Monday, 26 November 2012


First there were single celled organisms.

Or God.

Or both. 

No-one’s ever really nailed that one.

So yeah, single-celled organisms. They were there. Do you know what happened next?

That's right.


And so here we all are.






  • Spike is a sassy, vivacious vampire with something vaguely resembling an English accent. He fancied Buffy Summers because he was a male alive in the late 1990s. James Marsters played him, and everyone agrees this was a good thing. You may have witnessed his adventures in the TV and comic book series (not a film. That never happened) Buffy the Vampire Slayer.

  • A spike is an object sharpened to a point. It has practical applications in art, masonry, torture, camping, writing love letters in the snow, violence, extracting flavour from seeds or pods, more torture, slowly pushing into a zombie’s eye, gardening, the construction of a rudimentary sun-dial, pointing at things and taunting the possessors of blunt things.


Spike is a vampire with a predilection for sex and violence, AKA ‘The Good Kind of Vampire’. If this were a fight between him and Edward Cullen then there would only be one winner: everybody.

As a being who can overpower the living and drink their succulent life juices, he has the whole pointy toothed hunter of weaklings thing down to a fine art. He got his nickname from torturing people with spikes, so he knows full well the damage they can do.

A spike is an inanimate object, but it in itself can be heat. The amount of heat depends on the spike's construction. For argument's sake let us say that this spike is about a foot long, is vaguely conical, and constructed from iron. You cannot reason with it, you cannot fight it, but you can run away from it kinda easily. It's a spike, it's just going to sit there unless someone intervenes.

Context is everything. No clear winner can be found here.


Spike has uneasily befriended the Scooby Gang after they got over that whole 'trying to kill us' thing that went down. He previously hung around with Drusilla and Angel when they went through their 'Bastard vampire bastards' phase, culminating in his amulet-based resurrection in the latter's spin-off show. Now he has his own comic book series. And is technically immortal anyway. In conclusion, many powerful and violent people have his back, he's bloody hard to kill, and if you did manage it he'd probably come back to life anyway.

No-one has a spike's back. Due to their dimensions it is quite hard to define what a spike's back is due to inconsistency in brandishing techniques. Certainly if someone is operating the spike that person can be said to have the spike's back, and the spike theirs. Sometimes the spike will be on the end of a long pole though, if the person involved is sufficiently wussy/sensible.

A spike isn't alive in the first place either, unless it's Elvish or something, and it isn't. You can't have elves fighting vampires, that's just silly (unless of course someone from Hollywood is reading this, in which case it's a 12A action film for the 2015 summer season with a 58% Fresh rating on Rotten Tomatoes, and I've totally just bagsied writing it). The point is spikes are impossible to kill, but possibly to destroy. Irrespective of its construction, it is best to play it safe when eradicating spikes from this universe, and remember this one simple truth:


NB. Also works on non-spike objects/entities.


Spike vaguely resembles Billy Idol, the punk-pop upstart who embraced the possibilities of music videos.

Spikes were very popular in medieval torture devices, culminating in the purest form of the genre: the spike. A very patient torturer would force the victim onto the spike via their anal passage, forcing the body downwards while contriving to miss as many major organs as possible until the tip of the spike emerged at the other end of the alimentary canal. The subject would then slowly and agonisingly bleed to death while their gag reflex went off like crazy. Thus we have one of those rare situations where one might actually wish for a big rusty blood covered spike to puncture your lungs or heart, as relatively speaking that'd be a good way to go.

If you're ever in Prague, why not visit the Torture Museum? It really is very horrible.


This is the point where we run all the above information through our highly sophisticated computer program to establish the victor. Computers are like your partner, in that they operate using a logic that loads of other people seem to understand, but is a tad beyond you at this present moment. The important thing is that you're happy.

In the abtract realm of our fighting arena, Spike is confronted with a spike.

He says something pithy, and turns to leave, only to be confronted with an ethereal disembodied voice going 'Chicken. Buack buack buckawww'.

'It's a spike,' says Spike.
'You're a spike' say the voice.
'Yes, technically,' says Spike, 'Your point being?'
'Just beyond your grasp.'
'Bum off.'
'You're a bum off.'
'What does that even mean?'
'Shit off.'
'Angel would totally take the spike.'
'Angel's a funtycuckmuncher.'
'Shut up. I will not be menaced by a...non corporeal...mimsy...nodule.'
'Then fight like a man.'

Spike decides, at this point, to show the inanimate object who's boss (to whit, the animate object), so picks up the spike and throws it very hard into the wall. Due to its abstract qualities and the nature of belief, the arena is not well maintained when it not being visualised by readers of this blog, and has fallen into a state of disrepair. Thus, when an impact of sizeable force focused around a point of roughly one square millimetre, it is probably best to run very fast in the opposite direction, rather than swagger away smugly because you've outwitted a mysterious yet immature sharp thingy.

