This blog celebrates the art of waking up with your enemy's blood on your face by pitching fictional characters against each other to decide once and for all who is supreme. There are fifty FIGHT! FIGHT! FIGHT!s present for your consumption and education. Go nuts.
It is a
truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a
good fortune must be in want of a FIGHTING.
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.
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’.
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
WHO THEY THEN?
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
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?’
is, as the kids say, mint.
THEY PACKING MUCH HEAT?
is the main weapon of both men, albeit used in different ways – one
chooses cutting politeness, the other opts for increasingly inventive
said that, Darcy is massively rich and probably has a pretty decent
collection of antique firearms massed on the Pemberley Estate. He
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.
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.
THEIR BACK: WHO HAS IT?
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.
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).
NUANCES AND WHATNOT
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
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
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
IT'S CLOBBERING TIME
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.
met by moonlight,’ murmurs the first, a handsome chap who would
ideally be played by young Colin Firth in any film version of this
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.’
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.’
read in the Hansard that your face
was of questionable moral fortitude, and the house moved that
should peel it off with a rusty fucking
penknife and punch
it into a pretty person's face.'
on seeing this new Frankenstein's monster face, babies would
spontaneously combust in horror and single parents would melt like
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
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
no you didn’t,’ Darcy says, drawing his second best fencing
sword. ‘En garde.’
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
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.
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.
Tucker cries, ‘The sound of a young damsel about to lose her honour
to your brother-in-law somewhere near Clapham!’
Darcy stops to listen, and Malcolm elbow drops him to the ground with
a scream of something
like but not necessarily ‘FUCKINGBAMBIFACEDQUALMBUCKET’.
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
not before time; the police have arrived on the scene. Malcolm
straightens his tie and points to the recumbent figure on the ground.
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.'
Mr Tucker,' says the policeman, who promptly shoots him through the
heart. The bullet is silver, and soaked in holy water.
alright boss?' asks the marksman, crouching over Darcy's form.
think I've been the victim of a regional protest vote. I'll get over
stands with help from his police stooge, and looks sadly down at the
body of his advisor.
faced, and both with pubes for hair, ’ Malcolm whispers
approvingly, ‘You’ll be Prime Minister yet.’
know,' says Darcy, and he walks away. The policeman wonders how
anyone could ever be optimistic about politics.
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.
AND THE WINNER IS...
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.