h2g2 The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy: Earth Edition

Sir, you are too kind

oooooOOOOOooooo

In which are delineated further signs
of terminal severe acute Balladdiction syndrome.

You skip some working hours
Coz you're writing rhymes instead
And you keep a piece of paper
On the table by your bed,
In case you miss the verse that just
Erupted in your head.
"How sad, how sad to lose this lad,
There is no cure," they said,
"He'll probably be ballading
Long after he is dead."

oooooOOOooooo

"You skip some working hours
Coz you're writing rhymes instead"


Yep, that's me, I'm stuck you see
Behind a desk and melting
I need a dictionoodling book
To help me with my spelting


"And you keep a piece of paper
On the table by your bed,
In case you miss the verse that just
Erupted in your head"


That be me as well good sir
I sleep penless no more
Except I have no table so
I keep it on the floor

The rain it fell in verdant sheets
the ship was blown of course
[you doubtless will recall once more
a far preceeding verse]

Away, away across the sea,
away the ship did battle
fighting with the surly wind
and waves of unkempt cattle.

Some will ask, and ask they will,
wherefore does come such rhyming
Was it what crawled from neath the sea
enrobed in Jerdil slimy.

Was it what crawled from neath the craft,
far furlongs from the bottom
of this ever lenghtening yarn
where nonsense was forgotten?

The suns did rise through splendoured skies
it's bright vermillion brow
casting shadows 'bout like flies
across the vessels bow.

Four times she cast, four times they fell
the shadows to the water
perhaps the tackle should be changed
infact I think it ought'er.

This hasn't got a scooby doo
to do with what's been said
but someone's clearly nicked by brain
and with kippers stuffed my head.

with kippers stuffed inside thy head
then good sir that is no failing
for without thee there is no tale
and we would all be railing

So can we say tis settled now
The maiden asked of Frume
Is my name changed as we arranged
And may I rent a room

A place to rest my velvet dress
My lilac hair to iron
My skin of green has lost its sheen
I need a bed to lie on

There are no rooms to rent said Frume
The rooms have all been taken
But let me check the book once more
In case I am mistaken

He found the book in which he took
Requests and reservations
He scratched his chin for he found within
Perplexing implications

I've had a reservation made
For three weeks, maybe more
The name is Bridgéd Twiddlewitch
Whose chin now hit the floor

How could it be reserved for she
As was so clearly listed
For until twenty minutes since
The name had not existed

with one loud slap of his big tail
he yelled i want it now

ooooops please cancel

The look of shock upon her face
the crossing of her eyeses
barely threw the landlord who
was used to such surprises.

"Twas written in the tea he said
the leaves were set quite rigid
'Make a reservation for the name
Twiddlewitch, Miss Bridgéd'

"The stars were set in such away
implying reservation
for lilac hairéd, velvet robed
green skinned haunting maiden

"From omens of such clarity
'twould not be wise to argue
the fates decried this maiden fair
would be here full of virtue

"I even noticed in the dice
a ne'er do weller Spanish
but now we've got to the juicy part
it 'pears Miguel has vanished"

Meanwhile at sea the ship sailed west
And ever further west,
It swam the swells from mornings bells
Until the evening's rest.
The look-out scanned the scrolling waves
That wove the ocean's breast,
And vomited sporadickly
From in the fore crows-nest.

You may have wondered, what of Joice?
How come, all unprotected,
She'd left poor Dandy there to rot?
She thought he had defected.

She'd strode on board, the Captain roared
"Make way there for the Lady.
Excuse me ma'am," he used his charm,
"Pray step below, it's shadey."

She looked about, and sorted out
Her purse for what she needed:
Her ticket and a biscuit for
Old Buggirduck, un-leeded.
The beagle meanwhile lifts a leg
Agin the mainmast peedid.

The Captain looked on angrily,
The older sailors sniggered,
But carefully, behind their beards,
Or else they'd soon be jiggered.

The Captain was a tyrant and
He whipped his sailors witless,
But still one lash of Joice's voice
Scared him completely sh*tless.

