The quiet Surrey market town of Purley has rarely witnessed stranger events than those reported by leading Rotarian and Purley hotelier, Mrs Ida Plunkett, who unwittingly played host to nine, disembodied, undead ghouls last week.

Mrs Plunkett (36DD-32-38), spoke exclusively to Utterpants about her shock upon discovering that the nine mounted gentlemen, who had booked the entire 4th floor of the Purley Hilton Hotel, were none other than the terrifying servants of the Bank of Mordor, who have been terrorizing citizens in their hunt for the mysterious "Baggins."

"I didn't see their horses, at first," said the shaken mother of eight, "If you can call them horses—they looked more like pterodactyls with legs to me—though I'm not sure if pterodactyls have legs... Anyway, they must have hidden them behind the pot plants while they were booking in, because I distinctly remember telling them no pets were allowed in guests' rooms after 8 'o clock at night. I was a bit suspicious when they told me they were private investigators looking for a notorious jewel thief. I mean, who ever heard of private investigators wearing black cloaks and carrying four foot swords? But bookings have been a bit down of late on account of the Balrog staying in room 42, so I let them stay. It was only when their leader tried to pay the bill with gold rings that I smelled a rat. 'What's wrong with Visa? 'I asked him. 'Visssah?' he hissed in his queer, foreign, voice, 'My Massster hasss no Visssah—only these ringsss. We come from MOR-DOR, if the name means anything to you!' That was enough for me, I mean The Bank of Mordor! They're worse than Enron, aren't they? Regular blood-suckers, my husband says. My legs was that wobbly I barely had the strength to ring the alarm. After that, things are pretty hazy until I woke up in the hospital without my knickers or my wedding ring."

Sightings of the undead Witch Queen and her eight leather-clad transsexual companions were also reported by other local residents. Ms Freya Plunkett (no relation), spoke of her ordeal when the Ringwraiths burst into Ponsenby's Gift Shop on the Bywater Road. "At first I thought it was the Bailiffs come to repossess the shop," said Ms Plunkett (19). "They were a faceless gang of blood-suckers dressed all in black, talking gibberish, so I naturally assumed they must be bankers. It wasn't until Miss Ponsenby pointed out that bankers don't carry swords, that the penny dropped. I tried to explain we only sold handbags but they kept insisting we hand over 'baggins'—whatever that is. In the end they ripped the shop apart, stole my belly button ring and stormed out without buying a thing."

The plucky proprietor of the Purley Adult Shop, one Anastacia Plunkett (no relation) was not intimidated by the undead ghouls when she found one of them rifling through a display of penis rings in his search for the mysterious 'Baggins'. "The dirty old perve looked for all the world like ex-Home Secretary David Plonker. I've suspected all along the government was tapping our phones, so it was no surprise to find that notorious womaniser playing with himself in my shop. No wonder the fat git is blind! 'I'll give you 'Baggins,' I told him and kicked his bony backside down the stairs."

The Witch Queen and her party have not been seen since their hurried departure from the Purley Hilton, but their publicity agent, a Mr William B Ferney, gave the following statement to us: "We'll be back! We will stop at nothing to recover the Bank of Mordor's rightful property. Baggins will pay dearly for his temerity, just you wait and see!"

Utterpants can exclusively reveal that the 'Baggins' sought by the nine undead ghouls is not a bag containing stolen valuables, but a 'Mr F Baggins'—an impecunious jobbing, stockbroker from Bagshot. Apparently, Mr Baggins is wanted in connection with the mysterious disappearance of his second cousin, Bilbo, and an enormous pile of cash, alleged to have been stolen from a secret underground vault belonging to a company of strolling midgets. The Bank of Mordor referred us to a Mr S Gollum, who subjected our researcher to a tirade of hysterical abuse, before vouchsafing the information that he would be damned if he would stand being robbed of his inheritance by 'that miserable trickster'. When pressed to explain what he meant by this, he would only say: "Thief! thief! Baggins! We hates it forever!"

All efforts to contact the elusive Mr Baggins have so far proved unsuccessful.

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