Angmar is a nasty, nasty place, even worse than the Shire. I mean the Shire is disgusting enough, full of those fat little short people things called bobbits or something, and they're all so fat and happy, eating pie and smiling and holding hands, and clapping songs, being nosey about their neighbours, and the trees are all so pretty and the hedges are all so well clipped and all the farms are oh so totally productive and happy, and it all just makes my teeth ache. And what is it with these bloody mathoms? I don't know what a mathom is, and I don't want to know, and if you ask me for a mathom one more time, mister, I'm going to take your gift mathom and shove it....
Ahem.... well. Let me not get distracted. From Angmar, which is the point of this diary entry.
Angmar. Yes. Nasty place.
For a start, it's so grey. Grey. Greeeeeeeyyyyyyy. Grey grass, grey hills, grey grey rocks; even the water is grey. Well, let me tell you, Mister Evil Witch King, I know you've got to be all evil and nasty, oooooh oooooooh, but grey ain't the way to do it. Nope. If you want to be evil go and kill a few thousand women and children, torture a hundred people to death in unspeakable ways, go play some Shire Country Music, that kind of thing.
Don't just rely on a pathetic colour scheme. Grey isn't evil. Grey is just dull. Grey is boring. The Grey Havens. Yawn. The Grey Wizard. Ho hum. I bet a White Wizard would kick his arse any day of the week. Really. You can still be unspeakably evil with a dash of violet trim, a touch of chartreuse, maybe a highlight of crimson. Really, you can. Try it out, you'll see.
Anyway, I get these menial jobs to do around Angmar, so I hold my nose, grit my teeth and start doing them. Anarwald comes to help, because he's a true gentleman. Go here, do this, kill these cool looking bird women things, collect lumps of coal, kill a few northerners (by the way, with all this killing of northerners, who's really the evil one here? Hath not a northerner eyes? Hath not a northerner hands, organs, dimensions, senses, affections, passions? If you prick them, do they not bleed? if you tickle them, do they not laugh? If you poison them, do they not die? Should we really kill them in droves? Thus conscience does make cowards of us all. Ahem, woops, distracted again.)
As I was saying, you do these menial jobs and eventually get sent all the way up to the North to some place with some barbaric name such as Tauah Crucaahck or something, where the Council of the North hangs out. Fine, no problem, I dodge all the beasties to get up there, secure in the knowledge that they are bound to have a stable master and I can at least get a ride back.
Aha, sucker, no way, says the Moron Stable Master. You're not our Friend. No ride for you. Hullo!, say I, what do you mean, I'm not your friend? I'm the famous Aegthil. Aegthil of Gondor. I can't be friends with all my fans, or I'd spend my whole salary on Seasonal Greetings cards. And I earn a crap load, believe me. Just give me a damn ride back to civilisation or I'll write you a satire that'll turn you into a Dwarven curry. And you know which end of a Dwarf that ends up at.
No response. No response at all.
So I'm stuck up here, in the back-end of Middle Earth, freezing my butt off. And all the women are short and hairy.
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