Monday, 24 June 2013


This week's FIGHT was co-written by Fiona KT Howat.

You’re late. Again.

The one night when everything to run like clockwork and you’re late!

Save your pathetic excuses and apologies; I don’t want to hear them! I've got enough on my plate without you blithering on. Ashley has the flu, Robin is in Whitby on some training course called 'What is a Customer?' and Sam, who was supposed to be compering tonight, has gone totally AWOL.

So yeah. Just you in the arena tonight.
Get into your costume.
Get out there.
Don’t argue.
The children have been waiting for over an hour and they’re getting restless.

You’ve forgotten haven’t you? The Afterschool Crackerjack-Attack Free-For-All Special?

Okay. Okay. You need to try and stay calm. Stay calm. Where’s your inhaler? Breathe. Breathe. Breathe. Happy thoughts. Happy thoughts.


There. It’s fine. You’ll be fine. It’s all fine.



I’m sorry but my hands are tied. You knew this day would come!
We don’t want a repeat of last time, do we? You remember - when one of the arena portals malfunctioned and we ran out of chocolate Angel Delight?


Oh god. Listen. They’ve started chanting.

Look...just...don’t let them get to you. 

I KNOW that they can be cruel! 

Stop crying. Your facepaint will run.

It will all be over soon

Go. Get out there. Show them what you’re made of.

Don’t forget the yoghurt pots.






Caractacus Potts is a mild mannered eccentric inventor who lives with his twin children - Jeremy and female Jeremy - and his father, Grandpa, on a hilltop farm somewhere near Pinewood studios pre WWI. After numerous failed attempts at creating profitable inventions, Caractacus finally hit the big time in the canine confectionery market, selling his ‘Toot Sweets‘ to gullible dog owners who can't afford cigarettes. His other claim to fame is restoring the racing car nicknamed Chitty Chitty Bang Bang back to her original showroom condition for only 30 guineas, a feat that not even Tim Westwood could achieve. He is portrayed by Dick Van Dyke in the 1968 musical film Chitty-Chitty-Bang-Bang loosely based on Ian Fleming's 1964 novel Chitty-Chitty-Bang-Bang: The Magical Car.

Archie the Inventor is a socially inept maverick who lives alone in a salmon pink castle, overlooking the small fictional island community of Balamory. As the wealthiest man in the village, Archie often feels the need to intervene in the lives of his chums, helping them overcoming everyday obstacles, as all rich people are wont to do. Uses his Advance Degree in “Arts & Crafts”, Archie constructs madcap inventions and gadgets from anything he has to hand salvage, from cardboard loo rolls to odd socks. Yet, despite his good intentions, Archie’s creations often cause more harm than good and always end with HILARIOUS consequences. He is portrayed by Miles Jupp in the children’s TV show Balamory (pronouncedBAAAAA-LAAAAA-MORRRRR-REEEEE).


Potts' pedal-powered haircut machine could theoretically boil your brains in his head. He is a remarkably adept fighter of foreigners in dream sequences, and a schemer of great intricacy when it comes to storming castles. The most dangerous thing about Potts is that he will smile pleasantly, singing and dancing while plotting your ultimate demise. Don't make him angry. His revenge will be swift and terrible.

Archie has access to a whole range of resources which he has borrowed permanently from his friends over the years. Many of these are household items such as might be found in the houses of middle class children, all the better to hound their parents into making utter shite on a Sunday. His fondness for vintage yoghurt pots, washing up bottles and reams of sticky tape border on the obsessional. While Archie might not be traditionally threatening, one must always be wary of such types. Obsession is not only a perfume, it's just a short hopscotch away from sharp knives on the floor and jibbering eternal regret.

Potts wins.


Potts can summon dogs to his aid and then follow this up with a quick sugar boost. He can integrate with dancers, posh people, and poor foreigners with ease. His family consist of plucky young child types and a Grandpappa whom everyone dotes on despite almost definitely being riddled with syphilis he picked up on campaign.

Whilst the other inhabitants of Balamory are colourful and extrovert, he is relatively dour. This is probably due to his e'er present sporran repeatedly thwacking him up the happy sacs whenever he tries to be more jovial and kinetic. Still, everyone on Balamory is so dementedly happy that Archie's misanthropy presents itself as shiny happy delight by mainland standards. In the event of combat, being offensively happy is yet to be known as an adequate defence against huge fuck-off violences.

Potts wins.


Potts may yet become a member of the aristocracy, assuming he is willing to undergo the operation where all his sperm get fitted with a crown.

His gift of improvisation, able to outwit trained spies with ease, will stand him in good stead for any combat.

