Monday, 5 August 2013


When is a fight not a fight?

It isn't.

If a fight happens in a forest and there's nobody there does it make a sound?


To fight, or not to fight?

Well, that's technically a conflict isn't it? So it's obviously going to be 'To fight' because the very existence of such a dilemma is intrinsically fighty.

In conclusion:







Postman” Pat Clifton is the head of special delivery services in Pencaster, having formerly been the postman for the nearby village of Greendale. His helpful nature and furry hands endeared him to the villagers, who value his opinion.

Fireman Sam Jones is a fireman in the Welsh village of Pontypandy. He also dabbles with inventing things in his “inventing shed”.

He lives alone.


Pat is not packing much heat. His main weapons are his ability to run you over (although in a van heavily marked with insignia in a rural area, chances are he'd not be able to blag an alibi) or to give you a nasty paper cut.

Sam also has access to large vehicles but they are also heavily marked. Alternatively, he could blast you with a high pressure hose, cave your skull in with a full fire extinguisher, or simply leave you in a burning house to die.

Sam wins.


In rural village life, everyone knows each other and forgives their scrape-instigating foibles. Delivering a public service means that both men are well known and well liked in their communities and so any ensuing scrap between the two of them would likely involve whole villages. In many ways it may resemble an early iteration of football, only without the pretence of their being a ball involved.

Pat has a happy family life, whereas Sam only has his niece and nephew. Therefore Pat has extra reason to fight, because no-one really cares about nieces and nephews.

Pat wins.


Pat has access to the following vehicles:

  • PAT 1 (Royal Mail Post Van)
  • PAT 2 (Royal Mail Post Bus (now the school transport))
  • PAT 2 (SDS Lorry)
  • PAT 3 (SDS Helicopter)
  • PAT 4 (SDS Post Van)
  • PAT 5 (SDS Motorbike and Sidecar)
  • PAT 6 (SDS BOAT)
  • PAT 7 (PAT OFF ROAD 4+4)

Sam has access to the following vehicles:

  • Jupiter (a 1974 Bedford TK)
  • Bessie (a heritage fire engine)
  • Venus (a rescue tender)
  • Wallaby 1 (a helicopter used for mountain rescue)

Also, he shares a name with a Doctor Who companion from the Eighth Doctor Adventures line, and his mum shares a name with Tenth Doctor TV companion Martha Jones.

That noise you hear is some wrong, wrong slash-fic being written.


Sam and his friend Elvis are having a nice evening together, enjoying heterosexual mantimes at the pub.

'I can't believe it! Your last day before retirement passed so peacefully!'
'Yeah,' says Elvis, 'It's good to get away from things. Time for a proper lads weekend.'
'You think that Penny and Station Officer Steel will be alright?' says Sam.
'Of course,' replies Elvis. 'Steel's an old hand, and Penny's an amazing woman.'

The two old friends drink long into the night, almost until 8pm, when their revelry is interrupted by desperate cry:

'CAT! THERE'S A CAT UP A TREE!' cries a paint-brush haired man with a rugged moustache. He faints behind the bar, and is given a sachet of salt to smell. Elvis stands up, his chair screeching against the floor.

'Leave this to me,' he says, 'I'm a fireman see?'

Sam follows his friend out of the bar as he staggers over to the tree. A black and white cat mews forlornly. The air is tense, the clouds starting to spitter-spatter the ground with rain.

'Elvis, come on, you don't have to do this,' says Pat, putting a restraining hand on his chum's shoulder. It is shrugged off.

'Nah, Sam, c'mon, it''ll be fine.'

Elvis takes his denim coat off and hands it to Sam. Then, lithe, agile, more muscley than you'd expect, he leaps onto the trunk and hauls himself upwards. The little cat mews again, as if to say 'No, don't bother. All is dust.'

The rain pummels down as Elvis climbs up the dark, gnarled branches of the unnecessarily evil looking tree.

'Elvis, mate, come down,' yells Sam, 'It can jump off that branch onto that roof if it wants.'

A tall, bespectacled, curly-haired man is scouring the street, hand cupped by his mouth. Sam puts two and two together using his incisive inventor's mind.

'That your cat, boyo?' he asks.
'Oh yes, there he is! I left the catflap on the latch. The wife'll kill me! JESS! Come down here this instant!'

