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.

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