Monday, 27 May 2013


This week's FIGHT is written by Colleen Cheetham-Gerrard.

It is entirely possible to have a fight with yourself.

Firstly, you can go all metaphysical:

Your conscience's dilemmas.

Your desire to eat chocolate when you're on a diet. Or a boat. Or a funeral procession.

Your urge to check Facebook when you should be writing a blogpost for a friend which makes you feel bad and requires immediate happiness-boosting chocolate.

You can fight with inner demons though outer ones are much more visually satisfying.

You can also physically punch yourself when under the influence of a particularly cruel and depressingly resourceful bully.

And yet, what we all secretly wonder what it would be like to actually fight ourselves. We've all seen that episode of Star Trek.

Really, you have to wonder. Would you deliberately pummel yourself?

Would both of you have the same thoughts at the same time, or would there be subtle differences?

Would you just be constantly matching punch for punch, the only things getting damaged your knuckles, your sense of pride, and possibly a sensible narrative?

Would it be an evil version of yourself? All beardy and with tiny eyes like marbles? Or maybe the better version of yourself? Or just yourself, mirrored down to the last atom, fighting over the very right to breathe on the same plane of existence?

Of course, there is no way to find out.

No sensible way, anyway.

You'll just have to dream. Or punch a mirror.

(Don't punch a mirror, just in case you're in a country without socialised medicine; I don't want to be liable for your bills.)

EDITOR'S NOTE: Go on, punch a mirror.





Leela is the one-eyed captain of the Planet Express ship in the 30th century, delivering packages acros galaxies with the earnest hinderings of a frequently non-committal crew. Brought up believing herself to be the last of a mysterious cyclopic race, she is in fact a mutant from the New York city sewers. Fully capable in martial arts, if not in depth perception, Leela is a fierce environmentalist in a marginally-more-complicated-than-usual relationship with her co-worker, Philip J. Fry. For more information on Leela, see Matt Groening's Futurama, despite the fact it has so far managed to be cancelled twice whilst The Simpsons staggers on unto eternity.

Leela is a companion of the fourth Doctor; a warrior of the Sevateem tribe from a far and distant future. That said, she is human, probably because of the continual squeeze on Doctor Who budgets. Leela is a fierce warrior with a tendency to try and stab people on a very small amount of provocation, a strong sense of danger, and what are charmingly referred to as 'savage' manners. She wears a leather bikini more than is strictly practical. For more information on Leela, see her nine story run in 1970s Doctor Who. Doctor Who, to be fair, was only cancelled once (assuming you don't refer to 1986's hiatus as 'Let's cancel this show only to hastily backtrack when it turned out we'd pissed off several million people and the papers saw a chance to exploit things').


Leela hails from the 30th century, and as such has the dubious advantages that the technology brings her. Unfortunately, the good ship Planet Express is designed as a courier ship, and as such is fairly limited in its offensive capabilities. (Contemporary cycle couriers' main weaponry is simply to run into you at high speed as the rider realises he is forty minutes late). However, Leela is a great tactical leader and is also fairly kickass in the field of kicking ass. Many a bad guy has been clobbered by a flying kick from her awesome leather boots.

Leela is from a primitive and backwards planet and just carries stuff like knives, and poison darts in the form of lethal Janus Thorns. As you do. She has a lesser sense of tactical planning, but has equal power in terms of flying kicks through the medium of holding knives to throats and general awesomeness. She spends a lot of her time on the TARDIS, which is fairly useless at navigation but generally speaking not too bad at defence. Or would be, if anyone ever remembered to use it. It is also, apparently, silly.


Leela has a crew of general misfits, including an alcoholic robot, a recently defrosted human left over from the 20th century, an elderly Professor with a penchant for nudity and inventing things no-one asked for, and a limbo-dancing accountant. They quite often manage to save the day, but no one is ever quite sure how.

Leela is technically a member of a crew of general misfits, which during her duration was basically herself and a robot dog (probably not an alcoholic, but we're not ruling it out). However, the TARDIS is run (to a greater or lesser extent) by the Doctor, a Time Lord of immense importance and power, with a legend writ over the universe. Sort of. His very name is unknowable/knowable/a massive anticlimax (delete as applicable).

