Nulaid Cinema's eagerly awaited forthcoming epic The Lord of the Wings which is said to finally lay to rest the vexing question of whether or not Balrogs have wings, was violently cut short last night when members of the Balrog Anti-Defamation League disrupted the preview by gate-crashing a private viewing of the controversial film. Dr. Primula Wunderkind PhD, a spokesperson for the Purley Mythological Society, armed with nothing more than a Harrods picnic umbrella, bravely confronted the gang of thugs with the ringing words: "You shall not have the film canister, Spawn of Morgoth!"

According to eyewitness accounts, this band of Balrog impersonators was organised by none other than the well-known scopophilisist Sir Henry Goteleigh dressed as an enormous mountain-troll. As guests scattered to left and right he is said to have attacked Dr Wunderkind with what appeared to be a heavy club but was later discovered to be a rolled up copy of Sauron's Diary.

Interviewed afterwards by our reporter in the comfort of her Pimlico maisonette, a shaken Dr Wunderkind (29) described the horrific events in graphic detail:
"The first half of the film had barely finished rolling when I suddenly felt a cold, clammy breath upon my thigh. Fortunately it was only Jam Spongee, the usher, trying to look up my skirt whilst pretending to retrieve the packet of Lembas I had dropped earlier, and a well aimed slap to his cheek quickly stopped his unwelcome attentions. But then something else came into the theatre... What it was I couldn't clearly see through my NHS specs. But I have rarely smelt such a stink. The counter-smell was terribly strong; but even Chanel No.5 has its limits. For an instant I thought I was going to throw up. I had to speak a word of command — Jackson!'
That proved too great a strain and the door burst open. We rushed into the bar. Something as dark as Sauron's hand and as foetid as an Orc's underpants was blocking the emergency exit and I was thrown backward."

Dr Wunderkind paused to light a cigarette with a trembling hand and crossed her shapely legs before continuing huskily.
"Behind the bar we saw swarming black figures. There seemed to be dozens of the horrid little Oiks all dressed in long black cloaks and wearing Halloween masks. At the end of the room the floor vanished into a gaping chasm that led to an underground discotheque. The outer door to Pusey Street could only be reached by a narrow gallery without any handrails, which was a fashionable device of the proprietor to prevent customers leaving without paying for their drinks. We could only pass it in single file. There at the brink I halted, and my fellow moviegoers came up behind me, shivering with fear. Plucky young Angelica Bolger-Baggins picked up a bottle of Pimms and was on the point of hurling it at the black figures when she gave a cry of fear and dismay. Then I saw it was Mr S Gollum — the corresponding secretary of the Balrog Anti-Defamation League and Gothmog Uden-Flamme, his hunchbacked assistant; bearing great clubs of shiny plastic. But it was not these sad trolls that filled young Angelica and Kylie Lang, my PA, with terror, nor the leering face of my old enemy Sir Henry Goteleigh, who taunted us with lewd innuendoes and foul insults. The ranks of the Balrog impersonators parted, and they cringed away from something coming up behind them. What it was became all too clear as the appalling reek I had smelt earlier assailed my nostrils and turned my legs to jelly. It was like a great shadow, in the middle of which was a dirty old man in pink fluffy slippers. Of man-shape maybe, yet uglier and smellier than any man who ever breathed; and a stink and a loathing seemed to be in it and go before it."

"Astonishing!" exclaimed our reporter. "What happened next?"

"Angelica shrieked 'Ohhh - bugger! A Balrog! A BALROG has come to get us!' Kylie Lang just stared at the hideous apparition with wide, frightened eyes and her knicker elastic snapped with a load twang. 'Poppycock', said I, 'It's a Balrog impersonator. The pink fluffy slippers are a dead give-away."

"Gosh!" we replied breathlessly. "How clever of you, Dr Wunderkind."
"Not at all," replied the slim philologist, exhaling a cloud of smoke from her aristocratic nostrils. "As I suspected all along it was none other than Sir Henry Goteleigh, who goes under the grandiloquent names of 'Baron Balrog Bar-steward' and 'Lord High Enema of the Empire of Morgoth'. He was dressed in an enormous sable cloak and pink fluffy slippers and carried a vicious looking whip made of Wargs tails with which he proceeded to lash the air to the accompaniment of the fiendish howls of his drunken acolytes. 'Die Witch!' he shrieked in a quavering falsetto as he rushed towards us. 'Over the gallery', I shouted to the others. 'Run for your virtue. If one of these perves gets his hands on you you'll wish you were dead!' They needed no urging and raced for the door. Only Angelica and Kylie stood their ground. Sir Henry reached the gallery. I stood in the middle leaning on my umbrella with my left hand, but in my other hand gripped a bottle of Chanel No.5. The Lord High Enema demanded the film canister. 'You shall not have it, Spawn of Morgoth!' I shouted defiantly. His shadow reached out like two vast wings. He raised his whip and the thongs whined and cracked. A foul reek assailed my nose. 'You cannot pass wind here' I said. Mr Gollum farted again and Sir Henry stepped nearer. 'Give us the film, Bitch, or the next time I crack this whip it'll be your fat backside that gets it!' 'Does my bottom look big in this dress?' I asked Angelica. 'Well — does it?' 'Er...now that you come to mention it, Primula — it does rather..' 'Bugger!' I muttered, and cursed the shop girl at Harrods who had persuaded me that green was the new black."

"Oh my goodness!" murmured our reporter, "What happened then?"

Sir Henry lashed at me again and shouted: 'for the last TIME - are you going to hand over THAT FILM? 'No!' I shouted back. 'Go back to Kensington and take your silly little boys with you!' The Balrog Impersonator drew himself up to his full height of five feet four inches and flapped his cheap, plastic wings menacingly. From out of the shadow a fouler reek than any I had ever smelt leaped forth. 'Eru alone knows what the dirty sod must have been eating' I muttered, and sprayed him with my Chanel. There was a terrible battle of odours and the Balrog Impersonator fell back and dropped his trousers. 'Mooning will not help you any more than passing wind!' I shouted 'You will never get the film!' With a bound he leaped at me, and lashed my legs with his whip. 'You shall not stand alone!' cried Kylie bravely; holding up her knickers with one hand while she threw a bottle of gin which shattered on his polycarbonate wings. 'Stinker!' cried Angelica, flinging a candle at him. At that moment I lifted my umbrella and swung it at his head. He dropped his whip and his wings burst into flame. The gallery floor split and the boards upon which Mr Gollum and Gothmog Uden-Flamme stood crashed into the cellar. With a cry of 'Oh sheeeeeet....' they fell forward and plunged into the discotheque below, narrowly missing a party of revellers celebrating their annual Pipe-weed smoking convention. After that the others legged it pretty sharpish."

"But did they get the film?"
"I'm afraid so,” said Dr Wunderkind with a twinkle in her deep blue eyes. "But Nulaid Cinema have the original."

We asked her if The Lord of the Wings really will answer the vexing question of whether or not Balrogs have wings. Dr Wunderkind smiled enigmatically and replied: "You'll have to wait for the official release in December."

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