Steam hissed and roared from the straining relief valves. Slowly, shuddering as it heaved against its dry bearings, the great brass flywheel of Invincible, the IN TUNE printing press, creaked out its grinding cry of pain, and the ancient engine staggered once more into life.

Jeremiah Scrubbit, charge-hand, works foreman and apprentice IT Cat feeder, mopped his brow with an oily rag and, furtively glancing over his shoulder to ensure that he wasn't being observed, lit the stamped-out cigar butt which the Editor had playfully tossed into his pocket during the daily inspection that morning. Drawing the foetid smoke into his lungs he coughed and turned his attention once again to the brass nameplate bolted onto Invincible's frame. 'The New Invincible' it read, 'Josiah Tripe & Sons, Bolton, 1869'. The sheer magnificence of the Victorian engineering never ceased to amaze Scrubbit. Why, he could still recall the day when the Editor had called him to his office and - yes - actually - gasp! - had spoken to him!

'This is the 20th century, Scrubbit', the Editor had observed, pausing to wind the solid gold fob watch which he'd withdrawn from his brocade waistcoat pocket. 'It's time for us to advance, to seize the opportunities presented by the white heat of the technological revolution.'

'Does this mean', Scrubbit had stuttered, tugging simultaneously at his inky forelock, 'new type, sir? Are the IN TUNE clay tablets to be replaced at last?' The Editor rose from his studded leather chair and glowered across the aged mahogany desk (cunningly inlaid with mother of pearl and nickel silver frets). 'More than that, Scrubbit. MUCH more. I have a plan...'

How, during the days that followed, the staff had worked! The compulsory eighteen-hour day had been extended by a further six hours, as the mighty Invincible - red with rust, blackened with oily deposits - had been delivered from the disused black pudding foundry where the Editor had chanced upon it during one of his rare visits to the further outposts of the IN TUNE empire. Even the Editor's familiar, the great feline, had joined in the work, testing its claws on those workers who fell asleep on the job, howling hideously at the fitters and engineers as they laboured to bring the mighty engine back to life. And, at last, came that great day when Invincible was first fired-up. How many review guitars had been fed into the cavernous maw of Invincible's furnace? Scrubbit had lost count. How many had fallen when the Editor had ordered a whip-round for his hard-pressed labourers, before touring the works with a cat-o'-nine tails? Scrubbit couldn't remember. But he would never forget that first triumphant day! The mighty press roaring and steaming like the IT Cat in the presence of a British Telecom sales rep. The heart-stopping moment when the great press went silent, then hiccuped, belched and brought forth the first page, with its runic inscription of the sacred words, IN TUNE. If he lived to be twenty, Scrubbit would never forget the whoops and cries of joy when the Editor, in a rare fit of humanity, awarded a whole hour's holiday per man per year, so pleased was he with the success.

And now, here was he - Jeremiah Scrubbit, in charge of this wonder of the age - a machine that could print one whole page per day! 'Scrubbit!' The voice shattered his reverie. 'Scrubbit, you odious little vermin!' It was the Editor himself. Scrubbit turned to see the towering figure of the proprietor, self-styled Press Baron and fount of all musical wisdom, looming over him, nostrils flaring, the vein on his high forehead throbbing dangerously. 'Scrubbit!' the voice boomed again, 'We have had - complaints'. The final word hung in the air like a poison cloud. 'I hear that Issue Six was... late.' Scrubbit felt Invincible pulse with its own mechanical dread at the tone in the Editor's voice. 'If it happens again, I shan't only hold you personally responsible, but I'll put you in charge of sharpening the Cat's claws and reviewing Taiwanese copies!' With a snarl the evil one stalked from the room, leaving Scrubbit trembling.

'But - but - but...' he stammered, the sweat breaking from his forehead, 'not two copies a day, sir! It's - it's impossible! From somewhere up above came a hideous sound. To the more acute ear it might have seemed like the noises made a great beast testing the sharpness of its claws...

The above story is almost true. See you next month!