1974 FIFA World Cup Official Film

WHISTLE

WHISTLE

CROWD ROARS

MAN SPEAKS OVER TANNOY IN GERMAN

The final whistle.

The tenth World Cup is over and West Germany, beating Holland 2-1,

are champions for the second time in history.

CHEERING

Johan Cruyff, the natural heir to Pele,

lonely as a mountain wind.

Holland's captain, an original Dutch master,

he has tilted at windmills and lost.

It is etched on his face.

MAN SPEAKS OVER TANNOY IN GERMAN

CHEERING

CHEERING

From Franz Beckenbauer, the captain,

the cup is passed from hand to hand proudly.

BRASS BAND PLAYS

To Helmut Schon the German manager,

who is said not to have smiled even for his own wedding photograph.

CHEERING

Winner take all.

The loser is jilted.

Holland are yesterday's men.

A team with a great future behind it.

CHEERING

One job over...

another begins.

From the media of the world, there's a waterfall of words.

Typewriters become woodpeckers chipping away at the truth.

TYPEWRITER KEYS CLATTER

HORNS

TYPEWRITER KEYS CLATTER

APPLAUSE

At midnight, the German coach will not turn back into a pumpkin.

Fighting a deadline,

the last woodpecker pecks against time.

BRASS BAND PLAYS

Roll Out the Barrel and All the Fun of the Fair.

It's Germany's night

and there's many a tavern in the town.

CHEERING

It's a night for bread, love and dreams.

ALL CHANT: Deutschland! Deutschland!

Fountains of truth become the fountains of youth.

There's time for dancing in the street, too.

HORNS

Sadly, there must always be a loser...

it's all in the game.

Having made the ball talk, the winner has the last word.

A time for reflection.

Only a short time ago, this Dutch dressing room

ached with the pain of defeat.

Now it's as quiet as the grave.

The sounds of silence.

The flying Dutchmen head for home in their big white bird.

Cruyff and his wife.

He flicks a speck from his eye.

Or is it a tear?

Others fondle their medals, not gold but silver in the stars.

The manager.

The party's over.

"They've pricked our pretty balloon and our moon has been taken away.

"Where did we go wrong?"

SIREN

Now the football story begins.

16 nations playing in nine German towns come to the starting line,

survivors from 90 original entries.

The establishment is here, minus England.

But in the field are outsiders East Germany,

blood brothers of the hosts from over the wall.

Australia, jolly swagmen.

Haiti from the land of Papa Doc and voodoo.

Zaire, leopards from the steaming Congo basin.

CHEERING

At last, the decks are cleared for action

as Holland take the field

to challenge Uruguay in their opening match.

CHEERING

It's hands across the sea.

The New World meets the old.

But Uruguay, twice world champions and semifinalists in Mexico in 1970,

have now mislaid their heritage.

South American football does not travel well.

Their artistry of old flies out of the window

as Cruyff, Holland's hope, is made a target for the chopper.

But Cruyff is gone with the wind -

he hurdles every scything tackle like an Olympic champion

and Uruguay pay the price.

Holland prove there is no substitute for skill.

In only seven minutes, Cruyff and Suurbier

set up a glancing header for Rep.

CHEERING

One up.

Early in the second half, Rep is there again for number two.

CHEERING

Uruguay, first world champions in 1930, are heading for the breadline.

Next, Holland meet Bulgaria.

WHISTLE

The Bulgarians chase shadows and concede two penalties.

CHEERING

Holland's football has a new dimension and urgency.

-Rep is there for number three.

-CHEERING

Holland complete the rout with the best goal of all,

three minutes from the end.

De Jong's diving header glides in the centre from Cruyff,

threaded to the last inch.

That's it, 4-1.

-Exit Bulgaria.

-CHEERING

So with a goalless draw against Sweden,

Holland are into the last eight.

CHEERING

Meanwhile, back at the ranch,

West Germany, reigning European champions,

open their account against Chile,

men from the high Andes and a royal hunt of the sun.

There is a full house of 80,000 in West Berlin's Olympic Stadium.

CHEERING

Chile, intent on survival, build a red fortress

of nine and ten defenders which is hard to breach.

Finally Breitner, of Afro hairstyle and left-wing opinion,

forces a German 1-0 victory with a sizzling 25-yard shot.

