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A Guy Ritchie Pitchie

A Guy Ritchie Pitchie

The player: Guy Ritchie: a lion always pitches in his den.
The audience: Film People.
Alri’ fellas.
The lights come on. There are women Film People on the panel. Shit.
Today, ladies an’ gents, I intend to decant an’ aerate for you some vintage Ritchie. Havin’ a decade a-dealin’s with what you might term aristocrats, ‘as giv’n me a glimpse into the plight of the landed gentry. Nowadays, all things high octane an’ high society have got one thing in common.
They lean forward.
Environmental impact.
In this cul’ivated little reel so capery its first cousin’s a Veneziana pizza, we must remember that by ‘the environment’, I actually mean crime.
Comedy, split-genre, cross-continental crime. But in the world of crime, there is always coincidence. Accountancy is a small world, but so is Evil.
In order to shoehorn in words like hy-po-thetical or the-o-retical an-ounce-e-yated like so, let’s get philosophical. We’ll subtitle it for the Yanks. There ‘as to be a group of society whom we label derogatarily. A scapegoat, if you will.
A person who is blamed (pauses, to look tautologously around) for the wrongdoings, mistakes, or faults of others, especially, (prepares for multisyllabic content) for reasons of (looks at watch) ex-pe-dien-cy.
An’ you know what that means. Environmental cases. Trespassing nutjobs stickin’ their noses into ‘ooh save the foxes’, blamin’ the lords-n-ladies for their own pathetic lives. When the situation goes from sticky to haywire the protester-blitzin’ aristocrats forge a little deal on the side. Let’s call it security. A two-faceted business – security and waste disposal – run by los dos hombres. Keyword here is ensemble, ladies an’ gents. A pub quiz pantheon of pukka thesps. Ransack the casts of Love Actually and Downton Abbey for all the macho-metropolitano they’ve got.
Spoke to Hugh Grant’s agent – he’ll smash that no-backstory-Scottish-Etonian. An’ Jude Law? He’s bending it with Beckham.
Yes really – mates’ rates. After a setback with the local pig farmers – who were shocked at the proposal to launder bodies through their Gloucestershire Old Spots – Becksy an’ Hugh enlist the ‘elp of a particularly nefarious but suitably diverse cockney gang to assist them in the violence department. We’ll have a gander at my persecution matrix and find some contingents who these fellas can hire-n-hit with every ism known to modern man.
Film People are deadpan. They read Ritchie’s moral nihilism as hypocrisy!
Though, to be straight up with you, we usually just see what comes out naturally on the day.
Film People are delighted. They read Ritchies’ moral nihilism as art!
But what we got ‘ere is a little paper trail. Little do our fellas know, the esoteric vandals have taken a dislike to the aristocrat’s children who, disenfranchised by their parents’ oo-man-it-arian efforts – have taken up residence in Elephant and Castle. But they’re all hooked on the pipe. Drugs which the fellas’ little crew may just have been peddlin’ on the side. At this little intersection, the only obvious target is –
The women Film People do not look impressed.
– A woman! Everyone liked the car lady in the last one… pop ‘er up a notch on the feminist ladder. This one’s Queen of cars. Sexy accent – but she ain’t an immigrant, she’s American!
Film People say: She likes cars?! She knows cars?! It’s a liminal space. Vintage Ritchie? Visionary Ritchie!
Film People think: The kind of man-eater that would make Madonna look like a Kate Humble wannabe. Revenue!
She’s hit a glass-taxman-shaped-ceiling, poor sorry bitch, and she needs help doin’ laundry. Only goes and marries our protagonist to settle the offshores. But what they don’t know is they’ve both employed the same scene-stealing tossers to handle their dirty business. After some synergy, hijack an’ subterfuge in the middle, Hughie’s lot’ll torture some spineless geezer from a Great British Institution with some bloodthirsty pigs, revealing some tasty information about our heroine.
Which, will all come to a head at an underground classic car auction at the nearest available country estate. There’s no school like the old school. She pops in for some fraud, ends up lookin’ at three AK-47s with Albanian war criminals at the helm. Now, at this point – this point being gunpoint – we should ‘av us a nice, juicy metaphor about a body part upon which we should not usually dwell.
‘Cos that’s the thing! She’s broken his poor little Blighty heart! How’s that for exposition! Now she says she is an environmental activist? But he doesn’t need her! He’s got his own fuckin’ pub!
Then there’s gunshots! Gunshots again! Everyone drives away! But who’s in the Renault Safrane? Then there’s something with a twist: they’ve only gone an’ kneecapped the bitch!
Ritchie gives the Film People a knowing look.
And this little exercise in cin-eas-tic narrative goes by the following name… Shock, Schlock and Two Smokin’ Baronets.
Film People: when can we see the script?
Ritchie: Never.
Smash cut. It was a Guy Ritchie film all along.

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