Categories > Books > Lord of the Rings > The Memoirs of Samwise
Samwise Gamgee, Frodo's friend, comrade, companion (lover!?); all he wants is a right and proper send-off...as it were...
You might be expecting someone as mighty keen on gardening as me to go for burial, but as we hobbits live in holes, nobody around here tends to want one - there's always the chance you'd just be dropping the corpse into someone's parlour, or worse still - their kitchen. As mayor of the Shire - elected seven times, no less - I've tried to stamp out this heathen, goblin-inspired practice wherever it pops up. A good, healthy pyre is the hobbit way, I've always said.
Of course, I'd be wanting the sort of fireworks show that's expected round these parts at any kind of party - or, at least, it was customary until that 'wizard' Gandalf sailed off to the west back in the old days. Since then, the quality of magic round here has gone right down the bloody drain. These days it's more likely to be cheap card tricks, perchance a 'Bet you can't guess which cup the ring's under', or at best a 'Let's saw the elf in half' - even you know it's just two three - foot hobbit lasses inside the box. We don't get the sparklers, vanishing tricks and 90ft dragons that we used to when Gandalf was around.
Thinking of that 'wizard' Gandalf puts me in mind of my age - at 85, I'm a hobbit in the prime of life. Death isn't something I think of. It's been quite awhile since I was hunted (and shagged) by those ring fancying Dark Riders, or slung across the back of those shudder orcs. Come to think of it, it's a long time since I went further than the next village, or missed that snack I always have between breakfast and elevenses. I don't mind what kind of eulogy I have at my funeral, so long as it isn't anything written by amorous elves. Those sorts don't have much idea of when to stop when it comes to poetrifying or sex...come to think of it - they're immortal, of course, so the idea of five or six lines of neat rhymes, a good laugh and a quick tumble with a bedfellow at the end doesn't seem to appeal to them. That Elrond fellow, the leader of the elves, could come out with some filthy poems where you needed to have five slap-up meals and a good bottle of reviving brandy to have a hope of seeing the end of - eight dinners, if you have a healthy hobbit appetite (and unshakable perseverance), of course.
By chance the elf Legolas, who I got to know a few years ago, wasn't so interested in poetry; he was mighty keen on gazing off into the sunset and doing his 'gorgeous locks', I seem to remember. Don't know where he's got to these days-but his sort are never a great deal of fun at a big hobbit shindig. Course, Bilbo used tell us about how the Mirkwood elves loved feasts - I don't believe him. If Legolas can be that anal then I doubt that the rest of the elves are much better. I honestly don't know how on earth Aragorn copes. They're never ones for tucking into a good feast, what with them being so elf-conscious. Heh heh! You'll have to excuse the pun.
I'd have my reading done by Frodo. Not Master 'cock ring wearing' Frodo, no, no - my son Frodo. Only I'd have to persuade him not to masquerade as orcs, set fire to my hairy feet in the casket or drop his breeches. He's just reaching that age when hobbit-lads start to prove bothersome - round about 25. Children grow up so fast these days...
And Frodo is just one of 13 little fiends cavorting (completely naked of course) round Bag-End - there's Eleanor, Pippin, Bilbo, Goldilocks, Hamfast, Merry, Tolman, Robin, Ruby, Rose, Daisy and Primrose. My fine lady Rosie put her foot down when I announced I that I would name Tolman 'Legolas'. 'I'm not having my son named after a poof and a hobbit buggerer,' she said. The name Samwise she wasn't having any of either, which made me hark back to the days when every hobbit had no fear of calling me halfwit - which my friends are gracious enough to keep hushed about.
Among the 'people' (I only want important people at my funeral) at my funeral would be Merry and Pippin, certainly, who've both done well for themselves, but also Aragorn - or King Aragorn, as I should address him as. I hear he's mighty busy down in Minas Tirith these days, although still looking fairly well-groomed, especially for a bloke of 128. Mind you, he was 88 when there was all that business with the One Ring and Sauron, though he kept that one awfully under the quiet. The ladies (and Arwen for that matter) might not have been so awfully devoted to him if they'd realised he'd been an 'elderly' man for 23 years. I hear that Aragorn, or Strider as I'm still fond of calling him, has been all dolled up to the nines ever since he got wedded. When he was a ranger traipsing throughout Middle Earth doing odd jobs for that 'wizard' Gandalf, he wasn't the most immaculate of blokes. The elves at Rivendell always used to arrange for him to 'stride' through some sparkling curtain of magical water rivulets whenever he happened to drop in. Otherwise nobody could stomach standing within fifteen feet of him.
Course, most of the reasons I'd want folks like King Aragorn at my funeral would be to convince the rest of the Shire that I really had seen horny trolls and those ring-obsessed Dark Riders and doing without elevenses for nine months. The other day, the cook at the Shire Inn had the gall to suggest the only rings I'd ever encountered were the legendary Shire home baked doughnuts I'd just wolfed down.