Leela, it must be said, also has a Doctor. He does have a name, and it is Zoidberg. Whilst modern day Doctor Who theorising would angst for a long time over which Doctor was more dangerous to his companions, in the short term you'd probably not want Zoidberg hovering over you, pincers clicking wildly and begging for some money, maybe some food.

A distant cousin of Zoidberg appears during the cliffhanger for The Power of Kroll Part One (See FIGHT! FIGHT! FIGHT!#32).


Whilst I would like it to be known that female characters in sci-fi being reduced to their love interests is both boring and anti-feminist, we have to make something reasonably clear here. Both of the Leelas have disastrous love lives. Leela has managed to sleep with Zapp Branigan, and has an on-off romance with Fry, the aforementioned recently defrosted human. If anything, it disproves the adage 'Aim low and you'll never be disappointed'.

The other married literally the most boring Time Lord to have ever guarded Gallifrey very badly from an alien invasion in a shock ending to The Invasion of Time. It was such a shock that the characters didn't seem to realise until the last minute. Or, indeed, the actors. Or the director. It took me several seconds as a viewer to spit tea all over my tea-bag replica of Tom Baker.

Neither Leela, really, can rely on romantic entanglements here.


Inside the Planet Express building, there was a sudden wheezing, groaning noise. “Professor!” shouted Leela. “What have you broken this time?”

There was no response from Professor Farnsworth's lab. Not for the first time, Leela debated looking for a new job, reconciled herself with the fact that the economy never really did recover from the slump of the early 21st Century, sighed and headed up the stairs. She is bewildered by the sight of the Professor slippers sticking out from underneath a large blue box with the words 'POLICE BOX' emblazoned on the side. Her loud exclamations of horror – who was going to sign the pay-cheques now? - was quickly overridden by the door of the box opening. A tall man stepped out, wearing an impractical scarf and a ridiculous hat.

You... you... the Professor!” howled Leela, pointing at him in horror.

No, no, I'm the Doctor!” the tall man said, smiling widely. “I can see how you made the mistake. What a fascinating laboratory, I can see why the TARDIS was attracted here!”

Blinded with rage, Leela launched herself at the Doctor with a flying kick. Her triumphant “Heeee-yah!” was interrupted midflow by a small blurry woman in a bikini grabbing her ponytail and flipping her over.

Leela!” admonished the Doctor. Both women turned around.

Yes?” they said together.

Leela gasped. “You're called Leela?”

The other woman – wearing, it must be said a truly impractical bikini for winter in New New York – frowned. “Who are you to steal my name and try to hurt the Doctor, one eye?” She gave the ponytail another sharp tug.

Oh, you had to pull the race card!” howled Leela, and flipped herself over, startling Leela into letting go of her ponytail. She quickly launched herself at the bikini-clad women, barrelling into her with the rage that only a woman with fairly deep identity issues can possess. Leela was no weak match though, and fought her back punch for punch.

Meanwhile, Fry and Bender had come up the stairs to stand by the Doctor. “Well, I must say, this is certainly a different welcome to a planet,” said the Doctor, making no attempt to intervene. “Where am I, anyway? I was expecting something a little different...”

In the background, the ponytailed Leela had just tried to kick the bikini-clad Leela, only to be averted by the superior speed and distance-judging abilities of the latter.

You're on Earth, dumbass,” said Bender. The Doctor looked carefully at the robot.

30th century? New New York? This wasn't what I was expecting.”

Where were you expecting? Some kind of New New York with nuns that look like cats, and seemingly miraculous yet suspicious medical technology?” Bender sniggered. “That would be stupid.”

Should we, you know, try and stop them?” asked Fry, although sounding a little reluctant. Leela was now trying to avoid the blades wielded viciously by Leela, although the latter was always carefully making sure any bloodshed was minimal and suitable for the potential rage of Mary Whitehouse. Where the blades had actually been hidden was a mystery to all concerned, and Fry had been looking closely. Leela had no such compunction against bloodshed, though, and was focussing her rage on headshots.

