Ficlet: Darth Saruman
Jun. 27th, 2004 11:25 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
lobelia321Here's a little something I wrote three months ago.
Title: Darth Saruman
Author: Lobelia
Pairing: Christopher Lee
Also featuring: A host of others. Have fun spotting the celebs.
Category: Monologue, rare to medium.
Fandom: Lotrips
-----
If I've said it once I've said it a thousand times but I don't know why, and I never will, why half the ruddy actors on any given set have to be of the you-know-what variety. And on this set it's worse than anywhere I've been before, and god knows, I've been on more sets than anyone in the known universe. But on this one, you'd think the world had turned upside down, and that's not just because we're filming on the tail end of the globe. Is it something they put in the food? Or is it because in New Zealand men are men and sheep are nervous? Or is it just that whenever you get a movie that's wall-to-wall men, for some reason all those men have to slam each other to all those walls into the bargain?
Admittedly, what it boils down to is this: if I'd wanted to stay away from the ruddy fairies, I've chosen the wrong bloody profession. But then I could have worked that one out decades ago.
But to get back to these ruddy New Zealanders, and really, they are the worst of the bunch. You can't walk two steps on this blooming set without bumping into somebody shaking their doolally around. Only last night, I walked into the wrong dressing room by mistake and who should I see, bent over a hardwood bench, their face squashed into a pile of ragged costumes hanging on some hooks? That prissy prancer with the dreadful accent being jolly-rogered up his behind by that dark-haired swaggerer, both of them television nobodies from the land that time forgot. Am not even sure who they play in the movie, too many bloody roles and too many bit-sized parts, who can remember them all? One of them elf, the other man, if memory serves right -- not that I'm in a single scene with either of them, thanks be to the fates. But no sooner than I had trooped on out of there -- not without snorting loudly and banging the door because I've never been one to blush and mumble apologies for other people's shenanigans, no, not I -- than I opened yet another door, another wrong one, and I tell you, I don't know why I kept opening these doors, it was like a bloody advent calendar for pornographers -- anyway, I opened another wrong door and what do you know, it's another pair of orc minions, a skinny, pointy-nosed guy and that one with the jaw, and they're at it like bunnies in a ditch. Never seen anything like it, not since my days in Finland with the reserves. But that, my dear fellows, was the war, wasn't it? We were fighting the ruddy Nazis and there was certainly no time for any dillying and dallying with the local farmgirls, was there? Not that I wouldn't have minded getting my hands on some of those busty young lasses. Oh, they could give a chap a.. but never mind that now.
This is just so that you know I'm not averse to a bit of rumpy-pumpy. Not I, oh no. But all in its place and all in its time, and give me a buxom blonde with big breasts any time. Or one of those young, half-baked things, fresh out of the oven, with that delicious smell they all have. Only the other day, last Friday in fact, I was mobbed by a whole bunch of these lovelies. Doesn't much happen anymore these days but still, there's something to be said for fame and fortune because a gaggle of these girlies ran up to me outside the studios, heaven only knows where they got the address and time and whatnot from, had been standing there for hours, no doubt -- anyway, they ran up and they were crying 'ooh, aah' in those irritating shrill voices they do tend to have, pity about that and especially with the accent... But enough of that. I have to admit when they first came running my way I did turn around to check if none of my co-stars was about until I remembered that of course, I'm the only star on this particular set. Ah yes, there are some benefits to this venture after all. Ian, of course, likes to think of himself as the grand old dame of Wellington just because he's got a bloody knighthood -- well, what's that worth, I ask? Who needs one? I'm Commander twice over, Order of St Jerusalem, British Empire -- what more could I want? And for what did he get it? Just because he's trodden the sodden old boards a few more times than I ever did. Anyway, 'Sir Christopher Lee' -- sounds ridiculous, and what is that silly 'sir' compared to being the heir of Italian royalty? Those who have blue blood flowing in their veins need not the trappings of *conferred* rank, pah.
