If That's The Ruling Ring, Where The Hell's The Diamond?

IF THAT'S THE RULING RING, WHERE THE HELL'S THE DIAMOND?
by Neil McCall

"What's for tea, Mum?" yelled Ozzy and Lemmy, the hideous
spawn-twins.

"Dwarf!" replied Shazzer the Orcess.

"Aw, Mum, dwarves are all tough and stringy, and we had one yesterday!
Can't we go down to McDoom's and get a Miserable Meal?"

Shazzer slammed her pretty mailed fist upon the table.

"I'm not going near that place; don't you know they put ground-up dead
cows in their meat? Even a troll wouldn't eat that stuff! When your
dad's come back from the wars you'll be feasting on man-flesh, but
until then it's whatever we can catch!"

She sighed; the rationing was tough, and she was missing Shagrat. He
wasn't much to look at, but sometimes he lived up to his name.

Deep in her loathsome lair, Shelob was blubbering to herself. The fat
little hobbit with his elven sword had hurt her sorely, despite the
publishing guidelines forbidding gratuitous violence towards female
characters. Just 'cos I'm not pretty and have too many hairy legs, she
sobbed. No one would stick a sword in that wet hen Galadriel with her
silly pointed ears, would they?

She determined that, once rings and elves and hobbits and even
Middle-Earth itself had passed beyond time and memory, she would creep
out of her hole and stake her claim for leadership of the Conservative
Party. But until then she'd have to content herself with her shoe
collection.

Rose Cotton also sighed; she'd quite fancied Sam Gamgee until he went
off with his dodgy boss Frodo and his mates Merry and Pippin on some
male bonding adventure up in the mountains. I mean, what normal hobbit
guy comes up to you and says "Hello, I'm Merry!" Trouble with being a
barhobbit was that everyone thought you were easy; it was hell trying
to meet a decent straight bloke who'd commit.

An oil-smeared head poked up from amongst the rumpled bedsheets.

"Reckon Oi'd better get round to Sharkey's and fettle up his infernal
machines," declared Ted Sandyman in his best Black Country
accent.

The elves were leaving, leaving Middle Earth for ever, sailing from the
Grey Havens to their destiny in the Undying Lands, whilst among the
race of Men the line of Numenor was but weak and faltering; the last of
the kingly progeny leading lonely lives as Rangers in remote wildlife
sanctuaries.

Bloody wimps the lot of them, thought Arwen, sipping her Chardonnay; I
wouldn't take on mortality for any of that lot.
There was but one who could tame the wilful elf-maiden, and here he was
now coming up the path, glowing and scorching the front door.

"I'm home, darling," growled the Balrog.

Gandalf the wizard was also coming home for tea.

"Guess what, dear?" he said to Nanny Ogg who'd somehow disparated
herself from Discworld to be his consort. "They've made me the head of
the Order!" And he displayed his new robes, shining radiant
white.

"What did I tell you? Using that new biological powder which banishes
Grey has done the trick. Power's such an aphrodisiac to a woman!" she
cackled coquettishly.

Gandalf briefly considered sending her to the Dungeon Dimensions, or
sealing her in the rocks of Moria, but abandoned the idea. You simply
couldn't get the staff nowadays.

Eowyn was a strange girl; she loved horses, of course. But she also
loved weaponry, and dressing up in men's clothes. She wished that she
had a nice fluffy companion whom she could rescue from the clutches of
evil; she always had been a bit that way, and when Aragorn ditched her
for a non-human she decided she'd had enough of men full stop.
But here was that nice young hobbit Merry again, just the right
companion for a fun night out in the bars of Minas Tirith. They could
have a few jars, smoke and talk footy:

"Hey, Merry, I hear our lot's just bought the Lord Of The Nazgul from
Wraith Rovers!" she said.