What a large piece of masonry it is that crushes Spike. What a very large piece of masonry indeed.


A Spike

The moral of the story being: do not fuck with spikes (either literally or metaphorically).

FIGHT! FIGHT! FIGHT! will return in:

Shit me hellwards it's a FIGHTING.

If you have any suggestions for who you'd like to see square go each other in future FIGHT! FIGHT! FIGHT! articles, please mention them below.

Meanwhile, watch this tenuously related video:

Monday, 19 November 2012


Picture the scene: 

Some apes on a beach, their sad eyes lamenting the degradation of humanity into a hairy shadow of its former self. 

One of them finishes stripping the flesh from a femur, and throws the bone high into the air. It twists and tumbles like a big bastard bludgeony leaf, and as it falls you realise it isn't a bone: 

It's a piston.

Not only did monkeys take over the world, but they did it by defeating our robot/cyborg overlords. 


I did. I do vaguely plan these out in advance you know.

Anyway, robots. 

The real aim of Artificial Intelligence is, of course, to create things that can beat the shit out of each other that don't have rights but do have simulated emotional responses. For what is fighting without emotion but the statistics sheet of a war?

With robots we can have all the desperation, excitement and all-pummelling-awesomeness we crave in our combat, but no-one actually gets hurt apart from the people who build the robots or who are emotionally invested in the robots or the entirety of the human race when our aggressive, subjugated fighting mechanoids decide to rise up and kill the hell out of everyone.

Still, it'll totes be worth it in the short term.

FIGHT #7: 




Sir Killalot is a big, heavy, tread-wheeled robot with many sharp objects attached to him. He looks quite aggrieved about a good many things. You may have seen him on Robot Wars.

K9 is several robot dogs who stringently obey the laws of narrative necessity. He is a companion of the Fourth Doctor and Sarah-Jane Smith. You may have seen him in Doctor Who, The Sarah-Jane Adventures, and also K9 & Company or K-9.


Hells yeah.

K9 AKA ‘The Shooty Dog Thing’ has a laser in his nose. Assuming it is charged it can do loads of stuff. He can - through the power of wooden beams, overdubbing and complimentary editing – travel quickly and silently across any solid terrain. Apart from marshland. And beaches. And deserts. And slight slopes. And anything involving a ground clearance of more than 0.2 mm. If you’re a slow moving henchperson whose only line is ‘Ugh’, however, consider yourself K-Pwned.

Sir Killalot has weight and traction on his side, as well as a blade on a stick and a set of pincers taken from emergency rescue equipment. The blade was replaced with a drill. Then the pincers were made larger. Eventually, based on current trends, Sir Killalot will absorb the mass of Earth and become his own planet by 30,112 AD.


Sir Killalot’s cohorts are swayed by fear. Sgt. Bash, Matilda, DeadMetal and Shunt would follow Sir Killalot into the jaw’s of Hull and back. The only drawbacks are as follows:

  1. Fear will only get you so far as a leader.
  2. Sgt. Bash and Matilda were rubbish.

Item 2 was one of the unspoken truths shared by viewers of Robot Wars (the other one being 'If I don't build a robot then Phillipa Forrester is never going to talk to me'). If Sgt. Bash and Matilda were people they would be minor characters in TheLeague of Gentlemen: impotent derangemongers, undermining the nobility of combat by flailing around like irate whirligigs, dispensing pegs with all the fury of a teardrop. You'd walk by with Phillipa and try hastily to work out if she would be more impressed by disdain or charity. Turns out, it would be neither. She's married. Let it go. Let it go.

K9's friends include intrepid investigative journalist Sarah-Jane Smith, some plucky teenagers, aristocratic Time-Deviant and nose-tilter Romana, and that decreasingly enigmatic wanderer in time-and-space known as The Doctor. All of these people are more than capable of standing quite far away from robots with big spikes on them, although for once Sgt. Bash's flamethrower might turn out to be remotely useful. 


Sir Killalot’s lineage is dubious.

While hunting and crushing lesser creatures through the application of pain is a traditional pursuit of the hereditary gentry, Debrettes’ lacks any entry under ‘Killalot’, although there is a ‘Killalotte’ dynasty in Sussex. Generally considered too surly a killer to be part of the elite, Sir Killalot has never actually killed a fox and is a confirmed Vegan who has taken part in several marches for PETA.

It is has often been speculated, then, as to who knighted him, and doubt cast upon their logic. As all Sir Killalot is known for is killing a lot, and that one time he and Craig Charles went “fishing in Jerusalem without baiting their rods”, it’s hard to imagine what he was knighted for.