Anyway, where was I? Oh yes, those little girlies. Up they ran and on they went, Mr Lee this and Mr Lee that and ooh, what a deep voice you've got. So I sounded my deep voice a bit and they went all flushed, as these little girlies are apt to do, and I couldn't help noticing that some of them were decked out in that new fashion that's all the rage now, no idea what that's called but it leaves their bellies bare, their youthful stomachs with their navel dents and that soft down just above their waistbands, and then they have such creamy necklines, too. But the way they were fawning over me, really, it was intolerable, I do hate to be bothered in this way, especially when it's in public, on the street or in the pub, as it happened, because that's where we ended up. 'The Ox Bow', lord knows who invented such an inane name for a pub. I plied them with drink and watched the perspiration grow and glow in the dip between their neckbones and on the cotton of their T-shirts, under their arms and between their breasts, and pert, round breasts they were, too. One of them was plainly not wearing a brassiere and heavens, did her nipples stand up under that tight little top she was wearing. And another one -- all I can say is: hips like a mare, and I wouldn't mind giving her a ride, oh no, not at all, except that I fear the old pecker might not be quite up to it, alas. And anyway, what would Birgit say? Obwohl man ihr ja nicht unbedingt alles unter die Nase binden muesste.
Speaking of noses, mine is constantly being rubbed into it. This very morning I happened upon yet another lot of them doing something or other in Studio B's gents', and that's what really gets me: when ordinary fellows are prevented from going about the needful by what amounts to veritable orgies in what should be a public facility. I locked myself in a cubicle, of course. I've had it with being felt up and grabbed in front of the urinals and, anyway, my delicate state of continence requires quite a bit of privacy at the best of times, and this morning was not the best of times. The guys had the grace to stop while I was actually walking across the floor to the stalls but as soon as I'd bolted the door and made the sign say 'occupied', off they were again, their shameless grunting and panting reverberating all over the polished tiles. No idea who those blokes were -- never seen them before in my life, or at least not out of their latex masks.
But nothing is worse than those raging kiwi poofs who strut around the canteen as if they owned the place, calling out 'dahling' in that infuriating luvvy way and their hands all over each other. One of them only comes in now and again, and he has no scenes with me so he's a ship in the night, as far as I'm concerned. Mincing pudgy-cheeked chappie from Auckland, name of Craig and absurd with that blonde elven wig of his. Can't forgive Peter for shuffling the pack and messing with John Reuben's plot. Elves in Dernhelm, indeed. Well, at least Peter's safely normal, wife, kids, that's something to be thankful for. Must make sure to get invited round there again sometime soon, fiendishly good wine they served, and that roast lamb! And the little ones so endearingly in awe of my wolfman imitation. Ah, brings back the days of fatherhood.
Not that you ever stop being a father, of course. But we needn't ponder on that imponderable.
Worse than blondie elf, however, much worse, is his cronie, that screaming queen Lawrence with the Brigitte-Bardot hair and the limpest wrists this side of the equator. The worst thing, the very bottom of the pit, is having to do those Lurtz scenes. I swear, when he crawls out of that urslime and stands before me, heaving and sweating and covered in goo, he's smirking at me all the way. Whenever the camera's not on him, out comes the smirk, and the so-called costume or whatever it is they stitch him into from midnight onwards, doesn't leave much to the imagination around the nether region. Huge fellow he is, too. Hung like a donkey, but do I want to know about that? No, no, and no again. Not that I need to fear the competition. Never had to worry about much in that department.
With the emphasis on 'had to'. These days I'm lucky if Mr President and his two aides manage a marching tune every few months or so. Reminds me of a joke someone once told me, back in the war, fellow by the name of Ben-something or other, such a chick of a boy, big sticking-out ears like the handles of a beer mug. Can't for the life of me remember the joke now but hang on-- Benfield, that's right, that was the chappie's name. Gone on to become an actor himself, what do you know. And damned if I havent' completely forgotten that ruddy joke now. But it was a good one, and entirely apt.
Had a chat to that young hobbit actor at lunchtime. Caught him in his trailer earlier on, half-way up that mohawked moron who's always trying it on, always trying to get extra favours from Peter and Barry, really, it's pathetic working with such amateurs. Wet behind the ears, the lot of them. Anyway, I open the door to their trailer, and sure enough, there they are, rutting away like nobody's business. I did the usual, ahem and aha and bang goes the door, but did they care? Completely and utterly without any compunction whatsoever. 'Shut the door, there's a draught', 'knock next time', that sort of thing. Who do these people think they are anyway? At least some of the others, Ian, John, Sean, know a star when they see one. Well, not Ian perhaps, still parading his bloody sir about. And a bugger of the first stripe, of course. At least, he's discreet. More than can be said about...