CHEERING

Next come Australia, supported by kangaroo and koala bear.

But there is nothing in their pouch beyond their spirit.

Overath puts the Germans ahead with an arrow to the top corner.

CHEERING

Cullmann, an early midfield choice but later dropped,

nods in number two from Hoeness before the interval.

CHEERING

Later, they make it 3-0.

Brave Australia are beaten but not disgraced.

And the West Germans leave the field

to the jeers of their arrogant supporters.

CROWD WHISTLES

This is the big one, West versus East Germany at Hamburg.

The first meeting of blood brothers separated by an ideological wall.

The West makes the running before a 60,000 crowd.

But the East gets the vital goal.

12 minutes from time,

Sparwasser glides past Vogts on the outside to score.

CHEERING

Maier reacts like a whipped animal on his goal line.

The signs are not encouraging.

Yet did West Germany, the overall favourites,

cleverly finesse the ace to avoid Holland in the last eight?

It's a valid question.

To Munich come colourful Haiti to put the finger on Italy,

world finalists of 1970.

They're a team with a dream from a tropical Caribbean setting.

It's David against Goliath.

A minute after the interval comes sensation -

with a quick break, Sanon puts little David ahead.

The first goal conceded by Italy in two years.

WILD CHEERING

Is this voodoo at work as they dance

for happiness, happiness all the way to happiness?

However, little David goes down.

But the supporters of the giants,

twice world champions, are not happy.

Mesmerised by their defensive record and little changed from 1970,

Italy now resemble a car badly in need of an engine change.

Their attack smothered and frustrated,

they lose 2-1 to fast-moving Poland and are out.

Discredited, they return home to the insults of their passionate fans.

As in 1966, the rotten tomato is their bouquet.

Scotland, full of native grit, open against the ebony leopards of Zaire.

They are the lone standard bearers of the British Isles.

CHEERING

They're stirred by the skirl of their pipers

and the wee deoch an doris of their noisy fans.

CHEERING

It is the redheaded Billy Bremner, their skipper,

who puts fire and metal in their heels.

An explosive volley by Lorimer to Jordan's headed pass

-puts Scotland ahead.

-CHEERING

Then a header by Jordan,

as he beats the offside trap to Bremner's free kick,

makes it two up by half-time.

But there it stays until the end as chance after chance is wasted.

With succeeding draws against Brazil and Yugoslavia,

Scotland finally lose out on goal difference and go home.

Ironically, the only unbeaten side in the whole tournament.

If only they'd knocked more spots off the leopard at the start.

Dusseldorf sees a tough match between West Germany and Yugoslavia.

It's a battlefield with no love lost

and both sides motivated by a fear of defeat.

But again Brietner, as against Chile at the beginning,

breaks the deadlock for a 2-0 win

and the Germans, paced shrewdly by Beckenbauer,

move on to their journey's end.

CHEERING

But there's a shock on the way.

In driving wind and rain,

West Germany have the fright of their lives

against Sweden's part-timers.

Here is the most exciting match so far

as goals tumble out of the wet night.

Before half-time, Sweden go ahead

when the lanky Edstrom volleys home extravagantly.

Yet there is more to come.

The polka-dot ball becomes a dice as three more goals

are thrown up in as many minutes soon after the interval.

Overath puts Germany level.

CHEERING

Within seconds, it's 2-1 through Bonhof.

CHEERING

Hardly are the celebrations over

than Sandberg brings Sweden back to 2-2.

Three detached Swedish fans

live on crests of waves of excitement, oblivious of the storm.

But, with only 15 minutes left,

Helmut Schon, the wily fox, plays a tactical ace.

He substitutes both his wingers.

It pays off. Almost at once, the new man, Grabowski, scores

and West Germany are a step nearer the final.

They win 4-2.

But Schon has things on his mind at the end.

He turns up his collar and bends his tall frame

thoughtfully into the storm.

THUNDER

The elements take a hand as West Germany face Poland.

To Wagnerian overtones,

crashing thunder and lightning fork the black heavens.

This is the twilight of the gods.

Fire engines and squeegee rollers bail out manfully

to save a virtual semifinal.

Poland, conquerors of England,

winners of every match in Germany

and surprise package of the tournament

must win outright to reach the final.

Because of goal difference, the Germans need only a draw.

The storm passes...

and the sun comes out.

