A/N Bloody hell, here we go again... Thanks for the reviews, everyone, of the last bizarre chapter, departing as it did from any resemblance to the true plot. And why not? And thanks to The Evil Old Woman - bless 'er - for pointing out that poor Sir Ian doesn't have his own Oscar. Luckily, Boromir doesn't know that - yet ;-) Anyways I'm utterly disgusted to discover that one of our greatest actors has been denied recognition so I'm forming a society:
GIMAONYB
Give-Ian-McKellen-An-Oscar-Now-Yer-Bastards.
Who wants to join? We'll storm the next Oscars ceremony and stick the nut on some smarmy gits.
The story really does start in a minute, honest. But first, another A/N: This part is dedicated to RIPPER, who kicks my arse when I fail to update regularly, and sends me brilliant songs. THANK YOU! And as for Bory - yeah, he can stay, y'can keep him, just remember to give him his six pack of lager every three hours and let him watch the football...
Massive apologies for the failure to update for such a ridiculously long time. There were reasons; won't go into them now, but there were. Finally today came when I picked up my copy of LOTR from the bookshelf and thought, 'yes, this is the time'. About bloody time, in fact.
On with the show...
So the non-hobbit members of the fellowship were thus united by the unexpected descent from an empty ceiling of Boromir son of Denethor. Happy and completely docile now he had an Oscar, Boromir was pleased to tag after the company, drinking lager. Eventually Aragorn decided it was time he did something useful, and since Gimli was sick of riding a horse with Legolas, who kept groping him, they saddled Boromir and Gimli rode him, instead.
With difficulty, Theoden was persuaded that everyone should go to Isengard; the difficulty was not in the persuasion itself but in making the crumbly old git understand what was being said.
"Fire-guard? What would I want a fire-guard?"
"Isengard, your ancient kingliness, you know, *Isengard.*"
"You're a Bard? What's that supposed to mean? We don't want any writers here!"
It wasn't until Boromir stuck the sellotape-mended Horn of Gondor in Theoden's ear that the old man was able to comprehend Aragorn's frustrated attempts to speak with him.
"Oh, *Isengard!* Why didn't you say so?"
Preparations were made, and they had barely begun their journey when a scruffy soldier called Ceorl turned up and started making defeatist remarks about wolves; he cheered up on seeing Theoden-thing, however, and cried (nearly 100 percent original Tolkien dialogue, ladies and gentlemen),
"Command me, Lord! And pardon me! I farted..."
Theoden gave Ceorl a fresh horse - it bit him - and the company departed once more. Aragorn and Legolas rode in the van with Eomer; yes, he was a white van man! It was actually a butcher's van with 'Jack Jones, family butcher' written on the side. 'Butchering Ugly-Buggers since the first age' the legend beneath claimed.
So after a while they ended up at Helm's Deep, and Legolas pretended he was actually doing something useful with that bow of his, simultaneously taking the piss out of Gimli. Gimli scowled at him, dismounted Boromir, and gave his 'horse' a can of lager.
"Now, Boromir, you're technically supposed to be in the Green Room so I'm afraid you won't be able to do any fighting." Aragorn explained to the temporary beast of burden. "It might affect the plot, especially since you're the hardest bastard here and could probably take on Saruman's entire army and still have time to loot a nice present for the missus."
"Fair enough." Said Boromir, cuddling his Oscar.
"Right!" Cried Aragorn, addressing everyone else now. "Let's kill something!"
"Guthwine!" Roared Eomer.
"What?" Asked everyone. "Is he pissed?"
"Guthwine! My sword! Guthwine for the Mark!"
"Oh!" Exclaimed Aragorn, catching on. "Roger! Roger for the Dunedain!"
"Carling black label for Sheffield United." Agreed Boromir, waving his lager, but as instructed he made no attempt to throw it at any Uglies. Why waste good booze?
Unfortunately, Roger notwithstanding, the battle didn't go all that well and many of the important people in the story ended up barricading themselves in a toilet block.
"Well," said Boromir with something of a return to his old pessimism, "we're buggered now."
"Never give up hope!" Cried Gandalf the Straight, making an abrupt entrance into the parody. "Dawn is coming."
"Who's she? Has she got nice tits?"
"Dawn is the hope of all men!"
"Woo-hoo!"