But to get to our lunchtime chat. Turns out, amazingly and bizarrely, that this hobbit, young Dominic, knows Benfield. My Benfield, the one from Lappeenranta. Which is pretty much of a coincidence, when you think about it. I mean, I haven't seen that chap since '42, '43? Young Dominic was in some sort of third-rate television show with him, Wainbopp, Wainthrob or somesuch. Extraordinary. Must write and drop him a note. That young hobbit got quite a glint in his eye when he talked about old Benfield. Knew the joke I was referring to as well but it's a little too risqué to repeat in this company. Lord, I don't remember our jokes being quite that bawdy back in the army but then there's a lot I don't remember as well as I might these days. Just how very young that Benfield laddy was, about as young as young Dominic is now. No, younger, younger. Must be. Do the math, Christopher -- as they say in L.A.
On the way back to my dressing room, I couldn't help but open another few doors as I walked past. Door one: two sweaty men against a rack of fake silk robes. One of them looked familiar (Harvey? Hagrid?), the other one: who knows? Door two: Richard Taylor of all people, with his glasses fogged to zero visibility, happily being rogered by one of the camera crew. Door three: two of them, in fact, the ones I surprised the other day, orcs the both of them, both dressed to the nines and both dancing, doing ruddy ballroom dancing, on the sword practice floor. Some sort of music was playing on the wireless, and they glided across the parquet like Nureyev and Nijinsky. Never seen anything like it. Didn't notice me, either -- too engrossed in each other. Black jacket, tie, the lot. The skinny one had very shiny shoes, I noticed.
Enough, I say. Enough.
-----
lobelia40@yahoo.com
24 March 2004
Title: Darth Saruman
Author: Lobelia
Pairing: Christopher Lee
Also featuring: A host of others. Have fun spotting the celebs.
Category: Monologue, rare to medium.
Fandom: Lotrips
-----
If I've said it once I've said it a thousand times but I don't know why, and I never will, why half the ruddy actors on any given set have to be of the you-know-what variety. And on this set it's worse than anywhere I've been before, and god knows, I've been on more sets than anyone in the known universe. But on this one, you'd think the world had turned upside down, and that's not just because we're filming on the tail end of the globe. Is it something they put in the food? Or is it because in New Zealand men are men and sheep are nervous? Or is it just that whenever you get a movie that's wall-to-wall men, for some reason all those men have to slam each other to all those walls into the bargain?
Admittedly, what it boils down to is this: if I'd wanted to stay away from the ruddy fairies, I've chosen the wrong bloody profession. But then I could have worked that one out decades ago.
But to get back to these ruddy New Zealanders, and really, they are the worst of the bunch. You can't walk two steps on this blooming set without bumping into somebody shaking their doolally around. Only last night, I walked into the wrong dressing room by mistake and who should I see, bent over a hardwood bench, their face squashed into a pile of ragged costumes hanging on some hooks? That prissy prancer with the dreadful accent being jolly-rogered up his behind by that dark-haired swaggerer, both of them television nobodies from the land that time forgot. Am not even sure who they play in the movie, too many bloody roles and too many bit-sized parts, who can remember them all? One of them elf, the other man, if memory serves right -- not that I'm in a single scene with either of them, thanks be to the fates. But no sooner than I had trooped on out of there -- not without snorting loudly and banging the door because I've never been one to blush and mumble apologies for other people's shenanigans, no, not I -- than I opened yet another door, another wrong one, and I tell you, I don't know why I kept opening these doors, it was like a bloody advent calendar for pornographers -- anyway, I opened another wrong door and what do you know, it's another pair of orc minions, a skinny, pointy-nosed guy and that one with the jaw, and they're at it like bunnies in a ditch. Never seen anything like it, not since my days in Finland with the reserves. But that, my dear fellows, was the war, wasn't it? We were fighting the ruddy Nazis and there was certainly no time for any dillying and dallying with the local farmgirls, was there? Not that I wouldn't have minded getting my hands on some of those busty young lasses. Oh, they could give a chap a.. but never mind that now.
