Tuesday, November 24, 2020


Over on one of my favourite Facebook pages, various members are adulating Tolkien. Apparently the man was a god, a hero, an intellectual beacon, a holy prophet, a shaft of light when all around was dark, the English answer to Spam™, and all that.

Oh buggery heck.

I tried to read The Lord Of The Rings when I was in my teens. Having already devoured much of Nabokov, Kipling, Simenon, Asimov, Herbert, Bradbury, and several Dutch authors.
Plus, lord'elpme, poets: Tennyson, Keats, Coleridge, Byron, Shelley ......

No stranger to reading I.

Couldn't do it. Tolkien is barely bearable. In manageable micro doses. The Lord Of The Rings is hugely overrated overblown poofle. The movies are, of course, visually magnificent, but best watched with the sound off. Hobbits are vile cutesy-poo orcfood. Horrid.

I am manfully holding back from telling them all to stuff their sainted Tolkien up their festering youknowwhatses. For which I deserve praise. Dammit.

Once upon a time there was a prince who collected dragons. Everyday he lovingly fed them and polished their scales. Which was cool, they sort of liked that, but they would rather have been free instead of enslaved in some ego-tripping nobleman's hoard. They sometimes dreamed that a fabulous princess would come and save them .......

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