The Angry Corrie 22: Mar-Apr 1995

Mountaineering Movies No. 4: Highlander 4

TAC film critic Bairly Normal reveals plans for a fourth Highlander film in the wake of Highlander 3, The Sorcerer. Here we have an exclusive sneak preview of Highlander 4, The Bothy Nicht, based on scripts smuggled out of Scotspinewood Studios...

Connor MacLeod had walked 40 days and 40 nights over the barren moors of Sutherland in search of his ultimate goal, the remote mountain they called Ben Hope. For it was Connor's last Munro and to conquer it would put him up with those men (and women) of steel who had claimed the prize. For they had their names cast in ink at the back of the Munro's Tables book. Only when he was there would Connor be truly immortal. For then he would know the thoughts of every man, advise presidents, prevent global destruction, save mankind and all that stuff. But much more importantly, he would be able to buy the Kameron's almanac and start ticking off the Corbetts.

As he tramped over the desolate moor, Connor spotted a small cottage in the distance. A column of smoke rose from the chimney into the clear night sky. He hurried over and threw open the door. Inside, four mere mortals huddled round a roaring fire, steam rising dramatically from their drying socks draped around the grate. "My name is Connor MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod," the immortal boomed, "I was born in Milngavie in the suburbs of Glasgow in the year of Our Lord 1964!"

One of the men by the fire turned.

"I'm Malky, this is Eric, Bob and Dave, we're with the Morningside Hotel Lounge Bar Walking Club," he smiled. "Would you like a nice cup o' tea?"

"Tea?" Connor shouted, marching over to the table, "I am looking for the one they call Hope."

Eric turned, "Hope... we're all looking for that one mate."

The group laughed. But Connor wasn't laughing. He swept his tartan- clad arm across the table, knocking a Trangia stove, an old wine bottle with a candle stuck in it, and a tin cup to the floor.

"There can be only one Epigas Alpine stove in this bothy," he shouted, whipping a stove from his rucsac and slamming it down on the table.

"Nice stove, mate," remarked Eric.

"I was born 3430 years ago. In that time I have had three stoves. The last was a Coleman Multi-fuel. A genius made this for me in 593BC. It is the only one of its kind. The rubber in the pipe has been folded 200 times."

"Oh," said Eric, returning his attention to the fireside. Next it was Dave's turn to quiz the stranger. He handed Connor a whisky bottle.

"You look like the bloke from the Tarzan Greystoke film," he said,

"Would you like a drink?"

Connor eyed him suspiciously. "You wouldn't be trying to poison me, would you?"

"You're not afraid of a little Stewart's Cream of the Barley, are you, my friend?"

Connor took a swig. "Of course not, I'm immortal..."

"Ah, yes..." Dave nodded, thinking to himself that perhaps this Care in the Community lark was not quite as good as his Tory MP had made it sound at the last general election. (Surely "Cairn Thic Munitaidh lark"? - Ed.)

Connor suddenly sensed danger in the room. He turned to Bob, who had yet to speak. The little man stared into the Highlander's penetrating eyes.

"I don't know if you've ever considered investing in a mobile phone?" Bob inquired timidly.

"Damn you!" Connor cried. "I knew it! You're the one they call The Communicator!"

Instantly, Bob whipped a portable phone from his belt. "NEC P100 is popular, one of the best models available, and we're doing it for 95 all in at the moment, connected to either the Cellnet or Vodaphone networks on a range of tariffs."

Connor crashed back against the table and fell to the floor.

"You've got 22 hours standby on this model and up to two hours continuous talktime. It comes with a charger and we can have you connected within 24 hours," Bob pounded Connor relentlessly with his useless mobile communication guff.

The immortal slumped to the ground, clutching his ears and groaning. "Stop! Stop! I beg you! Where is my old friend Juan Villa-in-Spain Ramirez when I need him?" he cursed.

"I'm afraid he's playing golf in St Andrew's," Eric interrupted.

"The budget on this picture couldn't quite stretch to him. But at least it's not as crap as that Highlander series on Sky TV."

The Communicator launched a tactical strike. "If you had a portable phone you could call him from here. That's the wonder of this modern technology. Now, if you want a really lightweight model, I can recommend the Ericsson EH237, which won the Cellnet Mobile Telephone Handset of the Year award in 1994. This is a great little package, offering 17 hours of standby or two hours twenty minutes of talktime. But here's the best bit. It weighs in at just 200 grammes and is small enough to slip into a pocket. You'll hardly notice it's there."

Connor was writhing in agony, but summoned up all his energy and lashed out at The Communicator. "I'm afraid I'm not interested in purchasing a phone at the moment." But his blow went wide of the target.

"Now's the time to buy, Mr MacLeod. There are huge savings on a wide range of handsets. You could connect to Vodaphone's Lifetime Tariff and pay just 15 a month. Think of the peace of mind that would bring, having a phone wherever you are, whenever you need to make a call. Of course, you could consider one of the new digital networks..."

Connor could take no more of The Communicator's monotone sales pitch. Suddenly his head blew off, ripping clear of his shoulders and flying out through the roof. Then a flash of blue light engulfed the ruptured bothy and Bob.

"Aarrrggg... it's the Quickcommission!" Malky shouted, diving for cover.

The whole bothy blew apart and Bob stood proud, holding up a Panasonic 1 Series, as a flurry of contract forms and direct debit mandates stormed round him in a special effects blizzard. When it was all over, he fell to his knees and slumped to the floor, smiling smugly.

His three companions surveyed the flattened bothy and headless corpse. "How ever are we going to explain this to the MBA committee?" Dave grumbled...

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