This is getting silly,” sighed the Doctor, as Leela grabbed a wrench from the Professor's shelf, and tried to throw it at Leela, although missing her mark by several inches. (Lack of depth perception is a very serious hazard.) “K-9! Come and help!”

The door of the blue box opened again, and a small dog whirred out of the box, before promptly stopping. “Master!” it bleated. Bender looked disgusted. “Carpet! Cannot comply!”

Meanwhile, both Leelas were bleeding heavily but still fighting with a surprisingly ferociousness. The fight had bounced against many walls, leaving experimental weaponry and bits of metal scattered against the floor. The one in the leather bikini crouched down for a moment, attempting to make a crude weapon out of the scrap metal that lay strewn about the floor. Ignorance, and the Doctor's reluctance to teach her about advanced weaponry, meant that she ignored several firearms that would have done the job much quicker, passing over several experimental ray guns.

Leela took her chance while the other scrabbled for something sharp, re-bounding against the wall to build up speed and finally knock the Leela out in a ferocious sign of violence that also looked strangely cartoonish.

This is not...honourable...behaviour...” wheezed Leela from the floor, before stopping.

This is ridiculous,” said the Doctor with a sigh, eventually stepping in. “You! Leela! Stop beating Leela about the head! And Leela, this is not civilized behaviour!”

Master!”came the plaintive voice of K-9. “Mistress is injured! Also suspect violent thoughts of the other robot!”

Bender leered. “Bite my shiny metal ass.”

You killed the Professor!” cried Leela, ponytail askew. “Your vessel landed on his head! Who's going to pay us?”

Killed...?” The Doctor looked at the floor, and the slippers. “Oh dear, not again. Come on K-9, back into the TARDIS!”

Quickly, he scooped up Leela and dragged her across the floor, as the robot dog awkwardly manoeuvred back into the TARIS. As the blue box de-materialised, Leela went to crouch by the slippers of the Professor, expecting to see his horribly mangled corpse.

What's all this noise and mess? Oooh, my spare legs,” came a voice from the door.

Professor!” cried the team. “We thought you were dead!”

No, I was out getting tacos with Dr Zoidberg. He'll dance for sachets of relish. What happened?”

Leela beat the crap out of some chick who can't afford clothes,” said Bender succinctly.

Oh.” The Professor thought for a moment. “Well, good news everyone! We'll take this mess out of Leela's paycheque!”




There was only ever going to be one winner, really.

(Or, to put it another way, the levels of violence permitted in 1970s BBC never stood a chance to the violence permitted on an American TV network in the 21st century.)

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Monday, 20 May 2013


As Winston Churchill once said:

We will fight them on the beaches.
We will fight them on the landing grounds.
We will fight them in front of the fire place in the scud.
We will fight them outside the pub after closing time.
We will fight them at funerals.
We will fight them through the medium of poorly thought out reactionary bullshit and trite sarcasm.
We will fight them well, because we love them and know their weak points.
We will fight them by setting fire to a house surrounded by armed guards.
We will fight them and incur the worst naval losses of an entire conflict.
And still they will call us heroes.”

You said it, you old bastard.





Tyrion Lannister is the younger brother of the richest and most influential family of the nobles of Westeros. His family have either been advisers of Kings, or Kings themselves. Despite this, he has a tendency to slap said Kingish brethren, but everyone's fine with this because that King is about as much fun as drying your tears with a power drill while walking a tight-rope in high winds. 

He appears in the novel series A Song of Ice and Fire, and in the TV show Game of Thrones.

Kroll is a giant squid-like creature who ate a holy relic/fragment of the Key to Time, mutating it to be approximately a mile wide. It mainly spends its time underwater nomming away on vegetation and any animals it happens to snare in its massive, convincing tentacles. He appears in four episodes of Doctor Who, entitled The Power of Kroll.


Tyrion himself is not much of a fighter, but he often has men at his disposal and a strong survival instinct. If pushed he will contrive to mash someone's face in with a shield, or lead men into battle. He might not look like he's dangerous, and that's why he is.

Kroll can detect movement on land by vibrations. It's very sensitive, but not in the sense that it will be made upset and irrational by jibes about its weight. Still, if you do that, he'll probably grab you with a big ol' tentacular sucker-laced reaching arm, and then gobble you up in its beak like some sort of slapdash amateur whore-parrot on its first unsupervised noshing.

