New Zealand with a Hobbit Botherer

PROLOGUE: LONDON

I Had A Dream

Have you ever had the dream where you find yourself at a party dressed in nothing but your underwear? No not that dream. Not that kind of party. I mean the one where all the other guests, draped in designer labels (and remaining so throughout) whisper smugly amongst themselves, falling silent as you approach. You only catch snippets of what they are saying, “Has he no shame?” “Y fronts are so passé,” “Did you see the size of it?” and so on. Eventually you get so fed up that you make for the kitchen to fetch a knife... (Ignore the last sentence if you’re not in the habit of watching reruns of The Shining and Psycho on TV just before falling asleep).


Well this tale begins with a similar dream. The guests are dressed as characters from Lord of the Rings, the scraps of earwigged conversation include questions such as, “What was the man doing with the carrot in Bree?” “Who was the horse department assistant for The Return of the King,” and “Why did they leave out Tom Bombadil from the book?” but yes, I am still in my underwear. I’ll forgive you if you don’t wish to dwell on that image for long.

At first I assume it’s a party for cast and crew, so naturally I begin a search for Liv Tyler, Cate Blanchett and Miranda Otto. (Note to my wife. This is a dream. I would never, ever seek out these women at a party in real life, even if they were in their underwear too. By the way don’t you think my nose was shorter yesterday?) Two things convince me that this assumption is wrong. Firstly, there is no Liv, no Cate and no Miranda. Nor for that matter any other performers I recognise from the movies. Secondly the Dwarves seem to be rather too tall, the Rohirrim rather too rotund and the Elves, it has to be said, rather too ugly to have featured in the movies.

My conclusion about the elves may of course be coloured by the fact that one of their number, sporting a single prosthetic ear, insists on glaring at me suspiciously as I tackle a particularly chewy and rather misshapen mini pitta bread I have discovered on the buffet table.

My second assumption is that it must be a convention of some kind for fans of the movies. That is close... but still no cigar.

The truth is finally revealed at the sound of a horn, as a man with a shiny silver bucket on his head encourages Elves, Wizards, Hobbits, Uruk-hai, Orcs, Rangers, Dwarves, Rohirrim, Gondorians and Exhibitionists (glances at yours truly) to sit in a large circle.

Briefly I worry that a man-flesh barbecue is planned and that I have been invited along to provide the man-flesh - the Uruk-hai do look rather hungry - but then a cheery-looking tousle-haired character in shorts, tee shirt and owlish spectacles steps forward (so I’m not the only one to shun designer clothes from the House of Hobbit). A badge announces the man’s name is Jack Peterson. He has the demeanour of a bloke in charge.

“Wilcum ivryone to Hubbit Butherer’s Anonymous,” he says in a New Zealand accent not easily reproduced on the printed page.

Immediately an Elf in a tight fitting blue shirt and black slacks rises from his seat and leaves, pausing only to mutter irritably at a poster proclaiming Star Trek Fan Club - Next Week hanging by the door.
“I see we hiv a new mimber prisunt. Perhups he would like to begin the miting by tilling us why he is hir.”

I look around to catch a glimpse at the poor unfortunate who’s been singled out and find everyone else catching a glimpse of me. What can I possibly say of interest to a Mordor of Hobbit botherers? (It’s a murder of crows, why not a Mordor of Hobbit botherers?)

Finally and tentatively I volunteer, “I have seen The Return of the King four times…”

This is the truth. The first time I was totally captivated, enthralled by the story. The second time I admired the beautiful landscapes, the acting, the seamless special effects. The third time I began to get picky, wondering why there was no blood and guts on the bottom of the oliphaunts’ feet when they lifted them up after trampling people to death, why Legolas never ran out of arrows and eventually if the movie was showing on a loop which meant it would never end.

The fourth time was some months after the initial release. A local independent cinema were showing the complete trilogy in one day. It made an excellent Valentine’s day surprise for my wife and I was able to surreptitiously catch up on some sleep before enjoying a well deserved reward later in the evening and on into the night.

In the dream I think four times is quite impressive (seeing the film!) but my fellow members of the circle clearly do not. There are mutterings of “Fraud! Fraud!” and “Not even double figures!” A group of Uruk-hai in the shadows at the back begin to fire up a barbecue.


With just a hint of desperation I continue, “...but I know someone who has seen it twenty-seven times, bought all the DVDs, cinema and extended versions, and even read Sean Astin’s book There and Back Again - more than once.” This is clearly more impressive, though there are still a few cries of, “A friend, yes of course,” and “He’s in denial.” So I have to come clean.

“Okay. That someone is my wife, Annette. She’s taken to collecting DVDs of any films with Elijah Wood, Orlando Bloom or Viggo Mortenson in them after seeing them in Lord of the Rings. She even claims that The Calcium Kid is a watchable movie!”

At the mention of Mr Bloom several of the younger female elves sink to the floor in a faint, sighing “Oooh Orlando,” and have to be revived by bringing one of the Rohirrim close by so they catch a nose-tingling whiff of horse manure.

Coming clean about Annette has the desired effect. I am accepted. I am one of the group. I have admitted that I have a problem with Lord of the Rings addiction, even if it is addiction by proxy, and now I am ready to hear what the man himself, Jack Peterson, has to say about the matter.

“Think you.” he begins. “Thir is a cure. You must furce yurself... er your wife... to rillise that the movies are only funtasy. Trivel to New Zilland and visit where they were shi... er shot. Convince your wife that Hubbits, Ilves and Wizards are not rill.”

He turns to reveal a beautiful picture of snow covered mountains reflected in a turquoise lake on the rear of his tee shirt. Below is the legend Tourism New Zealand. “My brither, rins a trivil igency," he continues, "I hiv his nimber here."

****
So that is how I came to be spending a month travelling around New Zealand accompanied by a hobbit botherer called Annette. A hobbit botherer eager to stand where Orlando had stood, to see what Viggo had seen and to be given a gold ring just like Elijah had been given.
Dream on.

Incidentally, for those of you who are still wondering what the man was doing with the carrot in Bree, who assisted the horse department for Return of the King and why Tom Bombadil never made it out of the book, the answers are of course, eating it, Angela van der Weerdhof and weren’t the films bum-numbingly long enough already? I wish it to be known that I had to look up the name of the horse assistant. I am not the hobbit botherer. The hobbit botherer, affectionately shortened to THB, is my wife.