Also, based on the surname and the hair colour of his children, Caractactus is obviously an ancestor of Pepper, so we can safely assume that Chitty Chitty Bang Bang takes place in the Marvel Universe.

Archie is the subject of a thread on Mumsnet that would arouse even the most frigid reader, with its wanton speculation as to the inventor's sexual prowess that somehow leads on to the characters of Lazy Town.

Some people choose to fantasise about sex with fictional characters on the internet. We at the FIGHT! FIGHT! FIGHT! Blog regard this as the behaviour of LOSERS.

Yeah, so anyway, Archie knows how things are done. It's obviously about practical mechanics or FIGHTING, not good sex things to do with a willy.



For a moment, Silence held its breath.

A cloistered circle, plant-life breaking out across its shattered flagstones, darkness at its peripheries. Two gates faced each other across the circumference.

The stage was set, ready for its players.

Then, out of the darkness stepped Archie, the mild-mannered and socially awkward inventor from Balamory. Wearing his best pink kilt and hat, he looked slightly overdressed for such an occasion. Archie licked his lips nervously and started to walk forward. He hated confrontation at the best of times, but being told by what he surmised to be ancient entities from before the dawn of time that he was here to entertain them and a small nugget of broadbandia, well...

He fiddled with his sporran, hoping he had enough yoghurt pots for whatever fate sent his way.

He thought of Miss Hoolie and her sensible green cardigan. 'What she would she make of all this?' he thought as he reached the centre of the arena, What would she say if she knew? In fairness, Miss Hoolie hadn’t said much since the accident but, in his head, Archie imagined her smiling and sighing ‘Oh Archie...'


Caractacus emerged from the darkness. He was barely recognisable from the image Archie remembered from Inventors' Night Classes. And old man with tufts of grey streaming up and outward from behind his ears. A thick moustache that could sheen boots, big eyes and a Colonial British army uniform.

'Erm, excuse me,' said Archie, 'Are you Caractacus Potts?'
'I daresay I am sah,' said Potts, 'What's it to yourself? You Scottish or something?'
'Oh, rather,' said Archie, 'I have something to show you. Look at my palm.'

Potts looks from Archie's palm to his face, moustache quivering in confusion.

'Is this all is it?' he asked.
'No,' said Archie, and slid the sgian-dubh into Potts' spine with his other hand. He held it there, warm blood squirting out onto his wrist, until Potts crumpled to the ground, all life spent from him.

Then Archie went over behind some bushes and was violently ill.


A tall, lithe man with dancing eyes was losing his lustre over by the corpse.

'Dad! Speak to me!'

Archie wandered over, his hands and face red with blood.

'I'm sorry,' he stammered, 'It was him or me. Do you want a yoghurt pot?'

'HRAAAAGH,' replied the man. 'My name is Caractacus Potts. You killed my father, prepare to die.'

'What? That's not Potts? You mean...'

'HRAAAGH,' explained Potts.

'Do you know how nervous I was? I did a sick in a bush, and it wasn't even bloody you!'

Potts lunged for Archie, yanking at his sideburns with all his weight behind it. Archie mewled, and scampered off to regroup.


Potts unleashed his portable walking stick device – cylinders of bamboo that withdraw inside each other for convenience – and whipped it across the grass.

'TIME TO DANCE, BITCH,' he yelled in response. 'I'M GONNA INVENT YOU SOME PAIN.'

They grappled, stinging marks appearing on Archie's cheeks as Potts whipped his whip back and forth.

Archie snatched the bamboo stick from Potts’ grasp and snapped it clean in two across his knee. Potts winced for, like a true Scotman, Archie never wore anything beneath his kilt.

With Potts momentarily distract by the sight of exposed genitals, Archie saw his chance to strike and took it. Wielding the two ends of the broken bamboo stick like twirling batons, he launched himself at Potts, shrieking an unintelligible Gaelic war cry.

Potts tried to dance out of Archie’s reach but it was too late. One stick struck him under his chin, snapping his head back, whilst the other caught the back of his knees. Potts fell to the ground, cracking his head against the cold stone floor.

Archie stood over him, his glasses askew, sweat pouring down his face. ‘YOU. WERE. MY. HERO.’ He panted, ‘WERE. POTTS.’

Dazed, Potts tried to sit up but Archie smacked him down again with a flourish of the bamboo ends.

The sounds of bamboo hitting skin echoed all around the arena, bouncing off the high walls. Eventually, the sticks gave way to splinters...

It was over. Archie threw the remains of the bamboo away and turned away from Potts and was about walk away when Potts spoke.