This is just so that you know I'm not averse to a bit of rumpy-pumpy. Not I, oh no. But all in its place and all in its time, and give me a buxom blonde with big breasts any time. Or one of those young, half-baked things, fresh out of the oven, with that delicious smell they all have. Only the other day, last Friday in fact, I was mobbed by a whole bunch of these lovelies. Doesn't much happen anymore these days but still, there's something to be said for fame and fortune because a gaggle of these girlies ran up to me outside the studios, heaven only knows where they got the address and time and whatnot from, had been standing there for hours, no doubt -- anyway, they ran up and they were crying 'ooh, aah' in those irritating shrill voices they do tend to have, pity about that and especially with the accent... But enough of that. I have to admit when they first came running my way I did turn around to check if none of my co-stars was about until I remembered that of course, I'm the only star on this particular set. Ah yes, there are some benefits to this venture after all. Ian, of course, likes to think of himself as the grand old dame of Wellington just because he's got a bloody knighthood -- well, what's that worth, I ask? Who needs one? I'm Commander twice over, Order of St Jerusalem, British Empire -- what more could I want? And for what did he get it? Just because he's trodden the sodden old boards a few more times than I ever did. Anyway, 'Sir Christopher Lee' -- sounds ridiculous, and what is that silly 'sir' compared to being the heir of Italian royalty? Those who have blue blood flowing in their veins need not the trappings of *conferred* rank, pah.
Anyway, where was I? Oh yes, those little girlies. Up they ran and on they went, Mr Lee this and Mr Lee that and ooh, what a deep voice you've got. So I sounded my deep voice a bit and they went all flushed, as these little girlies are apt to do, and I couldn't help noticing that some of them were decked out in that new fashion that's all the rage now, no idea what that's called but it leaves their bellies bare, their youthful stomachs with their navel dents and that soft down just above their waistbands, and then they have such creamy necklines, too. But the way they were fawning over me, really, it was intolerable, I do hate to be bothered in this way, especially when it's in public, on the street or in the pub, as it happened, because that's where we ended up. 'The Ox Bow', lord knows who invented such an inane name for a pub. I plied them with drink and watched the perspiration grow and glow in the dip between their neckbones and on the cotton of their T-shirts, under their arms and between their breasts, and pert, round breasts they were, too. One of them was plainly not wearing a brassiere and heavens, did her nipples stand up under that tight little top she was wearing. And another one -- all I can say is: hips like a mare, and I wouldn't mind giving her a ride, oh no, not at all, except that I fear the old pecker might not be quite up to it, alas. And anyway, what would Birgit say? Obwohl man ihr ja nicht unbedingt alles unter die Nase binden muesste.
Speaking of noses, mine is constantly being rubbed into it. This very morning I happened upon yet another lot of them doing something or other in Studio B's gents', and that's what really gets me: when ordinary fellows are prevented from going about the needful by what amounts to veritable orgies in what should be a public facility. I locked myself in a cubicle, of course. I've had it with being felt up and grabbed in front of the urinals and, anyway, my delicate state of continence requires quite a bit of privacy at the best of times, and this morning was not the best of times. The guys had the grace to stop while I was actually walking across the floor to the stalls but as soon as I'd bolted the door and made the sign say 'occupied', off they were again, their shameless grunting and panting reverberating all over the polished tiles. No idea who those blokes were -- never seen them before in my life, or at least not out of their latex masks.
But nothing is worse than those raging kiwi poofs who strut around the canteen as if they owned the place, calling out 'dahling' in that infuriating luvvy way and their hands all over each other. One of them only comes in now and again, and he has no scenes with me so he's a ship in the night, as far as I'm concerned. Mincing pudgy-cheeked chappie from Auckland, name of Craig and absurd with that blonde elven wig of his. Can't forgive Peter for shuffling the pack and messing with John Reuben's plot. Elves in Dernhelm, indeed. Well, at least Peter's safely normal, wife, kids, that's something to be thankful for. Must make sure to get invited round there again sometime soon, fiendishly good wine they served, and that roast lamb! And the little ones so endearingly in awe of my wolfman imitation. Ah, brings back the days of fatherhood.
Not that you ever stop being a father, of course. But we needn't ponder on that imponderable.
