Nulaid Cinema's eagerly
awaited forthcoming epic The Lord of the Wings which is said
to finally lay to rest the vexing question of whether or not Balrogs
have wings, was violently cut short last night when members of the Balrog
Anti-Defamation League disrupted the preview by gate-crashing a
private viewing of the controversial film. Dr. Primula Wunderkind PhD,
a spokesperson for the Purley Mythological Society, armed with
nothing more than a Harrods picnic umbrella, bravely confronted the
gang of thugs with the ringing words: "You shall not have
the film canister, Spawn of Morgoth!"
According to eyewitness accounts, this band of Balrog impersonators
was organised by none other than the well-known scopophilisist Sir Henry
Goteleigh dressed as an enormous mountain-troll. As guests scattered
to left and right he is said to have attacked Dr Wunderkind with what
appeared to be a heavy club but was later discovered to be a rolled
up copy of Sauron's Diary.
Interviewed afterwards by our reporter in the comfort of her Pimlico
maisonette, a shaken Dr Wunderkind (29) described the horrific events
in graphic detail:
"The first half of the film had barely finished rolling when I
suddenly felt a cold, clammy breath upon my thigh. Fortunately it was
only Jam Spongee, the usher, trying to look up my skirt whilst pretending
to retrieve the packet of Lembas I had dropped earlier, and a well aimed
slap to his cheek quickly stopped his unwelcome attentions. But then
something else came into the theatre... What it was I couldn't clearly
see through my NHS specs. But I have rarely smelt such a stink. The
counter-smell was terribly strong; but even Chanel No.5 has its limits.
For an instant I thought I was going to throw up. I had to speak a word
of command — Jackson!'
That proved too great a strain and the door burst open. We rushed into
the bar. Something as dark as Sauron's hand and as foetid as an Orc's
underpants was blocking the emergency exit and I was thrown backward."
Dr Wunderkind paused to light a cigarette with a trembling hand and
crossed her shapely legs before continuing huskily.
"Behind the bar we saw swarming black figures. There seemed to
be dozens of the horrid little Oiks all dressed in long black cloaks
and wearing Halloween masks. At the end of the room the floor vanished
into a gaping chasm that led to an underground discotheque. The outer
door to Pusey Street could only be reached by a narrow gallery without
any handrails, which was a fashionable device of the proprietor to prevent
customers leaving without paying for their drinks. We could only pass
it in single file. There at the brink I halted, and my fellow moviegoers
came up behind me, shivering with fear. Plucky young Angelica Bolger-Baggins
picked up a bottle of Pimms and was on the point of hurling it at the
black figures when she gave a cry of fear and dismay. Then I saw it
was Mr S Gollum — the corresponding secretary of the Balrog
Anti-Defamation League and Gothmog Uden-Flamme, his hunchbacked
assistant; bearing great clubs of shiny plastic. But it was not these
sad trolls that filled young Angelica and Kylie Lang, my PA, with terror,
nor the leering face of my old enemy Sir Henry Goteleigh, who taunted
us with lewd innuendoes and foul insults. The ranks of the Balrog impersonators
parted, and they cringed away from something coming up behind them.
What it was became all too clear as the appalling reek I had smelt earlier
assailed my nostrils and turned my legs to jelly. It was like a great
shadow, in the middle of which was a dirty old man in pink fluffy slippers.
Of man-shape maybe, yet uglier and smellier than any man who ever breathed;
and a stink and a loathing seemed to be in it and go before it."
"Astonishing!" exclaimed our reporter. "What happened
"Angelica shrieked 'Ohhh - bugger! A Balrog! A BALROG has come
to get us!' Kylie Lang just stared at the hideous apparition with wide,
frightened eyes and her knicker elastic snapped with a load twang. 'Poppycock',
said I, 'It's a Balrog impersonator. The pink fluffy slippers are a
"Gosh!" we replied breathlessly. "How clever of you,
"Not at all," replied the slim philologist, exhaling a cloud
of smoke from her aristocratic nostrils. "As I suspected all along
it was none other than Sir Henry Goteleigh, who goes under the grandiloquent
names of 'Baron Balrog Bar-steward' and 'Lord High Enema of the Empire
of Morgoth'. He was dressed in an enormous sable cloak and pink fluffy
slippers and carried a vicious looking whip made of Wargs tails with
which he proceeded to lash the air to the accompaniment of the fiendish
howls of his drunken acolytes. 'Die Witch!' he shrieked in a quavering
falsetto as he rushed towards us. 'Over the gallery', I shouted to the
others. 'Run for your virtue. If one of these perves gets his hands
on you you'll wish you were dead!' They needed no urging and raced for
the door. Only Angelica and Kylie stood their ground. Sir Henry reached
the gallery. I stood in the middle leaning on my umbrella with my left
hand, but in my other hand gripped a bottle of Chanel No.5. The Lord
High Enema demanded the film canister. 'You shall not have it, Spawn
of Morgoth!' I shouted defiantly. His shadow reached out like two vast
wings. He raised his whip and the thongs whined and cracked. A foul
reek assailed my nose. 'You cannot pass wind here' I said. Mr Gollum
farted again and Sir Henry stepped nearer. 'Give us the film, Bitch,
or the next time I crack this whip it'll be your fat backside that gets
it!' 'Does my bottom look big in this dress?' I asked Angelica.
'Well — does it?' 'Er...now that you come to mention it, Primula
— it does rather..' 'Bugger!' I muttered, and cursed the shop
girl at Harrods who had persuaded me that green was the new black."
"Oh my goodness!" murmured our reporter, "What happened
Sir Henry lashed at me again and shouted: 'for the last TIME - are
you going to hand over THAT FILM? 'No!' I shouted back. 'Go back to
Kensington and take your silly little boys with you!' The Balrog Impersonator
drew himself up to his full height of five feet four inches and flapped
his cheap, plastic wings menacingly. From out of the shadow a fouler
reek than any I had ever smelt leaped forth. 'Eru alone knows what the
dirty sod must have been eating' I muttered, and sprayed him with my
Chanel. There was a terrible battle of odours and the Balrog Impersonator
fell back and dropped his trousers. 'Mooning will not help you any more
than passing wind!' I shouted 'You will never get the film!' With a
bound he leaped at me, and lashed my legs with his whip. 'You shall
not stand alone!' cried Kylie bravely; holding up her knickers with
one hand while she threw a bottle of gin which shattered on his polycarbonate
wings. 'Stinker!' cried Angelica, flinging a candle at him. At that
moment I lifted my umbrella and swung it at his head. He dropped his
whip and his wings burst into flame. The gallery floor split and the
boards upon which Mr Gollum and Gothmog Uden-Flamme stood crashed into
the cellar. With a cry of 'Oh sheeeeeet....' they fell forward and plunged
into the discotheque below, narrowly missing a party of revellers celebrating
their annual Pipe-weed smoking convention. After that the others legged
it pretty sharpish."
"But did they get the film?"
"I'm afraid so,” said Dr Wunderkind with a twinkle in her
deep blue eyes. "But Nulaid Cinema have the original."
We asked her if The Lord of the Wings really will
answer the vexing question of whether or not Balrogs have wings. Dr
Wunderkind smiled enigmatically and replied: "You'll have to wait
for the official release in December."
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