A blasted heath on the edge of a backlit forest. Low clouds of mist lap around a natural arena. A figure strides over a hillock into view. It is IAN MCKELLEN. He is wearing a very silly helmet and matching cape. He is in possession of a KNIGHTHOOD and an enormous cheque.

IAN MCKELLEN: Patrick! I know you’re in there. This isn’t a soliloquy, you know. I’ve come to kick some luvvie arse and it’s your surprisingly-toned-for-their-age buttocks I intend to apply my built-up supervillain boots to.

A motorized wheelchair lumbers into view. Its pilot has a shiny head. He is VERY SERIOUS INDEED. It is PATRICK STEWART. As he begins to declaim sonorously, the knicker elastic of every woman of a certain age within five miles resonates in sympathy with his vocal chords. He is in possession of an OBE and his cheque is so vast he is having to tow it behind him on an eighteen-wheel flatbed.

PATRICK STEWART: The time is upon us. The moment is arrived. The very meaning of what it is to be human will be decided on this day. At this hour.

IAN MCKELLEN: And where, pray tell, is your wolfie little companion?

A tall figure plunges out of a tree. He has hair so bad he should be a member of Supergrass. He is chewing on a cigar and snarling at the same time. He stiffens his shoulders and long metallic claws shoot out of his knuckles. The corks hanging from his broadbrimmed hat rattle gently in the night breeze. It is HUGH JACKMAN.

HUGH JACKMAN: What’s your beef, nancy boy?

IAN MCKELLEN: A-ha! The conspicuous homophobia of the closeted homosexual.

HUGH JACKMAN: I’m a straight as a border with South Australia, yer Pommie pooftah!

IAN MCKELLEN: You’re a male Sydney-sider with an over-developed upper body who wears make-up, sings show tunes, and dances on theatre stages. You’ve got a Tony Award™ for heaven’s sake. Trust your feelings, Hugh. Of course you’re gay!

HUGH JACKMAN: I’m as red-blooded as a dog dingo in heat, yer limp-wristed Limey! I’m married with kids.

IAN MCKELLEN: And your son’s called “Oscar”. And you’re wearing leather trousers over the age of 35. How much gayer could one possibly be? Join in with me, Hugh! [He begins to sing.]:

“There’s a bright golden haze on the meadow,
There’s a bright golden haze on the meadow,
The corn is as high as an elephant’s eye,
An’ it looks like it’s climbin’ clear up to the sky…”

HUGH JACKMAN: [resisting with every fibre of his being]

“…Oh… …what… a… beautiful mornin’,
Oh, what a… beautiful …day.
I got a beautiful feelin’…”

PATRICK STEWART: No, Hugh! Don’t slap your thigh! D-O-N-‘-T  S-L-A-P  Y-O-U-R  T-H-I-G-H!



[He slaps his thigh.]



One set of HUGH JACKMAN’s prosthetic claws is sunk into the flesh of his own right leg.

IAN MCKELLEN: Come! Join our happy band, Hugh. We can patch up your leg—and those gay trousers—in a twinkling and show you the ways of thespian love.

PATRICK STEWART: Don’t listen to him, Hugh! It’s a trap. He doesn’t just want you to bat for the other side. He wants you to join his renegade mutants in their terrorist war on the rest of humanity.

IAN MCKELLEN turns on his platformed heels and marches away into the mist. HUGH JACKMAN pulls his claws out of his leg and hobbles slowly behind him. As they depart PATRICK STEWART buries his face in his hands.

PATRICK STEWART [VOICEOVER]: As I watched him leave, I knew that Hugh was driven by a force deeper and more powerful even than my voice.

Not love. Not destiny. Not instinct. Not even the search for a tourniquet. No. Hugh was under a spell cast upon all of us: Ian, Halle, Famke. This turn in his path was driven by the need for… a sequel.