...It’s more...than spectacular...’

Archie froze. He turned back to stare at Potts.

...what...what did you say?’

Potts stared back at him with dead, unfeeling eyes. He spat out a tooth, gave a low chuckle and continued mellifluously. use...the vernacular...’

And then Archie heard it. It was barely audible but there was no mistaking that sound. The low growl of a motor engine.

...No...’ whimpered Archie, his eyes suddenly wide with fear, ‘...IT CAN’T BE...’

He caught a glimpse of it in the darkness, a gleaming paint job glinting in the dark as it moved near-silently through the cloisters. Archie wheeled. Where was it?


A low growl sounded behind him. The inventor spun, but nothing was there. Potts' mocking laughter echoed around the arena, disorientating Archie. He pushed his glasses back up his nose, and blinked away the tears.





Archie turned, slowly. He knew what he would see, but that didn't make him any less afraid.

Chitty Chitty Bang Bang emerging slowly out of the darkness behind him. The years had not been kind to the motor car. Rust had eaten through much of her bonnet, exposing her tarnished engine. Years of dirt and mud had clogged up her wheel arches and her seats, once described as a featherbed, were now streaked with oil and blood. The once lovable 3 times winner of the Grand Prix was now a nightmarish skeletal metal creature, twisted and warped beyond recognition.

Chitty’s brass head lamps were fixed on Archie, burning skull-like as the monster car purred in anticipation. For one long agonising moment, Archie  was caught in the headlights like a frightened rabbit.

Then, with a roar, Chitty leapt forward. Its prey was standing directly in its path.

Bother, thought Archie and closed his eyes.

The more than spectacular car collided with Archie at full speed, breaking his body in an instant, pinning him to the bonnet. Blood streamed off the inventor, who reached out an imploring hand towards where a driver would be.

It did him no good. Chitty reached the gate house of the arena and powered into it, giving Archie just enough consciousness to register his body exploding in shower of yoghurt pots and internal organs, before Chitty's engine ignited.

The fine four fendered friend was aflame in a blaze of gore.

Potts slowly rose to his feet and dusted himself down. He surveyed the damaged. The car was a complete wreck.

For a while, Potts just watched. Then he started making basic tools out of yoghurt pots and Archie's bones.




FIGHT! FIGHT! FIGHT! will return in:

You can have me hat or me bum-ber shoo, but you’d better never bother with me ol’ bam-boo’

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, 17 June 2013


This week's FIGHT is written by Your Mum.

The final weapon is the brain, all else is supplemental”John Steinbeck

It is said that fighting is about the use of the brain almost as much as it is of the body. Granted it is likely only said by people who aren’t particularly muscular and don’t get into a lot of fights themselves, but it sounds like a good opener, and I got to use a quote.

I'm feeling pretty damn intellectual right now.

So when two geniuses go head to head in combat for no good reason, the results can only be a synapse-shattering Battle Royale with cheese, or a couple of professors getting their tenure revoked for wrecking a perfectly good set of laboratory glassware during a petty scuffle about Bromine.

This is the former.

Anyway, Steinbeck only won the Pulitzer because he ripped Ernest Hemingway's nuts off.






Batman’s personality changes wildly between eras and writers, including stints as a campy adventurer, the world’s greatest detective, gothic creature of the night, and chunkily-drawn thuggish reactionary ultra-right-wing psychopath. Since the latter (also known as The Dark Knight Returns/All-Star Batman and Robin) is quite possibly his dumbest and most aggressive incarnation, it makes perfect sense that that’s the Batman we’re running with here.

Batman’s tragic origin began with a young Bruce Wayne watching his parents being shot outside a movie theatre, before spending the next decade obsessively training to perpetuate the cycle of escalating violence tearing apart the city.

Bruce honed his body into what would be a killing machine if it wasn’t for the fact that his tragic past means that he refuses to kill criminals, preferring to dole out savage pummellings, twistings and snappings that will leave them hospitalised and crippled for life. He donates to hospitals and clinics, though, so it all evens out. Who says philanthropy doesn’t really work?

While on this punishing physical regime, Bruce also learned all of science through intense study and experiments, mainly because it was back in the 20th century, so he couldn’t learn all about science the real way: liking memes on Facebook.

Much like super-sleuth Jessica Fletcher, Sherlock is a freelance (or “consulting”) detective and high-functioning sociopath with little regard for police protocol. He lives in London at 221b Baker Street with his partner and biographer John Watson. There’s a cheap joke about the word partner in there somewhere, but making it would just demean us all. Again.