Gandalf sighed. Making intellectual remarks to a son of Gondor was sometimes reminiscent of pissing in the wind. At least Faramir had half a brain - he could play the paper and comb - but where the fuck was he? Harassing Frodo, that's where, and we'll get to him shortly.
"How in middle-earth are we supposed to get rid of all these Ugly-Buggers?" Aragorn wondered, lurking by the cistern.
"You could get Ceorl to fart at them." Suggested Eomer.
"No, let's just set Gimli on them."
So for many hours Gimli tore orcs into little pieces. Legolas, somewhere above them, had given up on his long bow and was attempting to skewer the enemy with a nail-file.
"Two dozen!" He cried triumphantly as Gimli emerged, panting, beside him.
"Two dozen dead?" The dwarf cried.
"Er...yes, yes, that was what I meant, of course." But in fact Legolas was referring to the number of times he had managed to wash his hair in the six hours or so Gimli had been axing orcs.
Aragorn finally fought his way - or rather hid beneath an appropriate succession of corpses - to the citadel, where he harassed Theoden-thing.
"It goes ill, my lord!"
"Whose goose is ill?"
Aragorn sighed.
"Have you seen Eomer?" He asked, trying another tack.
"Eh?"
"Eomer! Eomer son of Eomund! Is he here?"
"He most certainly is not queer! How dare you!"
Aragorn was about to make an exasperated response when he spotted something remarkable.
"Boromir? What are you doing in here?"
"EH?" Bellowed Theoden.
"Not you, granddad!" Snapped Aragorn. "I was talking to him!" He pointed to Boromir, who was sitting placidly at Theoden's feet. Theoden-thing stroked his head.
"That's my doggy." The king explained.
"Boromir, what are you doing down there?"
"I got fed up of being Gimli's horse." Boromir explained. "Thought I'd try my hand at domestic canine instead. The food's better." He added, as Theoden gave him a biscuit. He licked the old man's hand.
"Good doggy." Theoden told him.
"...and you get a lot more affection. Old Theo appreciates me far more than you ever did."
"Boromir, you are heir to the stewardship of Gondor, the greatest swordsman in middle earth, and clinically dead. I don't believe it's appropriate for you to be spending your time in the citadel with a crumbly, aged monarch, pretending to be a Great Dane."
"Oh, I see." Boromir purred craftily. "You want my help, don't you? Orc killing not going well, is it? That girly elf let you down, has he? Ha! Well, I *might* think about it. Then again, I'm happy enough here. And you *did* tell me to stay out of the fighting. Supposed to be in the Green Room, aren't I?"
"Boromir, you utter git, get on your feet immediately and start wielding your tremendous weapon!"
"Oh, giving me orders now, are you? Well, you're not King of Gondor yet, Mr. Bossy Trousers."
"Boromir," pleaded Aragorn, "those orcs are massacring us! And you're probably the only person in literature capable of walking onto a battlefield full of the enemy, completely alone except for a small, straggly group of thieves and drunks, outnumbered, out-weaponed, and entirely outranked, and coming out of it without a scratch! Er...except for the time with those orcs in the glade at Parth Galen. But I'm sure that was an exception. And you were schizophrenic at the time."
Boromir was silent for a long moment, considering all that Aragorn had said.
"Sod off." He replied.
"WHAT?" Roared Aragorn.
"Well, what's it to me if you lot get killed? You never loved me. You nagged me all the time, tried to pinch my country, and all I ever had was good intentions."
"We gave you an Oscar!"
"Gandy gave me an Oscar. Gandy's OK. It's the rest of you I can't stand."
"Boromir, Gandalf could be killed in the battle. You'd never forgive yourself if that happened, would you? And - er - well, we can't have Saruman ruling Middle Earth. Or whatsit, for that matter - Sauron."
"Oh, I'd forgotten Sourbum, or whatever he's called. What a bastard. All right, I'll do it."
"Thank you, thank you from the bottom of my..."
"For five thousand pieces of gold."
"All right..."
"And a six pack of lager."
"Well...fine"
"And Gondor."
"Now wait a minute!"
"Take it or leave it. I'd make a great king. I'm sexier than you."
"Oh, Valar. Look, just go and get rid of the orcs, or nobody will end up having Gondor except Sauron. And he'll probably turn it into a toilet."
"The same could be said of Wolverhampton, but I wouldn't turn that down either. Well then - to battle! Let's hunt some orc!"
"That's my line!"
"Say it then."
"You're a movie out of date. I said that at the end of the last one. The audience will think we're running out of script."