It is inadvisable to make a spin-off show based around K9.

Also, Adam Woodyatt once won a Celebrity Special of Robot Wars, beating such luminaries as Chris Eubank, Anthea Turner, Vic Reeves and 5ive.


This is the point where we run all the above information through our highly sophisticated computer program to establish the victor. You own your existence to such a program, so don't go getting all aggressive at it if you feel its done you a wrong.

You may want to imagine this bit being read by Jonathan Pearce.

Sir Killalot stands ready and primed. Smooth action. An almost sexual prowess for violence. It advances like a war of attrition.

Formidable. At the controls, an unknown malevolent sentience. Who knows what darkness lurks at the pneumatic heart of this, the darkest of dark Knights?

Opposite, sits the pun and metal heavy robot dog. His snout gun, way in advance of any technology that created Sir Killalot, is ready and poised. Only Professor Marius' intentions were ultimately more benign than whatever created Sir Killalot, albeit things went a bit wrong and the Doctor and Leela ended up fighting a big prawn inside Tom Baker's head of course.



K9 immediately firing his nose-mounted laser, there, and Sir Killalot's advance is halted. Or is it? No! You can see he is making infinitessimalishly small increments of movement in a forwardly direction, and within ten to twelve nano-fortnights may yet reach the prissy, programmable pooch. Or can he hold out for the duration?

In the event of this fight ending in a the decision will go to our panel of judges; Professor Noel Sharkey, Professor Martin Smith and Mat Irvine.

Doubtless they will remain impartial.

Sir Killalot's raised his arm! Let's have a look at that in slow motion and YES you can see there he clearly raises it upwards. I wonder what affect that will have on the judges' verdict should it come to that?

Sir Killalot is now within a yard of K9, and is starting to bring the arm down - look, yes, there it goes - and...any second now...there's the drill bit. Rotating and screwing and going around and around. Imagine that, if you would, in the soft skull of a baby cow, mincing its brains about. Unnecessary. Ashley Cole.

The clock counts down, but is it to oblivion or obscurity? Certainly this fight has been without merit in comparison to such legendary bouts such as Razor versus Chaos 2, or Lord Sluttington versus Wang Pow Thank you Mao.

K9's batteries are exhausted. Sir Killalot is yet to make physical contact with his opponent.




The judges' ruling is final. K9 actually managed to strike his opponent, and thus showed more aggression. Sir Killalot's nerdy yet eldritch creators vowed to return and revenge themselves upon K9, who is probably in need of a rebuild.

FIGHT! FIGHT! FIGHT! will return in:

It's like dancing only you don't miss.

If you have any suggestions for who you'd like to see square go each other in future FIGHT! FIGHT! FIGHT! articles, please mention them below.

Monday, 5 November 2012

Spider Jerusalem vs Raoul Duke

This week's FIGHT! FIGHT! FIGHT! written by John Steele.
Two enter our arena, but only one may leave. 

Together they will perform that most primal of dances.

The jerking and twisting of tangled meat marionettes at the hands of a fickle and capricious god, acting out their parts until one of them is definitively bereft and ruined, until they are nothing but dying embers in a finite universe where night is always approaching.

Despite all civilisation’s trappings, despite its facades, just below the surface we hunger for conflict, we lust for life, and violence is life.

Also, violence is mint. Despite claims to the contrary, it does solve some things.

All it takes is the slightest push for an otherwise mild mannered peon to plunge peril-ward into a red-haze of death and destruction. 

All it takes is for the powers that be to look the other way or irk us in just the wrong manner and we will cut-loose our civility and go proper biblical and whichever poor fucker happens to be in the way. 

Proper Hobbesian shit, yeah?

We all want the prove ourselves. We all want to hear our blood sing as we cave in the skulls our enemies. Something up tempo. Maybe Move your Feet by Junior Senior. 

I digress. 

The point remains: fighting is in our blood. The only way to release it is to drain someone entirely of theirs, preferably by flipping great wodges of FIGHTING.

As a wise man once said:
“Give a man a fish and he’ll weaponize it and kill his neighbour”.


    • Spider Jerusalem: A brilliant political columnist and author who just happens to also be a violent, sarcastic, tattooed misanthrope. Spider has a deep and abiding hatred for anyone who isn’t him, especially if that person has even the faintest whiff of authority about them. He’s a resident of “The City” a grim, dystopian metropolis of the far, far future where capitalism and consumerism have run amok. His progress can be charted in the comics and books labelled Transmetropolitan by Warren Ellis and Darick Robertson.

  • Both of these men shoot-up and chug pills like they’re participating in a flat-out race of self-destruction; a race where there are no prizes and no rules, and where the only finishing line is death itself.

    Sounds spine-shankingly brilliant doesn't it?