Kroll wins.


Even as a dwarf in a Medieval Fantasy context, and one whose birth caused his mother's death, Tyrion can count on his family, although mainly to keep him alive just long enough to tell him that they hate him. Still, blood is thicker than water, as anyone who works on the visual effects at HBO can tell you. This means that his arrest by a member of the Stark family pretty much accelerates the Seven Kingdoms to a point of Civil War and carnage that destroys whole swathes of the land. If you aren't killed by wandering bands of looters, or an army, or from being stabbed out of sheer boredom, you'll probably starve to death. While the Lannisters are packing beaucoup de heaty heats (en Francais, tout le monde), winter is coming, as Northerners and fans of foreboding are wont to remind us. Sure, they have a point, winter is jizzing up ice zombies and nightmares from beyond living memory like there's no tomorrow, but if there isn't going to be a tomorrow then what's the point in worrying about it?

Also Tyrion has the services of Bron, the sellsword, for as long as he is the highest bidder. Bron, despite having no morals to speak of, is mint. He also has a splendid singing voice, probably.

Kroll is worshipped by the Swampies, who at first glance resemble quite a lot of extras and a couple of British character actors dancing around in loin cloths while painted green. They can imprison people and then bring in some dude dressed as a shit crab, and also devise overcomplicated method of deaths involving moistened creepers. The worst kind of creepers.

Give them a gun, and chances are they'll get Kensington Gore all over their necks. They are not the most impressive tribe ever to feature in Doctor Who

Let that sink in for a while.


Tyrion is, by his nature, an epicure and a fan of soft living. However, when the going gets tough he takes inspiration from Billy Ocean and will go properly radge, including SPOILERING his SPOILER with a SPOILER while he goes plop-plop. His good natured banter and filthy mind keeps many an ally on his side.

Kroll doesn't really have any nuances, unless you count 'His limbs don't always appear to be attached to his body' as a nuance.



Tyrion wakes, his head shrouded in a foul-smelling hessian sack, the odour of manure, sick and blood emanating from its weave.

He is monumentally hungover. Every other hangover in history feels like a pleasant breeze on a summer's day in comparison. His head feels like it's full of glass eyes farting nails in every direction. Who was he drinking with last night? He remembers a man in a cream suit, with a well-kempt beard and a  straw hat. 

What in the name of the Seven happened last night? His stomach feels like a Dornish flea-pit.

He is surrounded by tall grass. The air smells of peat, salt and farts. He could be on the Iron Islands but there's too much vegetation, and not enough rocks. He staggers to his feet, and then collapses again as the ground trembles beneath his feet. He tumbles down onto a small muddy beach on the edge of the reeds, only to be set upon my a monstrous rubbery creature that waves its...protuberances at Tyrion menacingly.

'Do you have any concept of money?' he asks it, taking it aback for a second and allowing Tyrion to kick it really hard in the shins. It falls over and starts flailing around trying to right itself.

'Well, that was easy, whatever that was.'

A shadow falls over the most charismatic of Lannisters. It is a many-suckered tentacle the size of a tunnel (although probably quite a small one such as a siege tunnel or engineering vent). The noise it makes as it attaches itself to the struggling heap of unconvincing crab costume is quite, quite disgusting, as are the screams of the green-skinned humanoid within.

The tentacle disappears beneath the water, taking its prey with it. Tyrion takes a cautious step, and is relieved by the lack of moistened suctions. Presumably this thing hunts by movement, if that costumed moron’s scrabblings were anything to go by, so Tyrion’s stature may actually be of benefit to him here.

A plan forms quickly. Tyrion spies a metal structure on the horizon, jutting out above the water on spindly looking legs, and sets off for it, steadily and cautiously. There are no other constructions in sight. If he is to find out what has happened to him, this must be his first port of call.

As he approaches he notices the flame above it, burning so blue that it almost isn’t noticeable against the sky. The sounds of industry grow louder as Tyrion approaches the structure. A lone outpost of alchemists, perhaps? It would at least provide him with someone to lord it over.