Worse than blondie elf, however, much worse, is his cronie, that screaming queen Lawrence with the Brigitte-Bardot hair and the limpest wrists this side of the equator. The worst thing, the very bottom of the pit, is having to do those Lurtz scenes. I swear, when he crawls out of that urslime and stands before me, heaving and sweating and covered in goo, he's smirking at me all the way. Whenever the camera's not on him, out comes the smirk, and the so-called costume or whatever it is they stitch him into from midnight onwards, doesn't leave much to the imagination around the nether region. Huge fellow he is, too. Hung like a donkey, but do I want to know about that? No, no, and no again. Not that I need to fear the competition. Never had to worry about much in that department.
With the emphasis on 'had to'. These days I'm lucky if Mr President and his two aides manage a marching tune every few months or so. Reminds me of a joke someone once told me, back in the war, fellow by the name of Ben-something or other, such a chick of a boy, big sticking-out ears like the handles of a beer mug. Can't for the life of me remember the joke now but hang on-- Benfield, that's right, that was the chappie's name. Gone on to become an actor himself, what do you know. And damned if I havent' completely forgotten that ruddy joke now. But it was a good one, and entirely apt.
Had a chat to that young hobbit actor at lunchtime. Caught him in his trailer earlier on, half-way up that mohawked moron who's always trying it on, always trying to get extra favours from Peter and Barry, really, it's pathetic working with such amateurs. Wet behind the ears, the lot of them. Anyway, I open the door to their trailer, and sure enough, there they are, rutting away like nobody's business. I did the usual, ahem and aha and bang goes the door, but did they care? Completely and utterly without any compunction whatsoever. 'Shut the door, there's a draught', 'knock next time', that sort of thing. Who do these people think they are anyway? At least some of the others, Ian, John, Sean, know a star when they see one. Well, not Ian perhaps, still parading his bloody sir about. And a bugger of the first stripe, of course. At least, he's discreet. More than can be said about...
But to get to our lunchtime chat. Turns out, amazingly and bizarrely, that this hobbit, young Dominic, knows Benfield. My Benfield, the one from Lappeenranta. Which is pretty much of a coincidence, when you think about it. I mean, I haven't seen that chap since '42, '43? Young Dominic was in some sort of third-rate television show with him, Wainbopp, Wainthrob or somesuch. Extraordinary. Must write and drop him a note. That young hobbit got quite a glint in his eye when he talked about old Benfield. Knew the joke I was referring to as well but it's a little too risqué to repeat in this company. Lord, I don't remember our jokes being quite that bawdy back in the army but then there's a lot I don't remember as well as I might these days. Just how very young that Benfield laddy was, about as young as young Dominic is now. No, younger, younger. Must be. Do the math, Christopher -- as they say in L.A.
On the way back to my dressing room, I couldn't help but open another few doors as I walked past. Door one: two sweaty men against a rack of fake silk robes. One of them looked familiar (Harvey? Hagrid?), the other one: who knows? Door two: Richard Taylor of all people, with his glasses fogged to zero visibility, happily being rogered by one of the camera crew. Door three: two of them, in fact, the ones I surprised the other day, orcs the both of them, both dressed to the nines and both dancing, doing ruddy ballroom dancing, on the sword practice floor. Some sort of music was playing on the wireless, and they glided across the parquet like Nureyev and Nijinsky. Never seen anything like it. Didn't notice me, either -- too engrossed in each other. Black jacket, tie, the lot. The skinny one had very shiny shoes, I noticed.
Enough, I say. Enough.
-----
lobelia40@yahoo.com
24 March 2004
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
(no subject)
Date: 2004-06-27 11:33 pm (UTC)Lovely work!
(no subject)
Date: 2004-06-28 08:40 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2004-06-28 05:05 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2004-06-28 08:41 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2004-06-28 06:08 am (UTC)*dies laughing*
Actually the whole thing is delightful. I can just hear the man rumbling around in that condescending tone of his. Whyfor you no post this before?
(no subject)
Date: 2004-06-28 08:42 am (UTC)Thank you so much for kind feedback.
(no subject)
Date: 2004-06-28 02:41 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2004-06-29 06:00 pm (UTC)I couldn't help but open another few doors as I walked past.
Of course not, dear. You just keep telling yourself that.
(no subject)
Date: 2004-06-29 07:39 pm (UTC)Thanks so much for reading and commenting. *g*