

How's it going with Pedro the peasant?

No problems with the purchase, Russell.
I've got the bill of sale here.

written on the back of a warrant for his
daughter's arrest.

Maybe the horse is now the official
property of the Daily Crucible newspaper

safely tucked away where evil hands can
no longer get.

Sensational, Craig.

Snatch from the jaws of death.

The world breathes again as the Crucible
averts another international tragedy.

Happy the Hoofers, happy ending.

Death threat, nag, cheats, bone melt,
glue pot, doom.

A word of warning.

We just had a tip -off that a gang of
cutthroats from the Daily Star may be

coming over. No telling what they might
try to scoop us on this story, so keep

your eyes open.

Have no fears, Russell. The Star won't
get a look -in this time. Happy the

is in the Crucible's custody, and that's
where he'll stay, rest assured.

Hi -ho, Silver!

It's Happy the Horse Week in your new 24
-hour Crucible.

I get my oats with a crystal ball.

It's heartwarming. It's hit -making.

It's horse aid.

All your favorite stars get together on
this sensational fundraising single to

pay the legal fees in our fight to get
Happy the Horse back from the start.

So gallop on down to your newsagents
today for the white font crucible.

The paper within table top.

I'm disgusted, Dickie, that the fate of
our circulation should depend upon some

scrawny nag with a one -way ticket to
the knacker's yard.

Where are the responsible values in the
press today?

I'll tell you where they are. They're in
the men and women of the retail trade

who labour every hour.

God sends them to sell our publications.

And that's why this gala dinner tonight
for the Rat House News Vendor of the

Year is so important to us all. You'll
be making the presentation to the

Mr. Rajiv Patel of Hackney, whose chirpy
philosophy is an

inspiration to us all.

The crucible is the one for me every
time, says Mr.

Patel, age 63.

The mirror and sun, they're just a pain
in the bum.

As for the Mail and Express, they're
nothing but a lump of dog's mess.

Fifteen minutes, Dickie, and don't
forget the award.

Go away. I don't want to talk to you.

Miss Randall, it's Maggie Troon here
from the Daily Crucible newspaper.

We're trying to trace Mr Justice
Hitchcock and we think you might know

is. I don't know anything.

Go away.

Miss Randall, every police officer in
the country is after this man for mass

murder. And we know you are having an
affair with him.

We know you've been sleeping together
for several years, Miss Randall. Now,

you going to open this door, or do you
want to continue discussing your

sexual fornications in public?

Oh,

no,

Russell, but I have found his auntie. It
wasn't terribly helpful.

not terribly helpful.

Well, I'm trying to chase up some story.
He might have some bit on the side.

Well, I'm a bit stumped at the moment.

Well, no.

Well, yeah, the police cleared
everything out of his desk. There was

typewriter left.

Oh, God.

The typewriter. How could I have missed
that?

Um, no, no, no, no. Sorry, Russell.
Listen, I've just had an idea, OK?

I'll ring you back later, right? Bye
-bye.

Today, the world peters on a precipice
such as we have not seen since the Cuban

Missile Crisis.

Will Happy the Horse be returned to the
Crucibles?

Or will the Law of the Jungle, as
practiced by the Eagle Brigands of the

be allowed to hold sway?

And don't forget, the Queen is said to
be taking a personal interest. Really?

Yes, I just said it.

Spam?

Tiki who?

Tiki?

What's that?

tragedy struck at the gala dinner.

Apparently, during the cabaret, Dickie
went up on the stage to help a conjurer

with a magic trick.

Yeah.

And halfway through the act, the
conjurer died of a heart attack.

And now Dickie's trapped in a box with
15 razor -sharp swords speared through

him.

Well, give him our best wishes and we
hope he's out soon.

you're waiting condoms. That was one he
approved, wasn't it?

Gentlemen, I have now examined all the
legal documentation at great length.

I, Pedro the peasant, shall happy the
horse exclusively to the crucible for

$100.

I, Pedro the peasant, shall happy the
horse exclusively to the star for $100.

And I am afraid only one interpretation
is possible.

You are both owners of Happy the Horse.

Hey, no!

Join ownership, or I take him away. You
understand?

You will both leave El Salvador this
afternoon, and you will take this corset

out with you!

It's my horse!

And no more of this trivial school
playground squabbling! The United

will have this make no mistake!

This is a tragedy no one could have
foreseen, Dickie.

But blood chills to the plasma when I
think what horrors, spam, may be

perpetrating back in that newsroom right
now while you lie here like a human

pincushion. You could just try pulling
the swords out. No, no, don't try to

move, Dickie. That could be fatal.

This is a job for the experts.

Ah, come in, come in.

Who's that man?

Abbie Bongo, Dickie. Magic consultant to
Paul Daniels. He'll have his skewers

out of you in no time. Ah, right.

Mr. Bongo.

Caballeros, join on his ship, I think we
agree.

50 -50, sign here, please.

Oh, come on, come on, where is he? I'm
not boarding that plane till I've seen

that horse.

The horse is here, senor, no problem.

Rodriguez!

50 % each, yes?

He's simple.

We saw him in half.

Now there are no more arguments.

Have a good play, gentlemen.

My darling Linda, just a line to say how
much I'm

missing you since our last moment
together.

Linda Copeland.

I'm speechless, Russell.

Speechless. In what way, Dickie?

After five hours spent in a box with
some simpleton and a fez performing

-pocus in my face, I was prepared to
come back here and find almost anything.

But I was not in my wildest nightmare
prepared for this.

It's a miracle.

Last night, we need a big thank you to
the Daily News.

Only hours after a callous kidnap
attempt by the star had resulted in him

sawed in half by police officers.

That lucky little steed survived an
amazing 11 -hour mercy operation

in which top Brazilian doctors rushed to
El Salvador to sew

his body back together again.

The British public are stupid.

They'll see through this load of...
We've got a million copies.

What?

Mr Rathbone's thrown a special champagne
breakfast at the Rath Hotel to

celebrate our circulation victory.

This is all due to you, Dickie.

Without your vision and guiding light,
we should be...

Sightless spirits wandering through the
void.

You are the crucible king. And you,
Russell, are the mirror

and sun.

Miss Copeland?

Miss Copeland?

Are you in here?

Miss Copeland?

Papers, papers, give us your daily
juice.

Papers, papers,

we'll tell you what's the news.

On any page you'll find disaster,
servants 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 where the real is.