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If I had been honest with Gandalf from the start then it might have been
different. But generally my lack of forthrightness has been my downfall on numerous
occasions and the consequences had generally been no worse than to send me into
weeks long fits of misery and depression and re-ordering my record collection
based on such mundane criteria as where I bought the album or which memebr of
my family it reminded me of. And most of my lies or half-truths at that time
revolved around football, or more specifically The Shirenal Gunners. For example,
there was Milicent Lowtree, with a fantastic bosom and far too much sense for
me. But here we were together when she asked me to have dinner with her folks
on a night that we both new was scheduld for the Gunners and the Archers of
Aragon in a replay of an earlier match when Hicklefit missed an open net in
extra time. But instead of explaining to her the impossibility of me not going
to Shirebury that Saturday, I agreed to go to dinner, knowing full well that
I would never make it. And I made up some excuse, which she didn’t believe,
and we broke it off. And in hindsight I suppose I should have simply told her
at the tim, “No dear, I cannot make it becasue the hobbits have a game, right,
so you see it is an impossibility.” But then ,and even now that sounds hooribly
inept and pathetic, so of course I found it far easier to take the other path.
And this is exactly what happened with Gandalf, when he asked me to take the
Ring to Mordor and destroy it, I agreed. But I knew that there would be know
way, there was a game that night and countless others that I would have to miss
should I make the journey. And I tried to beg off Gandlaf, asking how he could
expect a lowly hobbit such as myself to carry the ring on such a dangerous quest,
when in reality what I meant was, how could he expect to miss at least a half
dozen league and Cup games to dispose of a ring that didn’t even belong to me.
Gandalf tried to explain that only I could possibly reists the temptation of
the rings power. It was rubbish as far as I was concerned, I had my own overwhelming
desire, which was to sit in the North End with the other nutters. And if I had
been honest with Gandalf and said there was no way because there was a game
it might have turned out better. But again, like always in these situations,
I choked on those words as being to ridiculous..
So I took the ring and made off as if I was on a quest to destroy the ring,
when in reality the only quest I had was to get to Shirebury in time to claim
my favorite spot in the bleachers. And on my way there I ran into a complete
oddball who looked off by about ten and talked is a strange West End slurring
dialect. He offered to take the ring to, or the “precious” as he referred to
it, to Mordor. I agreed. As far as I was concerned this was a brilliant plan
because I wouldn’t have to miss the game and the ring would, presumably get
destroyed.
This was one of the last days before the darkness overtook Middle Earth and
one of my last happy memories becuase the Gunners pulled out a brilliant victory
with two strikes in the last ten minutes. So I like to think I made the right
choice, although I am still not sure what became of the ring.