A true genius, his deductive abilities and capacity for retaining information appear to fill so much of his brain that he no longer has space for things like basic social skills, except for those required for expert manipulation. As world-weary as he is egotistical, he is easily bored and solves crimes mainly as a way to kill time rather than out of any particular sense of altruism, much like Jessica Fletcher.

His line of work often leads him into danger, so Sherlock has become more than proficient in armed and unarmed combat against individuals and small groups. In terms of style, he has adopted the misspelled discipline of Baritsu, a very English style of martial art which surprisingly has nothing to do with working behind coffee shop counters.

He would totally waste Jessica Fletcher if it was necessary. And possibly if it wasn't.


As the majority shareholder, CEO, and Chairman of the largely ill-defined mega-corporation Wayne Enterprises, Bruce is equipped covertly by resources siphoned off the top-secret R&D division in the sort of corporate governance scandal that would shock even Ken Lay. Wayne Enterprises shareholders unknowingly fund the development of the sort of tank-like supercars that would make Jeremy Clarkson wet himself with whatever-he-has-for-joy, armour that somehow protects like Kevlar but clings to well-toned abs like spandex, and more gadgets than the result of Inspector Gadget somehow impregnating Q (because everything has to be sexy these days, hoisting by your own petard may as well be).

Batman’s definitely-not-dangerous-at-all-honest arsenal includes but is by no means limited to: Batarangs/shuriken, explosive charges, a grappling hook, a car and motorbike with machine-guns on them, a sonar device that summons a swarm of bats, and Bat-Shark-Repellent spray.

In short, Wayne Enterprises’ accountants and auditors have a lot to answer for.

Sherlock has a gun sometimes.

The winner is obviously Batman.


Much like how noted lone wolf Wolverine is a member of just about every Marvel super-club going, Batman growls a lot about how he can’t let people get close to him, but spends most of his time doing team-ups with the likes of Robin, Nightwing, Red Robin, Batgirl, Batwoman, Superman, Wonder Woman, the Green Lantern, as well as eternal B-listers Aquaman and Cyborg. TO NAME BUT A FEW. Like all good friendships, these revolve around mutual respect, camaraderie, shared experiences, and the knowledge that he’s used a lot of his spare time working out plans to defeat all of them in combat.

Aside from the slightly confusing loyalty of military veteran and blogger Watson, Sherlock has no friends because he’s either a total and utter dick to people deliberately or by accident. The few people who tolerate his behaviour for some totally inexplicable reason include middle-aged tea provider Mrs Doyle Hudson, a nurse who puts up with too much even for a nurse, grudgingly helpful policeman Lestrade, and his older and less practical but smarter and somehow even smugger brother Mycroft.

Unless Mrs Hudson has heretofore-unknown hand-to-hand combat abilities, Batman is the winner.


Another indicator of Batman’s remarkably physical prowess is that fact that while he has taken to swing around on grappling line in a way that is totally not like Spider-Man at all, he is capable of surviving the sort of arm-socket-tearing strains that other superheroes can only deal with due to having enhanced strength. He has just. That much. Willpower.

Despite his uncaring nature, lack of interest in human beings in anything but an academic manner, and general dickish behaviour, Sherlock has a slightly perplexing legion of internet fangirls, giving hope to lonely assholes with superiority complexes everywhere. Indeed, his legion of internet ladies obsessed with an obvious candidate for the “worst boyfriend ever” award is almost on par with those of Rorshach, Sephiroth, and Chris Brown. As a muscular and macho juvenile male power fantasy, Batman is likely to have more support from fanboys than fangirls, but any female Batman readers who don’t prefer the Joker would be advised to stay away because almost every woman who goes near him dies or is crippled or is fictional. Of those, only a few were lucky enough to own a Lazarus Pit or enjoy the chiropractic benefits of a universal reboot, and even then only because DC was starting to run out of refrigerator space or because an artist had discovered a new way to draw boobs.

On the basis of a comparison of the number of rule 34 images that come up when you Google Image Search for each combatant, Sherlock wins by a mile.


In a shocking display of continuity, Fight! Fight! Fight!’s pool of simian typists have been instructed to mash the keyboards with their paws until they have something resembling a sequel to the recent Moriarty/Joker bout. What follows is the best of the results, but only because in defiance of all statistical probability, most of the chimps ended up typing out the complete works of Charles Dickens.

No animals were harmed in the making of this fight except for that one room full of gorillas who used the typewriters to bludgeon each other to death and the others, who were sent to PETA to be despatched in ice cream tubs and sent floating down the river with little sails made out of rainbows.