"All right, what about: 'let us depart from this place in order to render our foes efficiently in twain."
"What the fuck does that mean?"
"Buggered if I know, mate. Let's do it anyway!"
So they did.
GIMAONYB
Give-Ian-McKellen-An-Oscar-Now-Yer-Bastards.
Who wants to join? We'll storm the next Oscars ceremony and stick the nut on some smarmy gits.
The story really does start in a minute, honest. But first, another A/N: This part is dedicated to RIPPER, who kicks my arse when I fail to update regularly, and sends me brilliant songs. THANK YOU! And as for Bory - yeah, he can stay, y'can keep him, just remember to give him his six pack of lager every three hours and let him watch the football...
Massive apologies for the failure to update for such a ridiculously long time. There were reasons; won't go into them now, but there were. Finally today came when I picked up my copy of LOTR from the bookshelf and thought, 'yes, this is the time'. About bloody time, in fact.
On with the show...
So the non-hobbit members of the fellowship were thus united by the unexpected descent from an empty ceiling of Boromir son of Denethor. Happy and completely docile now he had an Oscar, Boromir was pleased to tag after the company, drinking lager. Eventually Aragorn decided it was time he did something useful, and since Gimli was sick of riding a horse with Legolas, who kept groping him, they saddled Boromir and Gimli rode him, instead.
With difficulty, Theoden was persuaded that everyone should go to Isengard; the difficulty was not in the persuasion itself but in making the crumbly old git understand what was being said.
"Fire-guard? What would I want a fire-guard?"
"Isengard, your ancient kingliness, you know, *Isengard.*"
"You're a Bard? What's that supposed to mean? We don't want any writers here!"
It wasn't until Boromir stuck the sellotape-mended Horn of Gondor in Theoden's ear that the old man was able to comprehend Aragorn's frustrated attempts to speak with him.
"Oh, *Isengard!* Why didn't you say so?"
Preparations were made, and they had barely begun their journey when a scruffy soldier called Ceorl turned up and started making defeatist remarks about wolves; he cheered up on seeing Theoden-thing, however, and cried (nearly 100 percent original Tolkien dialogue, ladies and gentlemen),
"Command me, Lord! And pardon me! I farted..."
Theoden gave Ceorl a fresh horse - it bit him - and the company departed once more. Aragorn and Legolas rode in the van with Eomer; yes, he was a white van man! It was actually a butcher's van with 'Jack Jones, family butcher' written on the side. 'Butchering Ugly-Buggers since the first age' the legend beneath claimed.
So after a while they ended up at Helm's Deep, and Legolas pretended he was actually doing something useful with that bow of his, simultaneously taking the piss out of Gimli. Gimli scowled at him, dismounted Boromir, and gave his 'horse' a can of lager.
"Now, Boromir, you're technically supposed to be in the Green Room so I'm afraid you won't be able to do any fighting." Aragorn explained to the temporary beast of burden. "It might affect the plot, especially since you're the hardest bastard here and could probably take on Saruman's entire army and still have time to loot a nice present for the missus."
"Fair enough." Said Boromir, cuddling his Oscar.
"Right!" Cried Aragorn, addressing everyone else now. "Let's kill something!"
"Guthwine!" Roared Eomer.
"What?" Asked everyone. "Is he pissed?"
"Guthwine! My sword! Guthwine for the Mark!"
"Oh!" Exclaimed Aragorn, catching on. "Roger! Roger for the Dunedain!"
"Carling black label for Sheffield United." Agreed Boromir, waving his lager, but as instructed he made no attempt to throw it at any Uglies. Why waste good booze?
Unfortunately, Roger notwithstanding, the battle didn't go all that well and many of the important people in the story ended up barricading themselves in a toilet block.
"Well," said Boromir with something of a return to his old pessimism, "we're buggered now."
"Never give up hope!" Cried Gandalf the Straight, making an abrupt entrance into the parody. "Dawn is coming."
"Who's she? Has she got nice tits?"
"Dawn is the hope of all men!"
"Woo-hoo!"
Gandalf sighed. Making intellectual remarks to a son of Gondor was sometimes reminiscent of pissing in the wind. At least Faramir had half a brain - he could play the paper and comb - but where the fuck was he? Harassing Frodo, that's where, and we'll get to him shortly.
"How in middle-earth are we supposed to get rid of all these Ugly-Buggers?" Aragorn wondered, lurking by the cistern.
