Oh, what’s that sound? Oh, it’s you. Yes, it’s safe, you can come out of your hobbit hole, little hobbit.
Yes, Littleshire has been made safe.
The Sun is shining righteously. All the brown people are gone. There’s a pot of Elvish gold outside your door which fell by a fair-minded wind.
Best of all, all the Eurorcs have gone back to the smoky undemocratic wastes of Brussdor.
It is I, wizard Boris Faragedalf, and I confess I have made this land a utopia by magic. I waved my magic wand and made it so — fancy that! Fancy a fag and a pint?
Yes, come out … Oh, it’s you, Fraido Muggins. Yes, little hobbit, fear has been banished from the land and so have your other enemies: reason and humanity.
Oh look, the folk of Littleshire are having a fete to fete their fine victory. There’s morris dancing and dwarf tossing, and various wholesome activities to do with sheep and pigs and wellington boots.
That smell? That’s the smell of roasted fatty-eurocrat, you know, the animal that’s been eating all the food you’ve grown and traded to him for so many years — what a foul, greedy beast! And just desserts, don’t you think? We’ve got it turning on a spit.
Oh, yes, like I say, you are snug in your hole in the Shire. Why, I can see rose vines growing on your nose, even as I speak.