Web-slinging Zip-lining from building to building, Batman hunts for clues for the murder he never expected to be investigating. Who killed the Joker? The clown’s grisly trail had led him to London, where it had gone cold. Cold like the bodies of his long dead parents.

Totally not doing whatever a spider can, he swings towards a dockland warehouse that had somehow escaped gentrification and was therefore still likely to be full of the sort of information-rich warehouse-dwelling thugs that masked crime-fighters have taken to using like a version of Wikipedia where the search bar is replaced with punches and yelling.

Peering through the skylight, he saw a figure skulking below. He knew that the element of surprise was his, and he savagely flung himself through the panes and upon his prey with all the intensity and glass-smashing force of a 300lb man hurling himself through the closed doors of a McDonalds in the knowledge that he had only seconds left before the breakfast items came off the menu for the day.

But this was no ordinary prey. The great detective Sherlock Holmes who stood below had noticed the slight noises coming from the roof and the strange horned shadow that had been cast upon the floor from the skylight moments earlier. In an instant he deduced that a man of around 6’2” weighting about 210lbs and wearing a ludicrous costume was about to descend dramatically through the glass, and leapt aside as the black mass descended with an unearthly roar, like a comedy Welshman doing a hardman voice.

Doing that cool slow-motion thing that he had stolen wholesale from the Downey Jr film, in a split second Holmes anticipated his assailant’s next move and considered his contingency plans. But Batman had contingencies for this exact scenario, and assessed his options. The split-second option-considering reached fever pitch, with each combatant considering considerably more and more effective and brutal ways to outdo the consideration that their opponent was considering.

Batman threw a punch, which Sherlock dodged, attempting to counter, only to be countered by Batman, whose counter he subsequently countered, leading to more counters than an IKEA kitchen showroom hosting a Tiddlywinks championship.

Although uncommon for Sherlock, this pointless brawling was par for the course for Batman. In keeping with superhero tradition, meet-ups between unacquainted heroes should always begin with a punch-up. This is mainly because superheroes are by and large reactionary, developmentally-stunted thugs whose idea of helping to keep the peace is to take a swing at the nearest guy in a similarly stupid outfit in the hope that he’s a bad guy.

Not having the defensive advantages bestowed upon him by a suit of high-tech armour, Sherlock’s arms tire first, letting Batman land a punch that resounded with neon onomatopoeia. Sherlock reeled, holding his bleeding nose, and spat out the words “Ugh, that hurt like a motherf-“, interrupted by the loss of a couple of teeth and a memo from the BBC insisting on nothing offensive ever happening.

In an instant, he observed Batman’s pupils and breathing changing in reaction to the half-uttered parent-related oath, and deduced that the man was likely an orphan suffering poorly-repressed trauma expressed through acts of extreme physical violence. He also noted that the costumed thug’s fake growly Clint Eastwood voice betrayed too much elocution to be a commoner’s. A wealthy orphan with the sort of technological and financial resources needed for that outfit and utility belt could only mean one person: famous American businessman and household name Bruce Wayne.

Although a brilliant deduction, this moment of thinking proved a fatal distraction, as Batman landed a fist in Sherlock’s face. Fueled by a haze of oedipal rage he mercilessly pounded Sherlock as if he was The Joker and Joe Chill rolled into one, before realising just how lifeless the sleuth’s body had become. Batman reeled, realising that he had crossed a line he said he’d never cross except for all those times in the 1930s and 40s and that time he crossed it when he blew up those corrupt cops with the Batmobile after saving Robin and would maybe cross again with a giant machine gun in a dystopian future. His moment of existential terror was halted by a sharp click, and he turned to see Sherlock behind him, realising that the body he’d been pummelling was a cunningly disguised corpse that must have somehow got switched when that woman on the bicycle rode through the warehouse for a second or two about half an hour ago ASSUMING YOU WERE PAYING ATTENTION.

The click signified that Sherlock had cocked the hammer on Watson’s service handgun - in the unnecessary way that people do because it sounds badass on TV - and pointed it at the caped figure.

As Sherlock's finger squeezed the trigger, Batman's hand moves. The gun explodes from the barrel, and a bat-shaped shiruken falls from the twisted metal, clanging once and settling upon the ground. Sherlock dropped the remains firearm from his bleeding stump and realised that he was now significantly less able to deal with hand-to-hand combat, just as the encroaching black mass hit him.

And then hit him again, and again, and again, mostly in the handsome parts.

One savage battering later



Tune in next time for the epic battle:

Bruce Wayne Vs Wayne Enterprises’ Other Shareholders

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.

If you wish to take issue with our verdict, please post a well-informed and reasoned explanation as to why below, as is the style of the internet.