The presence of a skylift with no obvious sign of animal power worries him. These people are clearly more advanced than the alchemists of King’s Landing, as evidenced by the two men armed with strange, squat metal devices who are waiting for him at the top.

Halt, or I fire.’

Tyrion halts. His stomach keeps going. He does hope that he isn’t sick on a guard.

Too short to be picked up by securicam. That bodes well.’
Shut it Thorpe. Have you ever seen Swampy children?’
No, I gave no thought to their reproductive habits whatsoever.’
No-one ever does.’

The two guards (for that is what they must be, to be this well armed and this easily sidetracked) stare off into the middle distance for a few seconds, looking thoughtfully confused.

'Sorry to trouble you two fine gentlemen, but where is this place?'
'What? The refinery?'
'Possibly. Where is the refinery?'
'Delta Magna. Are you drunk?'
'I do so wish I was. Where is Delta Magna?'
Delta Magna?’
Yes. Where is it?’

Tyrion kicks the wall in frustration. A resounding clang echoes through the building, before being absorbed by the support struts. The echo fades into a quiet, high-pitched buzzing in his ears.

Outside, there is a deep and viscous gloop as the ocean moves.

An alarm sounds, the lights dim. A disembodied voice blares out from every corner.

'Weapons store. Explosive rounds. 10.4.03 by Vector 9. It's about a mile wide.'

Tyrion burps.

'Bring him,' says a guard.

As he is gripped by the shoulders and dragged along, Tyrion asks if there is any wine on board, only to be thrown through a doorway, face first into a metal gantry. The wind and spray then pummel him backwards, spinning him over. He squints, but then a light blinds him. A blue flame. A dragon?

His guards let out an oath that approximately 12 people will get:

'By the beard of the Space Whale.'

A shape is displacing the water below. Huge, pustulated, writhing. Tyrion's eyes adjust to the outside world, and witness the sea monster. He burps, and throws up over the edge.

The chunder enrages Kroll, the gargantuan sea-beast, and a tentacle reaches up to the gantry and snatches away a guard. His grenade launcher clatters to the floor. It leaks fluid which drips down through the grilled flooring. Tyrion can smell it from here. Pure alcohol.

'Is that spirit?' he shouts at the guard, who cannot hear him over the sound of the wind, and the waves, and the huge fuck-off gun that is firing lots of shots of bullets. Fortunately, the roar of the monster as it attaches a sucker arm to the guard's face is a lot quieter. Turns out we'll never get an exposition bit about why there's ethanol in the guns. Oh well.

Tyrion picks up the unexplained booze gun, and drains it. The rainwater and sea spray dilutes the alcohol, but still it burns like nothing Tyrion has ever experienced. He clambers up to the blue flame, where the excess gas is being burned off, drops his pantaloons, jumps up and down, holds his breath, and waits.

Kroll is not expecting to be confronted by a small man, vomiting through his nostrils and breaking wind with the alimentary canal of a giant. The flame grows in strength until an explosion rocks the refinery, and the seas of Delta Magna boil until they are rife with unedifying looking calamari.

The Swampies have lost their god, but they have discovered a new deity in the form of batter and lemon juice.

Displaced in time, heading to who knows where, the further emaciated remains of Tyrion Lannister spin through eternity, on the whims of an enigmatic guardian of no-fixed morality.




FIGHT! FIGHT! FIGHT! will return in:


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Monday, 13 May 2013


This week's FIGHT is written by Ali George.

It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune must be in want of a FIGHTING.

For two hundred of our Earth years society (Grown-ups) has said that fighting is bad, for society (the Grown-up who does the laundry) does not want to deal with the anarchy of bloodstained cravats in the schoolyard.

The adage goes that you should sort out your differences with wordicuffs, not fisticuffs, and so from childhood we strive towards intellectual dominance, cowing our enemies with cries of ‘Nae joy,’ ‘Shut it bawbag’ and ‘Sook ma fud’.

Never was this inclination towards wounding with words more apparent than within the lives of the forthcoming battlers. Whilst acerbic wit will do for a time, the struggle for power is more visceral, more compelling when it reveals itself in combat.