So do the players, half an hour late.

CHEERING

But the conditions are bizarre.

The going tells mostly against Poland.

Their fast, old-fashioned wingers, Lato and Gadocha,

find their speed cut on the flanks

as the ball is held back in sheets of spray.

WHISTLE

Then comes a short breather.

A minute's silence for the passing of Argentina's President Peron.

Even the left wing is silent for the right.

WHISTLE

Poland dictate the first half but miss the odd half chance.

Seven minutes into the second half, Zmuda brings down Holzenbein

and it's a penalty for Germany, no argument.

CHEERING

Tomaszewski, the Polish goalkeeper,

saves his second penalty of the World Cup.

He guesses right, dives right

and denies Hoeness from the spot.

With quarter of an hour left, however,

Bonhof slips through a diagonal pass and the sturdy Muller

threads the needle with a low cross shot inside the far post.

CHEERING

That's all the Little Bomber needs, a half sight of the bull's-eye.

But the Poles die with their boots on.

In the fading minutes,

Deyna, their captain, forces a dazzling save from Maier.

Maier earns a hug of relief from his skipper, Beckenbauer.

Deyna wears a haunted, hunted look.

Maier riles against his defenders in a tense finish.

So West Germany become the sixth host nation in history

-to reach a World Cup Final.

-CHEERING

Meanwhile, turning back the calendar, Holland,

the exciting new entertainers, face the Argentinians.

The South Americans, seeking friendship,

have mounted a major public relations campaign.

Behaving impeccably, they have swapped violence

and white passion for native technique.

But they cannot master the Dutch.

Nor a second-half cloudburst.

They sink without trace in a raging torrent.

In ten minutes, Cruyff, the ballet master,

dances through for Holland's first goal.

Krol, from full-back, bangs in number two.

THUNDER ROLLS

Then, the heavens open.

Cruyff, his hair plastered by the deluge,

rides the waves like a sea sprite.

In the last quarter-hour,

Rep scores with a flying header to Cruyff's centre.

CHEERING

Cruyff crowns a 4-0 triumph.

CHEERING

The last dice of a losing riverboat gambler,

Squeo throws down the polka-dot ball.

It is symbolic.

Now Holland are one stride from the final.

As Brazil, the holders, the ebony champions,

come out to protect their crown.

At once, Leao, Brazil's goalkeeper, dives away a snap shot from Cruyff.

At the other end, Jongbloed is all flailing arms, legs and shut eyes.

A blind windmill caught in a high wind.

Brazil's jagged nerve ends are showing in frustration.

Bushfires of anger have begun to spurt.

At last, Holland take the lead deservedly.

Neeskens, at full stretch from Cruyff, tips it home.

Brazil, their crown toppling, now unsheathe the broadsword.

Behind the referee's back,

Valdomiro's sly kick fells a Dutchman.

Rivellino, twice bodily obstructed, plays Sir Henry Irving,

the outraged actor.

Cruyff, dodging a flick to his face, inquires of the referee's eyesight.

"What's it all about, Alfie?"

But the Dutch themselves are not all light and innocence.

Cruyff now wraps the match around his little finger

with a brilliant volley for goal number two.

CHEERING

The dagger is in Brazil's ribs and they know it.

Too late, Pereira revives nostalgic echoes of Brazil's past majesty

with a long, loping run from the back.

SPECTATORS SHOUT

Francisco Marinho, the blond, also attacks from the rear

to put the fumbling Jongbloed all at sea once more.

Neeskens is cruelly cut down.

Pereira is given his marching orders.

For Zagallo, the manager, arms outstretched in protest,

it is oblivion.

For Brazil, once the harbingers of spring,

it is darkness.

Their attack was as blank as unwritten paper.

Their tackling raw as uncooked meat.

To an ugly symphony of boos and clenched fists,

Brazil have lost their throne and Pereira his dignity.

CROWD CHANTS

CROWD BOOING

Cruyff leaves happy, a job well done.

A Dutch supporter pays homage to the good earth

or to Allah.

Jongbloed dances round his goal area in ecstasy.

Holland are in their first final.

The rising sun touches a new day.

It is the dawn of the final.

Der Tag.

Munich's Olympic Stadium is silent under its strange roof.

A mosquito net where soon the gnats of fate will sting.

A lullaby of bird land.

