Broadsword calling Danny Boy, Broadsword calling Danny Boy, come in, over?

Now, let’s say it like Richard Burton.

Right to the back of the room everyone! With me.

Brawd-sawd cawlling Danny Bhoy, Brawd-sawd cawlling Danny Bhoy, come inn, Danny Bhoy.

And rest.

Very good.

See? That’s what makes Where Eagles Dare the crackerjack film it is: the rich Welshness of Richard Burton’s bloodshot eyes. That and Clint Eastwood’s machine gun. The one with the never-ending supply of homing bullets.
The book on the other hand, is torture. One of MacLean’s worst. On paper it’s got it all. Alpine setting, treachery, Germans, even cable cars for God’s sake! You cannot beat a good cable car scene. Just thinking about a cable car scene makes me feel funny, throw in some Germans and I might faint. And yet, and yet, the book is awful. I know, I just read it.
I hid it inside the cover of “Hot Gas Flow And Other After Dinner Tales” by Mayhew [one, long, murdered, darling, later] where were we? Oh yes, where eagles dare the book discuss. Fukkit. The time the cuppa the biscuit I’m off.

Back again (buttered scone and a jammy dodger)

What it needs is some Celtic mysticism along the lines of Sam’s glen of the dead. Imagine, they make it down the mountain, they’ve blown up all the cable cars, shot all the Germans, now they’re in the bus with the snowplough crashing through roadblocks on their way to rendezvous with the escape plane, but they go up the wrong road in the dark, they follow the lighthouse beam thinking it’s a signal, they pass the standing stones…

Now THAT story’s got legs. Am I wrong? Am I wrong?