The Bachelor party

"The board is set, the pieces are moving. We come to it at last." said the wizard with a glint in his eye.

"It really is kind of Sam to organise this." Leaning toward his dozing friend. "He swore he'd never leave the Shire again, and here we are!"

"He knows how much this means to you. We all do." the wizard said, a loving smile on his face. "It's not every day a Baggins ties the knot, and when they do, we give 'em a right jolly send-off. And until you walk down that aisle, it's Sam's job to look after the ring, isn't it?"

Frodo beamed. He had missed his old friends' humour. "As much as I'm feeling a bit nervous, it's nice to be adventuring once again. To experience different cultures and customs. I just can't wait," he said, letting out a contented sigh. "Gandalf, have you ever been to Ibiza?"

"Ohh yes, little hobbit. I can spin you a yarn or two about that island. It was many moons ago when..." Gandalf began.

Sam snorted loudly, suprising himself. But drifted back to wherever he was before.

With memories of Ibiza sloshing around his head, Gandalf tiptoed out of his seat and headed towards the loo without finishing the story. Disappointed Frodo thought he'd stretch his short legs around the plane.

Near the front, he spotted a herd of cowgirls wearing "Learner" signs around their necks. He decided they must have been on an intern training retreat, and so was why they couldn't yet afford many clothes.

Toward the back sat a group of professional sportsmen. They were all dressed in matching polo shirts and appeared to be looking after an adult-sized baby. What a thrilling mix of exotic people there was already, he thought.

Then he bumped into Gimli, who was loudly disagreeing with the inflight magazine about Vienna's ten best coffee shops, despite neither liking coffee nor having ever been to Vienna.

"Oy there, young hobbit! Come and have a drink."

"Ohh, no, I don't think so. We need to steady ourselves. It's going to be a long weekend."

"Nonsense!" exclaimed Gimli, taking a swig from his tankard. "I've had enough ale to fill the Misty Mountains twice over! Besides, a good drink is just what we need to prepare for the battles to come!.. and cope with this vile metal bird."

Just then, the door to the lavatory burst open with a loud bang, and a cloud of smoke and sparks erupted into the cabin. Gandalf stumbled out, giggling.

"See", said Gimli pointing at Gandalf, "even the old man's letting his beard down for once!"

"Ding Dong", the stewardess's voice boomed. "Ladies and gentlemen, due to unforeseen circumstances, this flight will be making an unscheduled stop in Mordor".

Frodo's buttocks clenched before his ears had finished hearing the words.

He bolted towards Gandalf. "Ohh, Gandalf, what are we going to do?"

"Now, now, my dear Frodo, don't panic." Gandalf brushed flecks of ash from his cloak and said mischievously, "Come and join me for a little somethi..."

"We're landing in Mordor!" said Frodo.

"Don’t be silly. One does not simply land in Mordor. Go along now and check with the stewardess. I'll… I'll be right behind you."

Meanwhile, after quite some deliberation, Gimli had reconciled with the inflight magazine. They had agreed that a face-etching toaster was a much better investment than a yacht. To celebrate, he finished his pint and demanded another.

"I'm sorry sir, but I think you've had quite enough."

"Me, enough?" roared Gimli, belching loudly while attempting to glower at one of the two or sometimes three women who towered above him, "I've fought an army of dragons with more fuel in this belly."

Having fought off worse herself, she paused for dramatic effect and leaned in calmly. "I very much doubt that."

Like a commune of meerkats, this scene spread throughout the stag-do at the back of the plane. One by one, sets of bleary eyes began popping up over the seats.

Gimli wasn't used to being denied anything, least of all a good drink. Not standing for this, Gimli tried to get to his feet. Only to realise the plane was still moving and not standing was the safer option after all. "Are ye callin' me a liar?"

"No. But I am saying I've heard more likely stories from children," looking him up but mostly down, "about your height, in fact. How about some water instead?"

"Water! Water! Are you tryin' ne kill me? I'm no elf. I want ale n' I wan' it now!"

A deathly hush came over the stag-do at the back of the plane. The inane banter found itself metamorphosing into something else, something powerful. Seeing this ginger warrior's plight, the group began their most holy of prays. A chant first uttered by the Bravian monks at the sacred autumn gathering of Octoberfest. The whisper grew until the din finally reached Gimili. "Drink, Drink, Drink!".

Looking around the plane, he couldn't for the life of him see where this drink was. Looking around again, he was still none the wiser. This is when Legolas, who was until this moment curled up in his cloak pretending to be a well-heeled rock, pointed to the pint in Gimili's hand. A full pint, so pre-ordained by the monks of stag-do that it'd refused to spill a single drop, despite Gimili not even realising he'd been holding it this entire time.

Raising it aloft, the congregation erupted. Gimili drank merrily, and the meditation of monks began the second verse of their solemn hymn "Get it down… you Erebor warrior. Get it down…".

By now, the stewardess was firmly questioning her career choices. Yes, the free flights were terrific, but since the Orcs had been kicked out of Ibiza, the nightlife wasn't the same.

As quickly as that thought crossed her mind, the dwarf had finished his pint and was adding to the hot, pungent aroma of the hermetically sealed cabin. Aware of how low the oxygen levels would be getting, her irritation boiled over "Sir, please sit down. Otherwise, I will be forced to take immediate action."

To which the now multi-cellular hive-do sang a chorus of "Boooooo". She shot them the scowl of a maths teacher and they quickly retreated back into their burrows.

"Look," Legolas interjected. Knowing all too well, there's only one thing worse than being sat next to a drunk dwarf on a flight. And that was sitting next to a drunk dwarf on a flight who's got no beer. "What my gregarious friend is politely insinuating is your remarks about him being a child... you wouldn't be discriminating against him because he's short now, would you?"

