I hereby send to Mordor straight from England:
Prefab fish and chips at an English Pub that knows better.
The lack of a good Porter at any English Pub (other than Guinness, which belongs in the Shire).
Brit tailgaters, who are far and away worse than American tailgaters; seriously, they must have a deathwish! I admit that I didn't always drive as fast as the speed limit, but then I don't believe in sending my car into adverse camber at every bloody turn either! Who decided how fast you can drive around curves in that bloody country, anyway? But leaving no better than a five foot gap between their front bumper and my rear bumper, on average? Absolutely bonkers nuts, I tell you.
No paper currency smaller than a five pound note, can go to Mordor, and the resulting drag on my trousers pocket, full of 2 & 1 pound, and 50, 20, 10, 5, 2, and 1 pence coins. Oh, and the ease with which one can accidentally toss a 2 pound coin instead of the 2 pence coin in the guitarist begger's case on Victoria Street; they're virtually the same size and weight.
The snarling mess that is the London metropolitan road system.
To Mordor with all of it (still, I had a great time).
