SMOKE: Celebrity Death Match

Originally published: 3 February 2006

I was a major Guns n Roses fan in the early nineties. The band appealed to my rage within and provided a serious outlet for simmering emotions I'd kept in check for years.

Then they released Use Your Illusion I and II, which at the time were the greatest albums I'd heard and perhaps their defining work.

One of the songs on the second album was called Get In The Ring, a rant at the press who gave the band negative coverage during their Use Your Illusion tour from 1991-3.

The band singled out Spin Magazine's Bub Guccione Jnr as the major antagonist, and Axl Rose belted out the following lyrics (caution: not for kiddies or the Easily Offended):


Fair enough, was my take on it. It was glorious to behold someone going off at the press in such unashamed fashion, and the sheer balls of it was something I appreciated.

Unfortunately Axl Rose didn't have quite the balls he had in the privacy of his recording studio. Bob Guccione - a longterm student of karate - replied to the challenge in a letter to Rose, accepting it.

Rose never replied and the fight never took place. More's the pity - a mad rocker versus a karate-trained son-of-a-pornographer would have made the Rumble In The Jungle pale in comparison.

Ever since then I've been hooked on the idea of celebrity fights. The appeal of a celebrity fight would be seeing normally tailored, reserved, better-than-thou media sluts belt each other senseless.

Actors are fond of portraying bad-ass characters in movies - let's see how bad they really are.

I've taken the liberty of compiling some celebrity Death Matches I'd like to see, and who I believe the winners of each fight will be.


This one's all about the beauty of it. Both men have at one time or another been declared "the sexiest man in the world", adored by millions of people.

What a treat it would be to see them smack each other like bitches until they bleed. They may be beautiful, talented, wealthy and at the top of their game professionally and personally, but I suspect that deep down inside each is a little wussy waiting to be found out.

The winner may seem obvious to you - Brad spent a lot of time shooting Fight Club and came across as a right tough bastard doing it. Ricky has done nothing but prance about in silk shirts singing half-Latin songs to desperate housewives and two-year-olds.

But good make-up and a decent foreshortening editor gave Pitt all his street cred - he didn't land one single blow on anyone during the shooting of that movie. Whereas Ricky comes from South America, where kids eat cocaine for breakfast and have prices put on their heads from age 7.

Fight Prediction:

Brad lasts 10 seconds of Round 1. He's the Pitts.

He would be too concerned about looking beautiful and playing the subtext - Martin would simply rumba on in and with some fancy Latino shimmy hit him with a swift 7-punch combination before the actor is even aware the fight director has called "action!"

Lying dazed on the canvas he'll open one bloody eye to see none other than Jenny Aniston sitting in the front row, alternating between laughing her head off derisively and sucking Vince Vaughn's thick, meaty tongue.

Sorry dude. Jen's simply living la vida loca.

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The mouth waters, does it not? No matter what your political persuasion.

Modern politicians are pussies, I'm afraid. They say whatever their constituents want them to say and they send others to do their dirty work for them.

Way back when men used to fight their own battles, however, by drawing a line in the dirt and going toe to toe. Winner took all. Even kings used to ride into battle, setting the example rather than enforcing patriotism and duty.

Both George Bush and Saddam Hussein hid away in their respective holes during the Gulf War - Bush behind his rhetoric writers and supposedly noble and just cause and Saddam ..... well ..... he just hid in a hole.

I'd like to see them get in the ring and spank each other silly. Winner gets the oil. Loser gets fried in a Texan chair or hung on a stick in Baghdad, depending on the circumstances.

Fight Prediction:

Nobody wins, which is usually the case when politics meets religion. Bush delivers a prepared speech about how he "shall prevail" and how God is on his side, while Saddam issues Fatwas and Jihads and promises of divine retribution.

But the sight of George with his skinny white legs sticking out of his shorts and of Saddam's greying man-breasts jiggling up and down has the crowd in stitches, and the politicians use the opportunity to slink away in fast cars, leaving their press liaison officers with the explanations.

Both claim the moral victory, yet appear to be nothing more than what they are - cowardly wankers.

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This may seem like an odd Death Match, but my reasons for wanting to see it will shortly become apparent.

There are few sights as beautiful as Courtney Love going berserk on camera, and she's so consistent about it you have to know she's the genuine article when it comes to true wild-childs.

Not age nor motherhood nor time have made a dent in her manic behaviour, and I find such people - who are hopelessly irredeemable - highly appealing.

Tom Cruise, on the other hand, is currently undergoing a crisis. He was going along fine, minding his own business, when suddenly whammo! - everyone in the world hated him for no apparent reason.

It's like the world was simply waiting for Oprah's Couch - it was the opening we craved to muscle in and get one over the stuck-up, smarmy little self-loving Scientologist bitch.

Fight Prediction:

It's a no-brainer, isn't it? The mental imagery is unrivalled.

Courtney wanders into the ring - pissed and stoned out of her skull and with tits hanging about everywhere - and spots Tiny Tommy quivering with fear in the corner.