Elvis has reached the furtive feline and is holding it away from his face as it claws and scratches at him.

'This yours, cock?' he asks. 'Come on, catch!'

Elvis throws Jess off the tree and into the outstretched arms of Postman Pat.

'Oh Jess!' Pat snuggles up to his now docile pet, sheltering him from the rain. The onlookers who have braved the elements go “aww” in appreciation. Sam looks up at his best friend in the whole wide world, who winks and gives him the thumbs up from his position standing on the branch of the tree.

The first lightning bolt hits the trunk and it explodes in a shower of sparks and bark. Sam shields his face with Elvis' jacket as shrapnel impacts. The second bolt strikes the upper branches. As his best friend is torn and burned apart by the debris, the last thing Fireman Sam hears is an agonised scream, before the severed forearm of his best mate twats him in the temple and knocks him unconscious.


Brum pumpum. Brum pumpum. Brum pumpum pum pumpumpum pum.”

Pat always delivers his own mail last. He doesn't have to, but he likes to remember his old job. The smell of the greasepaint, the lick of the gums. All that jazz.

He unlatches the gate and it swings smoothly open. Pat continues humming, and then he stops in his tracks, turns and pulls the gate open. Good action. Brisk. Efficient. Quiet.

Very unlike his gate. Pat sniffs, and his oversize nose scents oil. This is...unusual.

Opening his front door, Pat peers around, and sees a silhouette in the doorway at the end of the darkened hall. The figure steps forward. The face is disfigured, burned and scratched. One eye glistens, as if permanently weeping. His fingers are large and fuzzy, like big felt sausages.

Hello Pat,” says a sinister Welsh voice (like Anthony Hopkins but cheaper). “How's the cat?”
What's going on? Where's my family?”
They're safe. For now.”
Who are you?”
You don't remember.”

Pat racks his brains. He's so angry and afraid that he's almost crying, but eventually he works it out.
The fire man...”
The fireman, yes.”

Pat steps forward. “That was an accident, you have to-”
He recoils as he is struck across the face. Strong hands grab him by the shoulders and drag him into the living room. As his vision clears Pat sees his wife and child tied to a pyre, the furniture pushed to the back of the room. They are covered in liquid, and there's a sharp smell of petrol in the air.

The monstrous visage of Sam Jones leers at Pat.
Here they are,” he says, “Your loved ones. Like the ones you took away, or who left me after the incident...”
Please,' sobs Pat, “I'll do anything, just don't-”

Sam throws Pat to the ground, pulls up one of his feet, and stamps down hard on that leg until he hears a crack. Then he walks over to the trussed up couple, and lights a match. They struggle against their bonds, screams eking out over the gags made of tattered curtain material. Pat can barely see through his tears, too weak to get up and intervene.

The face of Sam, the Fire Man, twists gleefully. He wants to savour the moment that Pat's hope goes out.

The first paw swipe catches Sam across the back of the neck. He twists round, only to be greeted by a dementedly angry black and white cat. The second paw swipe catches Sam across the worst of his scarring. He screams, and falls to the ground clutching at his face. The match tumbles through the air, the flame sputtering. It lands on Sam's torso, petrol-sodden and exposed. Jess springs free and tips over the petrol can as Pat's family struggle to free themselves. It pours over Sam, who is quickly engulfed by the flames. He doesn't struggle. He's strangely placid about the whole thing.

Pat, though, is quite pertured by the spillage heading over the floor towards him. The flames are starting to follow. He can't move quickly enough. Jess' claws strike through the bonds at the pyre, as the wife and child move away from the flames lest they be caught in the inferno.

Pat!” she yells.

Jess has never liked post. He's never liked being woken up in the morning and plonked in a musty old van to sit for hours while the rest of the world goes by. He likes being fussed over, and treated like a King. These two provide that service adequately, but their first instinct is to try to reach Pat's burning body.

Jess mews, threateningly, placing himself in between them and the flames. The first of Pat's screams is a terrible thing to hear, but the little cat mews again, as if to say “No, don't bother.”

All is dust.”

All is dust.”


"I'm going to get you, you c**t."

FIGHT! FIGHT! FIGHT! will return in:


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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