The city stirs, stretches and comes to life.

The stadium gets its final spit and polish.

The changing rooms are a surgery...

..awaiting the operation.

Impersonal, matter-of-fact.

Match 38, the final,

is allocated to referee Jack Taylor.

"Mirror, mirror on the wall, will I be the fairest to them all?

"Or, watched by 1,000 million critics around the globe,

"will this necktie become my noose?"

Ken Aston, the FIFA referee commissar,

with the chosen officials.

The condemned men eat a hearty breakfast.

Englishman Taylor, with his Uruguayan and Mexican linesmen...

..do they discuss the weather?

Gardening?

Women?

Or only football?

Floral decorations become a buttonhole for the party.

OVER TANNOY: 'Die Deutsche Bundesbahn...'

The circus comes to town, early.

BAND STRIKES UP

With klaxons, horns and pipes of Pan, the Dutch pour in,

high-spirited and confident.

For one of them, at least, time will weigh heavy by nightfall.

For Sir Stanley Rous, Mr World Football himself,

and Dr Kaser, FIFA secretary-general,

so much still to do, so little time.

Never before has security been so thorough...

..or so necessary.

No stone is left unturned.

A search with a toothcomb.

Sir Stanley en route to the airport

to meet Prince Bernhard of the Netherlands.

This is Sir Stanley's last day in office

after 13 years as president of FIFA.

Lunch for the VIPs.

Candelabra and gold plate in a stately Munich palace.

Protocol and subdued voices inside.

Outside...

frankfurters, sauerkraut and beer,

a raucous feast under the skies for lords of the earth.

Deux bieres!

# Immer wieder kommen sie heruber, oh-oh! #

The referee and linesmen depart for the stadium.

What are their thoughts?

The Germans, casually attired, board their coach.

What are THEIR thoughts?

The Dutch, formal in dark blazers and grey flannels,

go to face the future.

What are THEIR thoughts?

There are many roads to Parnassus.

Here's a Mexican hat on parade.

Is it four years late or early?

Maximum security to the last.

Up above, now below, downtown, a secret address.

Separate keys in separate hands, the two halves of a puzzle...

..unlock a tomb.

The cup.

A new golden figure of Italian craftsmanship

is collected from its vaults.

Heavily guarded, the lady is undressed.

JB Priestley once wrote...

"To say that people pay money merely to see 22 hirelings kick a ball

"is merely to say that a violin is made of wood and catgut."

In contrast, George Orwell wrote that sport at international level is

"frankly, mimic warfare".

Whoever was right, that's what the World Cup's all about.

BAND PLAYS

The hour draws near.

Expectation quickens as the teams arrive.

CHEERING

The VIPs take their lofty perches.

Rous.

Prince Bernhard.

Dr Kissinger.

Prince Rainier with Princess Grace of Monaco.

Willy Brandt.

Overhead, a dragonfly with a sting.

OVER TANNOY: '16 Mannschaften

'haben an diesem grossen Fest des Footballs beteiligt.

'Die Busse, die die Spieler in den vergangenen drei Wochen

'in die Stadien brachten, fahren nun einen symbolischen Abschied.'

Tension shows on the players' faces as they view the scene.

'Argentinien.'

A coach parade of the 16 competing nations.

'Australien.

'Bulgarien.

'Chile.

'DDR.

'Haiti.'

The cup arrives under escort.

'Italien.

'Jugoslawien.

'Schottland.

'Schweden.

'Uruguay.

'Zaire.

'Brasilien.'

Pele, a football king who has hung up his crown,

catches the spirit of carnival again.

'Und Polen.'

The next act prepares.

'Nun, aus Kanada, Land der Olympischen Spiele 1976...'

Canada, home of the next Olympic Games,

sends her drum and bugle girls' band.

Swans on the wing.

All this is part of the razzamatazz of a three-ring circus,

a giant commercial bonanza.

Football, for the moment, becomes second.

Backstage, Jack Taylor, the referee, also has a job to do.

The players' limbs are massaged, and the smell of embrocation is pungent.

BLOWS WHISTLE

The dignitaries come marching out.

Sir Stanley Rous says his farewell.

Mr President, Your Royal Highnesses,

Your Exellencies and sports friends...

..at the opening ceremony,

as president of the FIFA World Cup organising committee...

