Forget the gorilla, what happens if I fight 100 men?
Introducing 'The Dan Technique'
In May 2025, the internet hotly debated who would win in a fight: 1 gorilla or 100 men.
The conversation lasted about four days, with everyone from scientists to the rapper Aitch chipping in, before we moved on to the next inane curiosity.
Except me.
I wasn’t concerned about the gorilla.
I’d been hatching a plan about how I could defeat 100 men.
And it’s foolproof.
The Parameters
Before revealing my strategy, here’s the fight’s setup:
It takes place in a massive cricket-sized field, with no weapons.
The 100 men start on one side, and I start on the other.
Wrestling pundit Jim Ross is commentating.
The People
The men range in size and are picked at random by some sort of depraved God. I’m unfortunately in my own body - a 38-year-old, 5ft6, slim-ish but not particularly muscular dweeb who has never been in a fight.
Full disclosure: I have done some Krav Maga classes. To give you a flavour of how ferocious they were, the instructor had to continually remind us to be more aggressive. And after I stopped attending, I asked a classmate out on a date via LinkedIn. It wasn’t creepy - there were defo vibes, promise.
My Strategy
Before continuing, please be aware this strategy is to be known as ‘The Dan Technique’. It can be used during any occasion when somebody is outnumbered.
For example, you and your mate are cornered in a dodgy part of town. It’s 2 vs 10. You’d say to your pal,
“Time to use The Dan Technique.”
They nod. Hell is unleashed.
Or… you’re pulled over in your car by masked men. You’re ushered to the side of the road and told to hand over your keys. There are about 4 of them with guns. You initiate The Dan Technique. Sorted.
The Dan Technique
The fight starts. I instantly strip naked and defecate. I smear my faeces all over my body, before celebrating to the sky: “I did it!!! I did it!!!”
The 100 men are still about 30 metres away. They all witnessed what just happened. Their warrior screams of: “Let’s get him!” are replaced with: “What the hell?!” “Oh god, what is he doing?!”
As they approach, I keep yelling: “I did it, I did it!” I lay triumphantly on the ground, facing the sky.
By now, there’s a load of guys surrounding me. I’m defenceless, smell terrible, look worse, but I’m smiling.
Who would start a fight with that? It’s not possible. It’s a classic circuit breaker.
I start to mutter very calmly: “Guys, don’t do it. There’s another way to win.”
Some of the gang are on the verge of dishing out a few kicks. But there are 100 men - I just need one of them to wonder enough to interrupt and ask…
“Wait! Let’s hear him out. What do you mean, another way to win?”
I explain: “The real victory… is not to fight each other for a hypothetical question.”
“What hypothetical question?!”
“Who would win in a fight - me or 100 men. Don’t you see? We’re part of somebody’s sick thought experiment.”
“Enough talk - let’s batter him!” one keeno shouts out.
“Before you do, just answer me this - do you remember how you got here? Or what you did yesterday?”
The men look perplexed. I hammer it home…
“Yeah, sad news. We’re not real. We exist only in the collective imagination of those reading a blog post. You’ve been given the sole desire to beat me in a fight, probably killing me, for no reason other than settling a debate. But you do have a choice.”
At this point, I put on Morpheus-style glasses and look like a total badass (ignoring the fact I’m naked and covered in turd).
By now, I’ve got the attention of the gang. Maybe one or two lash out towards me, but they’re subdued by the others who are desperate to hear more...
“There are 101 of us, in a cricket field. We can either fight - and you’d kill me in 30 seconds, maybe 33 if I use Krav Maga. Or… we can enjoy the time we have together. Make this moment last. Because once I’m dead - the conversation will move on, and you’ll also cease to exist.”
There’s a pause in the field whilst the men think. One of them extends his hand, pulls me up and pats me on the shoulder like Tom Cruise, before wiping his hands on the grass and gagging.
“Ok, so we’ve got all the time in the world. No responsibilities. Just a big open field and ourselves. What shall we do?”
There are no suggestions, only shrugs.
“Come on, literally anything.”
Eventually, one of the more athletic lads - let’s call him Peter - speaks up: “Err… we could maybe do a relay race?”
“Wonderful idea.” I respond. A meek chap I’d eventually know to be called Felix suggests: “What about just sitting and chatting for a bit? I wasn’t that up for a fight in the first place.”
“Love your honesty. Sure, why not!”
Another suggestion comes from the back: “Er… I’d be happy to organise some sexy fun for those interested?”
“Of course! Make love not war, as they say!”
(I was becoming quite the orator)
A hand raises timidly. I point at them to speak:
“Regarding the sexy fun… presuming you mean intercourse? I’m not gay, but given the circumstance, I’d like to watch - at least initially. Then if I feel comfortable, I could perhaps start to… experiment? Would that be ok, or is it only for experienced members of the gay community?”
The group fall silent, waiting on a reply, but a few more people chip in:
“Yeah I had the same question.”
“Me too.”
“Me three!”
“Happy to give it a go!”
”YOLOOO!”
The sexy-fun suggester reveals:
“There’ll be space for all abilities and experience levels.”
The men cheer.
“That goes for the relay too!” Peter yells excitedly.
“And the chatting!” jokes Felix, to roars of laughter.
The group have officially bonded. And that’s before the shagging.
“Ok, so why don’t the guys who made the suggestions fan out, and everyone else - just follow whatever activity tickles your fancy? Then let’s reconvene in a few hours, see how everyone got on, and maybe add a few more options into the mix.”
The lads disperse. After about three days of cycling through various activities, we’ve built a strong community - one bound by free will and mutual respect.
We live off the land - kibbutz-style. To entertain ourselves, we put on theatre plays, chair debates and encourage skill-sharing.
We make the most of life. Outside of the field, nothing exists and nothing matters.
We form bonds closer than anything in the real world. This was our real world, and it was true bliss.
Decades pass and we grow old together. The friendships deepen, for some they become something more. Our lives, once forced together by an unexplainable force, are now bound together by an inexplicable love.
I then strangle some of the older members of the community in their sleep. I plant evidence on others, who are then banished, suffer severe isolation and kill themselves.
Over the next few years, I dabble in more night-bound murder - suffocation and poisoning, all the good stuff that could pass as natural causes.
I keep blaming others for good measure, spreading rumours like a pedigree weasel. Accusations start flying and tribes form. Scuffles break out and turn deadly. Retaliation one way, then back another. Our cricket pitch of camaraderie is now a bloodlust battlefield.
The final battle lasts days. Only four men survive, including me - I hid under a pile of corpses.
Despite being from opposite sides, exhaustion and injury prevent the men from fighting. I tend to their wounds, bandaging them up using the clothes of the dead.
With only time for contemplation, the small group start to see their fellow men not as enemies, but again as comrades. It starts with the sharing of food and water, then to slow, teary recollections of yesteryear. It soon becomes clear how tribalism ruined our perfect society and drove us apart.
“How about a relay race for old time’s sake?” jokes one of the survivors.
They laugh. It makes their bruised ribs hurt, but they chuckle through the pain. It’s the most they’ve laughed in weeks.
I then bludgeon them all to death using a dead guy’s collarbone.
I win!