The sheer nerve!
~The End~
You might be expecting someone as mighty keen on gardening as me to go for burial, but as we hobbits live in holes, nobody around here tends to want one - there's always the chance you'd just be dropping the corpse into someone's parlour, or worse still - their kitchen. As mayor of the Shire - elected seven times, no less - I've tried to stamp out this heathen, goblin-inspired practice wherever it pops up. A good, healthy pyre is the hobbit way, I've always said.
Of course, I'd be wanting the sort of fireworks show that's expected round these parts at any kind of party - or, at least, it was customary until that 'wizard' Gandalf sailed off to the west back in the old days. Since then, the quality of magic round here has gone right down the bloody drain. These days it's more likely to be cheap card tricks, perchance a 'Bet you can't guess which cup the ring's under', or at best a 'Let's saw the elf in half' - even you know it's just two three - foot hobbit lasses inside the box. We don't get the sparklers, vanishing tricks and 90ft dragons that we used to when Gandalf was around.
Thinking of that 'wizard' Gandalf puts me in mind of my age - at 85, I'm a hobbit in the prime of life. Death isn't something I think of. It's been quite awhile since I was hunted (and shagged) by those ring fancying Dark Riders, or slung across the back of those shudder orcs. Come to think of it, it's a long time since I went further than the next village, or missed that snack I always have between breakfast and elevenses. I don't mind what kind of eulogy I have at my funeral, so long as it isn't anything written by amorous elves. Those sorts don't have much idea of when to stop when it comes to poetrifying or sex...come to think of it - they're immortal, of course, so the idea of five or six lines of neat rhymes, a good laugh and a quick tumble with a bedfellow at the end doesn't seem to appeal to them. That Elrond fellow, the leader of the elves, could come out with some filthy poems where you needed to have five slap-up meals and a good bottle of reviving brandy to have a hope of seeing the end of - eight dinners, if you have a healthy hobbit appetite (and unshakable perseverance), of course.
By chance the elf Legolas, who I got to know a few years ago, wasn't so interested in poetry; he was mighty keen on gazing off into the sunset and doing his 'gorgeous locks', I seem to remember. Don't know where he's got to these days-but his sort are never a great deal of fun at a big hobbit shindig. Course, Bilbo used tell us about how the Mirkwood elves loved feasts - I don't believe him. If Legolas can be that anal then I doubt that the rest of the elves are much better. I honestly don't know how on earth Aragorn copes. They're never ones for tucking into a good feast, what with them being so elf-conscious. Heh heh! You'll have to excuse the pun.
I'd have my reading done by Frodo. Not Master 'cock ring wearing' Frodo, no, no - my son Frodo. Only I'd have to persuade him not to masquerade as orcs, set fire to my hairy feet in the casket or drop his breeches. He's just reaching that age when hobbit-lads start to prove bothersome - round about 25. Children grow up so fast these days...
And Frodo is just one of 13 little fiends cavorting (completely naked of course) round Bag-End - there's Eleanor, Pippin, Bilbo, Goldilocks, Hamfast, Merry, Tolman, Robin, Ruby, Rose, Daisy and Primrose. My fine lady Rosie put her foot down when I announced I that I would name Tolman 'Legolas'. 'I'm not having my son named after a poof and a hobbit buggerer,' she said. The name Samwise she wasn't having any of either, which made me hark back to the days when every hobbit had no fear of calling me halfwit - which my friends are gracious enough to keep hushed about.
Among the 'people' (I only want important people at my funeral) at my funeral would be Merry and Pippin, certainly, who've both done well for themselves, but also Aragorn - or King Aragorn, as I should address him as. I hear he's mighty busy down in Minas Tirith these days, although still looking fairly well-groomed, especially for a bloke of 128. Mind you, he was 88 when there was all that business with the One Ring and Sauron, though he kept that one awfully under the quiet. The ladies (and Arwen for that matter) might not have been so awfully devoted to him if they'd realised he'd been an 'elderly' man for 23 years. I hear that Aragorn, or Strider as I'm still fond of calling him, has been all dolled up to the nines ever since he got wedded. When he was a ranger traipsing throughout Middle Earth doing odd jobs for that 'wizard' Gandalf, he wasn't the most immaculate of blokes. The elves at Rivendell always used to arrange for him to 'stride' through some sparkling curtain of magical water rivulets whenever he happened to drop in. Otherwise nobody could stomach standing within fifteen feet of him.
Course, most of the reasons I'd want folks like King Aragorn at my funeral would be to convince the rest of the Shire that I really had seen horny trolls and those ring-obsessed Dark Riders and doing without elevenses for nine months. The other day, the cook at the Shire Inn had the gall to suggest the only rings I'd ever encountered were the legendary Shire home baked doughnuts I'd just wolfed down.
The sheer nerve!
~The End~
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