I thank the DFB for all the preparations they have made

for this festival of football

and for the reception of visitors from other countries.

Now we meet...

on the occasion of the final match

and soon will say farewell.

But the memory of our stay in your country, Mr President,

will long remain.

In parting...

I can sincerely say that we have been happy to meet and make friends.

We shall be sorry to leave, but many of us, I hope, will meet again

in the next World Cup, in the Argentinia in 1978.

Once more, thank you all.

The wives of the Dutch team watch...

..so close yet so far from their men.

'Die Mannschaftaufstellungen.

'Niederlande.

'Neeskens.

'Krol.'

Legs eleven.

'Van Hanegem.'

Bowed, what arrows will they aim?

'Suurbier.

'Rep.

'Rijsbergen.

'Rensenbrink.

'Haan.

'Jongbloed.

'Cruyff.

'Bundesrepublik Deutschland.

'Beckenbauer.

'Maier.

'Schwarzenbeck.

'Bonhof.

'Holzenbein.

'Grabowski.

'Muller.

'Overath.

'Breitner.

'Hoeness.

'Schiedsrichter ist Jack Taylor, England.

'Linienrichter sind Ramon Barreto Ruiz, Uruguay...

'..und Alfonso Gonzalez Archundia, Mexiko.'

Formalities over, the silver coin spins.

A last word from Schon.

There's an unexpected hold-up.

The touchline flags have been forgotten.

It's a joke!

But a German joke is no laughing matter.

WHISTLE BLOWS

Holland kick off and set the dice rolling arrogantly.

They tease the foe with a necklace of passes at walking pace.

At the 15th touch, Cruyff teases Vogts, Germany's number 2.

Leaving his man, Cruyff is through the defence like a sniper.

Penalty!

The Dutch wives are viragoes on springs.

The world holds its breath.

Mrs van Hanegem turns away in nervous prayer.

Neeskens blasts home from the spot

and Germany are one down in 80 seconds

without having touched the ball,

the most sensational opening ever to a World Cup final.

'..Deutschland 0. Strafstoss von Neeskens.'

Muller reflects the shock to the fatherland.

WHISTLE BLOWS

So unfolds a tough, brittle and at times brilliant battle,

full of incident, where no prisoners are taken.

WHISTLE BLOWS

Holland, once a land regarded as flat and uninteresting,

has become a home for the avant-garde.

Now it's reflected in the play of their free-thinking players.

Their game is a whirl of positional change.

As the play develops,

Germany unveil the shape of their skilful W-M pattern.

Compared with the enemy, it is formal.

Vogts, number 2, blond and tigerish, has a key role.

Scorning zonal defence,

Germany set him on Cruyff's heels as permanent watchdog.

He plays his part superbly,

screening Cruyff from the danger areas.

The director-general is Franz Beckenbauer, number 5,

captain and sweeper.

He's the finger post, pointing the way,

unhurried as a man strolling down the boulevard for an aperitif.

WHISTLE BLOWS

Number 13 is Muller, centre forward,

aggressive, always at a defence like a terrier worrying a bone.

He's Deadeye Dick, the snapper of half-chances, a match winner.

Superstitious opponents should beware of that 13.

Breitner, number 3, in theory is the left back.

But he's the ranger, turning up like fine dust in unexpected places,

defending AND attacking.

With 25 minutes gone, Germany are on the mend

and putting their game together.

Breitner, attacking, is down.

WHISTLE BLOWS

The Dutch build their defensive dyke.

They resemble anxious seagulls on the harbour wall.

Jongbloed dives away the free kick.

WHISTLE BLOWS

WHISTLE BLOWS

Muller cripples the blond Rijsbergen.

Van Hanegem, in retaliation, floors Muller behind the referee's back.

Aggro and protest flare.

Taylor consults his linesman.

Time stands still.

Van Hanegem is booked, and the kettle's on the boil.

Attack has begun to swing to and fro like a pendulum.

Clever Dutch approach work

sees Neeskens beat Bonhof to the right by-line.

But Beckenbauer cuts out the centre and feeds the stylish Overath,

who takes a compass reading.

A beautiful long pass finds Holzenbein moving down the flank.

The winger takes on the Dutch defence.

Jansen's lunging tackle brings him down,

and Taylor gives his second penalty.

Breitner calmly strokes it home.

'Niederlande - Bundesrepublik Deutschland 1-1.

