Glad Hobbits die Hard
If eating cheese before retiring can lead to nightmares, maybe Christmas pudding with brandy sauce produces hallucinations? How else to explain the apparent transformation of a harmless, Boxing Day hockey match into a veritable phantasmagoria? However hard I strived to cling to reality illusions remained.
Could this muddied stretch of tussocky grass be part of Middle Earth? Surely not, and yet it might at least be called the Middle Ground between two communities prepared for conflict this raw, December morning: a neutral arena marked by militant flags which fluttered in the near-freezing air. As for the folk, were these the hobbits of the Prior, short of stature, bravely apprehensive and teamed perhaps with elves and dwarfs against... Ah yes, against whom or what? Might it be the host of Bulbeck, certainly a name to conjure up visions of the Dark Powers of Mordor or the garrison of Isengard. Who could say, in the midst of all this unreality, which among such a motley was the orc-ward squad?
Soon the teams were drawn up in line of battle, and walking between them, a figure of indisputable gravitas, a man with flowing locks, and, what would one say, the miasma of a magician. It must be Gandalf, the Gray, though he seemed to have exchanged his staff for a wizard's whistle to control the threatening hordes. Each man from the smallest to the tallest was armed, and all now swung their mattocks in anticipation against an imagined foe. Then, upon closer examination, I saw not all were men. Here and there among the hollow-cheeked males and stripling boys, were sprinkled elfin maids and dames of more doubtful origin; all as eager for the fray as the menfolk.
We heard the whistle shrill a thin, piercing, ghostly note; and then, just as a warrior from either side came to face each other in the space between the hostile ranks, Gandalf suddenly threw down an object which excited great and immediate interest among the waiting protagonists. It resembled a stone, a small and perfect sphere, stark white on the dark earth. Was this a palantir? Was it perhaps the Ithilstone itself, or the stone of Orthanc with the power to see backwards and forwards into the past and the future? If so, no wonder these creatures had been brought together, and not just from the Swaffhams but other parts of Middle Earth. Now indeed I could discern the strangers, though whether volunteers or mercenaries who could tell?
Before there was further time to ponder whether the insignificant ball was indeed one of the Seven Stones, a furious fight over it was underway, and as the struggle surged back and forth, the mystery deepened. There were Men among these Elves, Dwarfs and Hobbits: which then was Aragorn or Boromir? (no, surely Boromir was already slain for my fantasy post-dated The Two Towers). And which of several desperate characters was the Dark Lord of Mordor, and who, perhaps, Saruman of Isengard? Could that be Aragorn, shorn of his locks, at the heart of the Priors' defence; and yes, it was possible, was it not, that the man in black, prominent in the ranks of Bulbeck, was the Dark Lord, unless indeed each and every hero and villain was disguised? Who, for example, was the fellow in the cloth helmet, long coat and strange leggings forever kicking away the stone: and, among the Priors, an even stranger figure, a fantastical creature of pink fur who wore leggings like his Bulbeck counterpart and, like him, kicked at the stone, defending his flags with careless, unremitting zeal? I was faced by another, even greater, conundrum. No one can doubt the power of the palantir (no one that is who has read the books, seen the video, worn the T shirt). Why then this paradox? Every hobbit, orc, elf, man, woman on the field was seemingly hell bent, or should I say Mount Doom bent, on laying hold of the wretched ball, but only so as to be able to hit it, as quickly as possible, either to a comrade or else deep into enemy territory. Either way, more often than not, there developed such a melee, it was miraculous that every lower limb on the field was not broken or worse. Perhaps the power of the stone was so awesome no created thing could bear even to be near it for more than a few moments.
The battle for the ball went on for what seemed like the better part of the morning without any discernible result and, it must be said, little diminution in determination or expense of energy. The Bulbeckian troops occasionally launched a dangerous foray into Prior ground, more than once almost causing pink fur to fly; but for the most part the Priors held the advantage. Time and again it seemed the defences must be breached, but at every attempt either the coup de grace was never delivered, the strike was wild or the strange be-capped, bespectacled figure stuck out a stick or a leg to save the day. How they lacked the deadly aim of Aragorn. Perhaps he was absent after all; or perhaps he was double-visioned from the previous day's carouse.
Throughout the strenuous stalemate, Gandalf (was it indeed he?) could be seen to wander about, at times waving his arms for some incomprehensible reason, at others blowing a plaintiff note on his magic whistle. This sound, for the most part only recognised by some of the contestants and sundry dogs, brought the conflict to an occasional halt whereupon the ball, if it were not the palantir after all, was given, arbitrarily it seemed, to one or other side to strike at will. At other times, the whistle seemed to signal a rest when both little armies huddled among themselves, discussing the progress of the battle, planning tactics, bringing on reluctant reserves, or sucking oranges. Eventually, Gandalf's wizard's whistle blew its final, grateful blast.
As the fantasy began to fade, and reality returned over a pint or two of real ale, I wondered where was the Ring Bearer in all this? Where was Frodo? Had he stayed at home warm and snug in his hobbit house; or had the crafty little fellow been watching proceedings all the time while wearing the ring and so been invisible? I looked around the pub at familiar faces, hockey players, just hockey players, and yet, was that not Gandalf holding court at the bar? I shook my head in disbelief. Surfeit of turkey, surfeit of Tolkien!