"You could get Ceorl to fart at them." Suggested Eomer.
"No, let's just set Gimli on them."
So for many hours Gimli tore orcs into little pieces. Legolas, somewhere above them, had given up on his long bow and was attempting to skewer the enemy with a nail-file.
"Two dozen!" He cried triumphantly as Gimli emerged, panting, beside him.
"Two dozen dead?" The dwarf cried.
"Er...yes, yes, that was what I meant, of course." But in fact Legolas was referring to the number of times he had managed to wash his hair in the six hours or so Gimli had been axing orcs.
Aragorn finally fought his way - or rather hid beneath an appropriate succession of corpses - to the citadel, where he harassed Theoden-thing.
"It goes ill, my lord!"
"Whose goose is ill?"
Aragorn sighed.
"Have you seen Eomer?" He asked, trying another tack.
"Eh?"
"Eomer! Eomer son of Eomund! Is he here?"
"He most certainly is not queer! How dare you!"
Aragorn was about to make an exasperated response when he spotted something remarkable.
"Boromir? What are you doing in here?"
"EH?" Bellowed Theoden.
"Not you, granddad!" Snapped Aragorn. "I was talking to him!" He pointed to Boromir, who was sitting placidly at Theoden's feet. Theoden-thing stroked his head.
"That's my doggy." The king explained.
"Boromir, what are you doing down there?"
"I got fed up of being Gimli's horse." Boromir explained. "Thought I'd try my hand at domestic canine instead. The food's better." He added, as Theoden gave him a biscuit. He licked the old man's hand.
"Good doggy." Theoden told him.
"...and you get a lot more affection. Old Theo appreciates me far more than you ever did."
"Boromir, you are heir to the stewardship of Gondor, the greatest swordsman in middle earth, and clinically dead. I don't believe it's appropriate for you to be spending your time in the citadel with a crumbly, aged monarch, pretending to be a Great Dane."
"Oh, I see." Boromir purred craftily. "You want my help, don't you? Orc killing not going well, is it? That girly elf let you down, has he? Ha! Well, I *might* think about it. Then again, I'm happy enough here. And you *did* tell me to stay out of the fighting. Supposed to be in the Green Room, aren't I?"
"Boromir, you utter git, get on your feet immediately and start wielding your tremendous weapon!"
"Oh, giving me orders now, are you? Well, you're not King of Gondor yet, Mr. Bossy Trousers."
"Boromir," pleaded Aragorn, "those orcs are massacring us! And you're probably the only person in literature capable of walking onto a battlefield full of the enemy, completely alone except for a small, straggly group of thieves and drunks, outnumbered, out-weaponed, and entirely outranked, and coming out of it without a scratch! Er...except for the time with those orcs in the glade at Parth Galen. But I'm sure that was an exception. And you were schizophrenic at the time."
Boromir was silent for a long moment, considering all that Aragorn had said.
"Sod off." He replied.
"WHAT?" Roared Aragorn.
"Well, what's it to me if you lot get killed? You never loved me. You nagged me all the time, tried to pinch my country, and all I ever had was good intentions."
"We gave you an Oscar!"
"Gandy gave me an Oscar. Gandy's OK. It's the rest of you I can't stand."
"Boromir, Gandalf could be killed in the battle. You'd never forgive yourself if that happened, would you? And - er - well, we can't have Saruman ruling Middle Earth. Or whatsit, for that matter - Sauron."
"Oh, I'd forgotten Sourbum, or whatever he's called. What a bastard. All right, I'll do it."
"Thank you, thank you from the bottom of my..."
"For five thousand pieces of gold."
"All right..."
"And a six pack of lager."
"Well...fine"
"And Gondor."
"Now wait a minute!"
"Take it or leave it. I'd make a great king. I'm sexier than you."
"Oh, Valar. Look, just go and get rid of the orcs, or nobody will end up having Gondor except Sauron. And he'll probably turn it into a toilet."
"The same could be said of Wolverhampton, but I wouldn't turn that down either. Well then - to battle! Let's hunt some orc!"
"That's my line!"
"Say it then."
"You're a movie out of date. I said that at the end of the last one. The audience will think we're running out of script."
"All right, what about: 'let us depart from this place in order to render our foes efficiently in twain."
"What the fuck does that mean?"
"Buggered if I know, mate. Let's do it anyway!"
So they did.