Monday, 13 May 2013

FIGHT! FIGHT! FIGHT! #31


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:




FIGHT #31

 


MR DARCY
vs
MALCOLM TUCKER


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 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.


THEY PACKING MUCH HEAT?

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.




THEIR BACK: WHO HAS IT?




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.

NUANCES AND WHATNOT



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'S CLOBBERING TIME


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.'
Well-’
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.



AND THE WINNER IS...

  

  MR DARCY



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.



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