Jerusalem’s weapon of choice is “The bowel disruptor” an illegal firearm which makes people shite themselves. It has such delightful settings as “Unspeakable gut horror", "Burning anal geyser" and "Fatal intestinal maelstrom".

Duke periodically takes possession of a .357 magnum and has access to enough drugs to kill not just one elephant, but all elephants

A straight tie ensues.


Spider has his filthy assistants: Channon Yarrow, a towering bodyguard with a disturbing knowledge of weaponry and Yelena Rossini, a diminutive PA who personifies the phrase “poison comes in small bottles”. Both are more or less utterly devoid of conventional morals. In addition to this he has his scheming and devious editor Mitchell Royce and a chain smoking cat with two faces which is capable of killing most animals twice its size. Also, if one foreword is to be believed, Patrick Stewart has his back, thus giving Spider one of the most powerful telepaths in human history and the grumpiest Captain of the Starship Enterprise.

Raoul Duke has Dr Gonzo, the 300 pound Samoan; lawyer and fellow consumer of “the drugs.” He is described by Duke as “One of god’s own prototypes; a high powered mutant of some kind never even considered for mass production; too weird to live and too rare to die.” Dr Gonzo has a destructive and belligerent streak of violence running through his core. A force, which if properly focused is capable of unimaginable carnage. Luckily for everyone else, he and his mind are only passing acquaintainces.

Spider wins.


Spider is a very angry man.

The insights he offers about the world play to the lowest common denominator (hello, by the way). They are brutal and unforgiving, just like the truth, and he’s going to tell it regardless of whether you like it or not. If needs must he will bludgeon them into your skull with a chair leg. Despite his many and varied failings Spider will stop at nothing to get to the truth and expose the establishment for what it is.

Duke is seemingly capable of avoiding all the consequences of his actions, be it theft, property damage, speeding or skipping out on a hotel bill larger than a third world nation’s GDP. He always gets away scot-free. Perhaps Duke’s most spectacular talent is that he is a force of entropy. Any room or vehicle inhabited or used by Duke can be utterly and incontrovertibly trashed in a matter of hours simply through his presence. Despite his failings as a human-being Duke is something of a mystic, stoner poet, whose drug addled musings contain deep and terrifying insights into the truth of things and the ways of the world. Truths we all knew but never had the courage or talent to articulate into words. At heart he is a philosopher.

Both are almost always found wearing shades and smoking. TV and Hollywood lead me to believe that this denotes “cool.” I am inclined to believe them.

Duke wins, as he is arguably more sophisticated.


This is the point where we run all the above information through our highly sophisticated computer program to establish the victor. Computers will one day become the dominant species on this planet, as exemplified by Gary Kasparov's awkward sexual liason with the Deep Blue computer after it had defeated him at chess.

 Deep Blue never returned his calls.

 Of course, this was pre-broadband, so the line might just have been busy.

 But you try telling that to Gary Kasparov.

Spider kicks the door of Duke’s hotel suite clean off its hinges and comes barrelling through the shattered doorframe like the wrath of syphilitic volcano deity on PCP. Shots from the bowel disruptor come thick and fast as Duke dances about the room, leaping and diving like a lemur on speed. A nearby amphetamine-fuelled lemur is not so lucky.

Grabbing a nearby fly swatter Duke flails ineffectually at the irate Jerusalem. Spider retaliates with a hard kick aimed at the knees, Duke darts under the table then hides behind the curtain quietly gibbering. Lunging at the curtain the two combatants fall to the floor in a tangle of limbs and hideous brown-orange nylon. Breathless, the two realise there is very little reason for them to be fighting, especially in a room so plentifully stocked with alcohol and narcotics. What began as a fight to the death quickly descends into a hedonistic bender or truly epic proportions, a bender which skalds will tell tales of for centuries to come.

Duke is found dead in a ditch three days later having drowned in a shallow pool of his own devising: his eyes have exploded and most of his brain matter has dribbled out of his ears. Spider is not seen for another 2 weeks until he surfaces on a shrimp trawler in the Caspian Sea. Devoid of clothing he has nothing in his possession save a badly forged Lebanese passport and the business card for a tax account in Krakow; he has no memory of any of the events which preceded this.

Experts and commentators attribute Jerusalem’s survival to his fancy, enhanced future biology. Some have even gone as far to say that this is almost, but not quite, like cheating, or that Spider Jerusalem may be a descendant of Jesus. An inquest into the result is expected to be launched in the near future.


Spider Jerusalem

By default.

FIGHT! FIGHT! FIGHT! will return, featuring:

because massive internal hemorrhaging 
is the new olympics

If you have any suggestions for who you'd like to see square go each other in future FIGHT! FIGHT! FIGHT! articles, please mention them below.