The stewardess did what all British people do when presented with a challenge to their moral fibre, she silently engaged in a frowning contest.

While this modern gentlemen's dual was underway, Legolas' words undertook the treacherous journey across the vast oceans of ale now pickling Gimili's mind. One by one, words were lost. Until only a single, unfortunate syllable penetrated his heavily fortified brain. "Short."

Where his neurons immediately gave birth to severe and uncontrollable rage and pounced on a baffled Legolas. Officially naming the stewardess the victor of both fights by forfeit.

As she sauntered off she found herself accosted by another small problem.

“You… you…” Frodo panted. It was, after all, a long journey from the front of the plane on such small legs. "You can't be serious about landing in Mordor?"

"Why can't I?" replied the stewardess.

"Well, you can't just do that to people. You can't do that to me!"

"This is Ryanair. I can and will do what I like."

"But, but, why aren't we going to Ibiza anymore?"

"Our new owner's policy is to neither explain nor apologise."

"Seriously, what kind of customer service is that?"

"So many questions for such a small fellow. Well, our policy about our policy is to neither explain nor apologise. Now if you'll excuse me, I have more important matters to attend to."

Frustrated, Frodo doubled back toward the loud hiss coming from the toilet again. As Gandalf remerged, he scanned the plane with his crimson pink eyes.

"I think we've made a mistake leaving the Shire. We would have been safe there."

"Are you truly safe anywhere?" Gandalf sighed, stroking his beard. "I mean, the inexorable pain of finding a purpose in our fleeting existence will follow wherever your corporeal body happens to manifest."

"Gandalf, are you quite all right?"

"Yes, my boy?" Breaking into an unexplained chuckle, "Although, you know, I really am quite famished. Let's find some food."

With a sharp turn, Gandalf's oversized staff whizzed past Frodo's head and accidentally knocked out one of the cowgirls. Miraculously she was the only one with kids and so after merrily making up for years of abstinence before the flight, was already unconscious before the staff hit her.

Meanwhile, the head cowgirl thrust her own staff into the sky. It was a massive pink and floppy thing which slapped against the roof, sounding like someone walking in boots filled with jelly. The monks erupted into ecstatic cheers and rose from their seats toward this good omen.

Gandalf, an unquestionably old but now very questionably wise wizard, ravenously scoured the overhead lockers for snacks. Finding none, he thought he'd try the fridge.

Sat next to the fridge was Wilma and Fred Adams, a pair of retirees from Suffolk. They'd heard from their granddaughter that Ibiza really was beautiful if you could get away from the tourist traps and nightlife. The other side of the island was an unspoilt haven. Ever the contrarian, Fred had convinced Wilma of what fun it would be to show off to their book club about their unusual adventure. But Wilma, even after three gin and tonics at breakfast was still very unconvinced by the whole thing. Nevertheless, she was enjoying the in-flight magazine's article on "how to join the mile-high club in seven easy steps". That was until a scraggy, stoned hippy crushed both the magazine and her hopes for a pleasant vacation.

The smelly hippy pulled and pulled at the door. Frodo whined at him to stop but was drowned out by the growling in Gandalfs stomach. Food was about the only thing which would solve anything at this moment. The hippy kept tugging at the door until he finally found the large, red lock to the fridge. He hauled it open, and to their amazement, Fred and Wilma were immediately sucked right into the fridge.

After a few moments at the precipice, Gandalf decided very little took his fancy. Too many clouds and other low-calorie snacks. So promptly shut the door.

"Sir, I'm going to have to ask you to sit down. The pilot has informed us that we're about to land. But he does thank you for lightening the load of the plane."

"I'm afraid not, I don't think I've met a Susan." said Gandalf, his mind clearly not fully manifested in his corporeal body. "But do you have any snacks? My mouth is terminally bored."

"We only stock a small selection on this route, sir. We have a packet of Maltesers for £20 or Pringles for £10."

"What kind of diabolical fiend expects anyone to pay that?"

"The takeover by Sauron Private Equity Group has been really rather successful. They have what you might call a take-it-or-leave-it style approach. So take it or leave it."

"All right then", with a heavy sigh, "I'll have one of each."

Stunned, Frodo just stared at him. "Gandalf, this is worse than I could have possibly imagined." He crumpled to the floor and sobbed.

"What's wrong, my boy?"

"Ohh, Gandalf, everything is. We… we… we just need to go home."

"Then fly, you fools!"

"We're already on a plane!"

"Strange." He said, genuinely surprised. But after much thought and beard-stroking, he came up with a cunning plan and announced, "I have a cunning plan."

Frodo gorped, as Gandalf pulled out a small amulet from his cloak and began psssing something vaguely seductive at it.

Turning, Frodo glimpsed Gimli being carried aloft by the monks, flapping his arms.

"Look Frodo, now I'm the wee metal bird!" Gimli cried as he drunkenly knocked the amulet out of Gandalf's hand. It flew through the air in slow motion until it hit the emergency fridge door.

Before Gandalf could finish saying, "Ohh dear", the plane turned into a gigantic eagle. Much to the surprise of everyone on board and, of course, the eagle.

Unsurprisingly, there aren't seats on an eagle. So, although some passengers managed to hang on, at least half of the clergymen slipped off without so much as a goodbye.

Still sobbing, Frodo wailed into the wind, "I'm not frightened. I'm just leaving." And slid his way to Sam, who had woken once more, not knowing where he was or what he was doing, so assumed he was still asleep.

Frodo embraced him as the eagle descended into Mordor.

"I'm glad to be with you, Samwise Gamgee...here at the end of all things."