'Torschutzer Breitner.'

And at the half-hour, Germany are level, 1-1.

They're out of the dark hole of their beginning.

The Dutch manager is impassive.

But what fires are burning inside?

The make-up of the Dutch wives has begun to run.

WHISTLE BLOWS

It's cut and thrust now.

WHISTLE BLOWS

Breitner is eager.

But Beckenbauer takes over imperiously.

Cruyff leapfrogs Maier and taps him sportingly.

A quick German thrust puts Vogts clean through.

It's odds-on a goal.

But Jongbloed dives brilliantly.

The heart of the battle is still Cruyff versus Vogts

as the substance is felled painfully by the shadow.

A fleeting apology.

A brilliant dribble by Grabowski down the German right

produces a thumbnail sketch of Stanley Matthews of old.

Cruyff - is the Brazilian battle taking its toll?

Next, Grabowski is fouled.

Beckenbauer, with a delicate chip, nearly surprises Jongbloed.

With seven minutes left to the interval, Cruyff slips his shadow.

Beckenbauer is buying time. Rep is on Cruyff's left.

Rep shoots. Maier rescues Germany.

Now Germany begin to uncoil their spring.

WHISTLE BLOWS

WHISTLE BLOWS

Neeskens is booked for a tackle on Holzenbein.

WHISTLE BLOWS

WHISTLE BLOWS

A major turning point has come and gone.

That save by Maier from Rep was the key.

Within three minutes of it, Maier, the hero,

throws the ball out to Grabowski.

Bonhof, running for a forward pass,

streaks to the by-line, pulls back the ball,

and Muller, on the half-turn, scores inside the far post.

He leaps for joy like a grasshopper.

Number 13 has done it again.

WHISTLE BLOWS

Now comes more drama.

Van Hanegem, in ill temper,

throws the ball at the referee as they leave the field.

Cruyff becomes involved, and the heat is on.

He argues and continues to argue.

The cauldron boils over.

He's booked.

Cruyff for once has lacked responsibility.

Germany is happy.

But guess who's got something on his mind.

The Dutch master returns, but in what frame of mind?

Taylor is still the boss.

WHISTLE BLOWS

Grabowski again raises an echo of Stanley Matthews.

Cruyff's face provides a gallery of changing expressions.

Holland are pressurising Germany.

Maier diving, Cruyff stretching, collide.

The goalie writhes painfully.

Cruyff is spoken to sternly.

Cruyff remembers.

But it WAS a 50-50 ball.

A corner sees Maier miscue from Rep,

and the alert Breitner is under the bar to head out.

Danger trembles as Holland tighten the screw.

A dewdrop catches the sunlight.

The perspiration of battle.

Still Holland search for the equaliser.

Van Hanegem's header stretches Maier.

Schon's eyes have a faraway look.

Grabowski centres...

..and Muller's shot is disallowed.

Was he really offside?

Watch it again in deep freeze and judge for yourself.

The crash of limbs.

It is a match of gleaming steel.

Germany are back on the ropes, holding on for life.

The ball is crossed from the left, and Neeskens volleys.

Again, Maier saves instinctively.

"Are we playing the gods as well?"

Cruyff's expression says it all,

as Beckenbauer applauds his goalkeeper.

Holland strain for those last few yards to conquer Everest.

Their options are running out.

So is time, as Neeskens shoots just past the far post.

The agony of it!

Cruyff cannot cut free from Vogts, the destiny of Siamese twins.

Neeskens becomes Holland's spearhead.

Time is woven thin, and the candle gutters.

For Germany, every second has become an eternity.

For Holland...

every second is a grain of sand slipping through their fingers.

Neeskens and Maier contest a high ball.

There are sparks....

..and a fatherly lecture.

WHISTLE BLOWS

WHISTLE BLOWS

The tension is at bursting point.

Even the referee feels it.

Holland, throwing all caution to the winds, leave their rear unguarded.

Holzenbein, in a quick German counter, is felled desperately.

No penalty this time.

The Germans have come through a minefield over the last stages.

There is anxiety in their camp.

But Beckenbauer surveys his empire calmly.

CROWD WHISTLES

Jack Taylor shows his iron fist to the end.

An orange sun dies bravely from the day.

Germany and history have won.

It's all over.

WHISTLE BLOWS