She feels the same rage we do upon merely seeing his stupid toothy grin and hook-nose, and out of her mind with drug-fuelled anger she sets upon him like a wildcat, screaming blue murder.

Tommy cries out for his mummy but the only woman around is the enraged Courtney, who rips his pretty-boy face to shreds with a few uncontrolled slashes of her vicious French manicure.

She knees him in the throat, rips out chunks of his stupid hair then performs her coup-de-grace - she leans down and with one bite rips his ear off.

Covered in blood and repeatedly kicking the hole in Tom's head with her sharp boots Courtney doesn't stop until the brains flow out and the last twitch is done.

Then she stops, looks around crazily, flips the bird to the stunned crowd, screams "Fuck all of you, you Pigs!" and staggers off to find a bar.

Sorry, Nancy - you was Cruisin' for a bruisin'.

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Oh yeah, baby.

I guess you could call this the ultimate showdown between Hard Rock and Bubblegum Pop - which has more street cred. Both bands have made millions and are wealthy beyond their wildest dreams - time to discover which of them deserves their reputation the most.

The match-up would involve both bands getting into the ring with the instruments they would have if they were playing a live gig, and using whatever means they choose to defeat their opponents.

It would be a mass brawl - one round only for maximum impact.

Fight Prediction:

You know what I'm going to say, but you don't really know why I'm going to say it - so stick with me a while yet.

The Hanson lads stand there in singlets and shorts, holding between them a Casiotone, a tambourine and a triangle (oh, the symbolism).

Hetfield, Ulrich and co - wearing ripped jeans and t-shirts - brandish their axes way over their heads, grinning evilly and selling their souls to Satan.


The bell is rung and drummer Lars Ulrich gets things going - he leaps at the startled bubblegummers in a frenzy of metal energy and gouges out the eye of the kid holding the triangle.

James Hetfield and Kirk Hammett - the two axemen - scythe in with sweeping guitars, repeatedly staving in the head of the kid with the tambourine.

The third Hanson brother - the one with the Casiotone - is left to deal with bass guru Robert Trujillo, and lemme tell you something about Rob Trujillo - the man is pure rock and roll. Defending yourself with a Casiotone is as insulting to him as actually playing the thing.

Ripping the lower E-string off his bass guitar Trujillo delivers a face-whippin' that eviscerates the kid to a grinning skeleton in double-quick, 7/8, fuck-you time.

It was Enter Sandman vs Mmmbop - there could only be one winner.

The reason I want this match-up is not because I love Metallica (I do) or loathe Hanson (I do), but simply because I would love to see three kids getting beaten legitimately.

You don't get to see that too often, do you?

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These two were arguably the greatest action heroes of the eighties, although in recent years Arnie's become a poncey politician and Sly's become a fat slob.

In the greater scheme of things you could argue it's liberalism vs conservatism, but I don't care about all that - I just want to see which is most deserving of the title Action Star.

Both of them had defining roles as action stars, which made their careers - Arnie had Terminator and Sly had Rocky. Each had other big hits like Predator, True Lies, Rambo and Cliffhanger, and they've both acknowledged the other in their movies.

You could argue that Jean Claude van Damme vs Steven Segal would be a better fight, and I agree - both are skilled masters of their respective martial arts, while Arnie and Sly are basically just ageing muscle-boys.

But Arnie and Sly were far bigger stars than the other two, and at some point every action aficionado has wondered who'd smack whom but good.

Fight Prediction:

Working on the assumption that the fight would happen with both in their prime, Arnie would be the most ripped dude on Earth (he was seven-time Mr Olympia champ, after all) while Sly would be a tough street boxer.

It's your classic Rocky, I'm afraid.

Sly realises that he has no chance of standing toe-to-toe with Arnie - the sheer bulk and hitting power of The Governor will flatten him in seconds.

Dancing and weaving Sly moves in with short jabs to the abs, neatly avoiding the sledgehammers flying around his head.

Round after round Sly wears the big guy down, sucking the air out of him with crafty combinations and magical feet.

Somewhere in the middle of the 9th round Sly gets too clever and misjudges an almighty haymaker, which flattens him. The referee crouches down and begins the 10-count, as Sly stares stupidly at the spinning lights above him.

But just like Rocky all those years ago against the cruel Russian Ivan Drago, Sly slowly rolls over and against all the odds - broken and battered - he gets to his feet by the 10-count, with enough strength left in his arms to convince the referee to allow the fight to continue.

Sensing his moment Arnie moves in with a wildly swinging hook which - should it connect - will probably kill his opponent.

But with the words of his wise old trainer (there's always one) ringing in his ears, Sly senses rather than sees the hook coming and instinctively ducks under it.

With Arnie exposed above him Sly looks up in slow motion, the fire in his eyes, and drives upwards with all the shit of his life propelling the punch, to catch The Governor straight in the throat.

Arnie staggers back in surprise, gasping for air, and now Sly is back. He moves in fast and catches Arnie with a left to the ear and a right uppercut to the point of the chin, and the old cliche is proven true: the bigger you are the harder you fall.

Down goes Arnie. Lights out. No recount necessary.

All Smoked Out,
Luke Tagg