And so we present unto you the biggest battle of the wordsmiths since this happened:





Fitzwilliam Darcy (totally legitimate name) is Jane Austen’s quintessential Regency dreamboat (best not interpreted literally). With a fortune in excess of £10,000 a year (just over £9 million in modern money, in case you’re wondering how he managed to own and run Derbyshire on less than minimum wage), Darcy is sexy and he know it. He also proud, rude and extremely influential – which means if you get on the wrong side of him polite society will never speak to you again. In short, Darcy is ‘the proudest, most disagreeable man in the world’ - at least, he is for the first ten minutes of Pride and Prejudice, after which it turns out he is just kind of introverted and repressed, and has been terribly misunderstood.

Malcolm Tucker is a proponent of the brash, snarling, don’t-give-a-fuckery that modern Western society is made of. Far from being repressed or accidentally misunderstood, he makes an entire career out of deliberately manufacturing high profile misunderstandings and doesn’t give a toss about polite society – except in terms of how it can be manipulated to suit his own ends. He terrorises politicians, journalists and civil servants alike with the awesome rage of a dying universe, not just saying what he thinks but bawling it in expletive ridden invective calculated to make your ears bleed, before he chastises you for having fanny ears. He’s the foul mouthed spin doctor everyone loves to quote, coining phrases as universally loved as ‘Omnishambles’, ‘Come the fuck in or fuck the fuck off’ and What the fuck is this? Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Cunt?’ 

He is, as the kids say, mint.


Language is the main weapon of both men, albeit used in different ways – one chooses cutting politeness, the other opts for increasingly inventive profanity.
Having said that, Darcy is massively rich and probably has a pretty decent collection of antique firearms massed on the Pemberley Estate. He definitely has several servants who would lay themselves on the line for him. Due to his background, he will also have been trained to shoot, box, fence and carry out any other genteel but distinctly violent sports you care to think of.

Malcolm Tucker has a range of amoral media contacts who can make or break careers, a ridiculously sharp mind that can turn any situation to his own advantage, and a nihilistic dedication to fucking people up by means of mental torture.

Malcolm wins.


Mr Darcy wins on numbers – he has his wife’s family, the Bennets (Jane and Elizabeth would be quite handy, but would probably spend most of the time telling their mother and three other sisters to stop cackling about bonnets and throw some punches), the Bingleys (Mr Bingley is a bit wet, but you wouldn’t want to cross Caroline – she has an angry soul) and the whole county of Derbyshire, headed up by his sister Georgiana.

Malcolm Tucker might have Ollie Reeder depending on what day of the week it is – but failing that there’s always his second in command Jamie MacDonald, who uses insults like ‘Mimsy bastard quisling leak fuck’ and fights with Motherwell rules (pint glass in his fucking eye and a pool cue up his arse and another pool cue in his other fucking eye).

Malcolm wins.


Back in the day, Mr Darcy was all about looking out for the working man (everyone on his estate had houses, shoes, food – all the mod cons). Transfer his principles, wealth and education to 2013 and he is clearly a prime candidate for the role of leader of the opposition.

Enter Malcolm Tucker, who shares Darcy’s mantra that ‘my good opinion, once lost, is lost forever.’ Of course Malcolm Tucker has never had a good opinion of anyone, ever – but Darcy isn’t to know that.

Once Malcolm has initiated the coup allowing Darcy to take over the party, the two men find they do not see eye to eye. Darcy begins to find Tucker’s tendency towards being a terrible bastard galling, whilst Tucker discovers Darcy’s secret niceness and is repelled by it. He would have broken Wickham’s legs, or at least got Jamie to do it. These different approaches sour their working relationship and lead to several of the most quotable arguments you ever heard… And ultimately, to this: 


It is dusk in Parliament Square. A few lone tourists wander by, snapping pictures of feral pigeons and details of the abbey to post in Facebook albums nobody will ever look at. Big Ben bongs 8pm and two suited men appear, one from the direction of Westminster Bridge, the other from Whitehall.

Ill met by moonlight,’ murmurs the first, a handsome chap who would ideally be played by young Colin Firth in any film version of this altercation.

Are you calling me a fairy?’ the other man asks, ‘Your fairy fucking queen? Are you using Shakespeare, the Bard, to suggest I am Titania to your Oberon? Because I will tell you right now, I am not going to take any servant stealing, drugging, farcical fucking iambic cuntameter from you. Try any rohypnol induced romantic comedy shenanigans on me and tomorrow’s headlines will be about the secret half-pig lovechild you had with Charlotte Lucas-Collins.’

Darcy, although used to such diatribes by now, is unprepared for this attack (a little bit like his predecessor in the commons – ooh, satire), and counters, ‘I read in the Hansard that your mother was of questionable moral fortitude.’

Oh really? I read in the Hansard that your face was of questionable moral fortitude, and the house moved that somebody, anybody should peel it off with a rusty fucking penknife and punch it into a pretty person's face.'
And on seeing this new Frankenstein's monster face, babies would spontaneously combust in horror and single parents would melt like cake left out in the rain. The hat made of your smug fucking face would be so awful, previously accomplished young ladies would be reduced to spineless slagpiles whole countries would be instantly privatised, and in the ensuing chaos your terrible mother in law would be given her own chat show and a lucrative book deal. On Channel 5.'
Oh no you didn’t,’ Darcy says, drawing his second best fencing sword. ‘En garde.’

The two men parry back and forth for about four hours, tirelessly throwing sarcastic quips at one another like they’re in a Joss Whedon show. There’s no time to list them all here, but it’s hilarious.

Unfortunately one of the famous Parliament Square protest tents is accidentally shredded in the fray of sharpened words and swords, revealing the occupants – a dreadlocked family of woodlice with a laptop. They have been coordinating political demonstrations via Twitter in a sort of Wizard of Oz style, partly to get the young people interested in activism again but mainly for a way to pass the time after crash landing their hot air balloon onto a witch and failing to find their way back home.

Darcy can’t help but listen sympathetically whilst the insects explain their unlikely plight, something he learned to do on the campaign trail. This gives Tucker the chance to chib him in the fighting shoulder with a broken bottle, simultaneously disarming him and ruining a very expensive suit. Darcy lunges forward and punches Tucker in the throat (Queensbury Rules, natch) with all the force inherited wealth and well-meaning poshness provides. Tucker, unscathed, returns with a Glaswegian kiss – but this is ineffective on Darcy’s chiselled jawline.

Listen,’ Tucker cries, ‘The sound of a young damsel about to lose her honour to your brother-in-law somewhere near Clapham!’

Foolish Darcy stops to listen, and Malcolm elbow drops him to the ground with a scream of something like but not necessarily ‘FUCKINGBAMBIFACEDQUALMBUCKET’.

Lying there bleeding from his chibbed shoulder and the ribs he has broken in the fall, Darcy whispers to the disenfranchised protestor woodlice to run. Malcolm, his face devoid of all emotion, stamps on them and wipes out three generations of a family in one stroke. He considers stamping on Darcy’s head, but thinks better of it and turns to leave, and not before time; the police have arrived on the scene. Malcolm straightens his tie and points to the recumbent figure on the ground.

'Mr Darcy has been attacked by protesters,' he says, 'I've dealt with it. Get him to hospital and I'll see you get to kick a tramp of your choice to death.'
'Certainly Mr Tucker,' says the policeman, who promptly shoots him through the heart. The bullet is silver, and soaked in holy water.
'You alright boss?' asks the marksman, crouching over Darcy's form.
'I think I've been the victim of a regional protest vote. I'll get over it.'
Darcy stands with help from his police stooge, and looks sadly down at the body of his advisor.
Two faced, and both with pubes for hair, ’ Malcolm whispers approvingly, ‘You’ll be Prime Minister yet.’
'I know,' says Darcy, and he walks away. The policeman wonders how anyone could ever be optimistic about politics.

As strains of Beethoven in the night air herald the approach of Darcy’s private ambulance, Tucker bites down on the cyanide capsule in his molar, just in case.




As the old saying goes, money and sideburns always triumph.

FIGHT! FIGHT! FIGHT! will return in:
"The snozberries taste like snozberries! By which I mean crack. Please help me, I have quite a serious problem.”

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.