"A charming hound, pure bred, I'm bound,"
He smiled though irritated.
"By Fluffybutts on Merdonutts,"
The Lady bluntly stated.

"Now time for me to go below,
Have someone bring my bags.
Come Buggirduck, it's beddy-byes."
A tail folornly wags,
And down the aft companionway
It's arse bedraggled sags.

Aside the Captain told the mate
"Just get that bloody harpfish
Down to her stateroom, lock the door.
Jump to it, man, and sharpish."

Joice never saw poor Dandy board,
Had no idea he'd suffered,
And once the ship left Shipling Greep
Sea sickness had her bluffered.

She stayed below with Buggirduck
And fed them both ship's biscuit,
Washed down with gin and ginger ale
And thought she'd watch the ship a-sail,
But praying they'd avoid a gale,
She didn't think she'd risk it.

In Which Are explored Some of the Possibilities of ParaChronoFundulous Travel.

oooooOOOoooo

A realm above the human realm,
The gods wear silks and satin -
The Indian ones speak Sanskrit and
The Roman ones speak Latin.
The Chinese gods speak Mandarine
The Cheezi gods speak Gratin.

The Greeks look down their noses at
The Romans, with remorse.
They find them slightly vulgar and
Their manners rather coarse.

The Chinese gods think all the rest
Are mere barbarians
Except for some, so very old
They're googolarians.

Gods feed on our emotions, it's
A fact that's little known -
Some feed on love, and some on hate
Some like the smell of bone
From reeking sacrificial fires
Or a burnt-out mobile phone.

The Celtic gods are garrulous,
Some think they talk too much.
Tibetan ones are tantric, up
To endless sex and such.

And then there's the Egyptians like
Osiris, Ra and Isis,
As they have gods for everything
They're useful in a crisis.

They also have some heavy ones
You wouldn't want to follow
The worst of these is Apophis
His job? Your soul to swallow.

Though some are quite aggressive, most
Are quite a decent bunch,
Though Aztec gods and Incas like
To eat a hearty lunch.

Perhaps he was unlucky, but
The aged Sage of Grimley
Hit a rocky part of space
Within a chrono-chimley.

That's sort of like a thermal is
To ordinary birds,
A place to glide, a place to slide,
Take Care! in other words.

The Sage was old and stupid, as
Surprise, they often are,
And just because they're aged
Doesn't mean they'll drive the car.

The Sage was quite forgetful, though
A Sage would never tell,
And just because they're aged
Doesn't mean they're wise as well.

The Grimley Sage was greedy, and
So mean you'd think him nuts,
And when it came to travel
He was chronic for short cuts.

Ah yes, you see his weakness. When
It comes to travelling time
The "chronic" is the adjective
Defines the paradigm.

He had in mind to try to find
The Flergal and its gold
Before our heroes got there
And before the trail got cold.

So no sooner had the Being Light
Turned off and slipped away,
The Sage hopped on his chronobike
And set his sights on Blay.

The parachronic chimley led
Him straight into the home
Of Venus and of Vulcan as
They called the pair in Rome.

The Sage looked far from pretty as
He tumbled off his bike.
"What DO you think you're doing here?
A drink? What would you like?

The Sage had studied classics, he
Was beaten well at school,
So he recognised their costumes,
And in this he was no fool,
He knew of Venus' habits so
He knelt and kept his cool.

"My gods, you must be Vulcan, sir,
You must be Venus, Ma'am.
Please do accept apologies,
I really meant no harm.
I think I lost directions, or
Just pressed the drive-disarm."

"I'm Aphrodite, actually,
Of course you know we're Greek.
We simply can't stand Latin, but
It's what the others speak.
They're all so frightfully vulgar
So the social circle's bleak.

My husband here, Hephaestos? No
He never says too much.
I know he looks, well, brutal but
He's got a tender touch,

A genius with his hammer which
Is really awfully big,
I'm sure he'll help you fix your bike,
Now, young man, shall we frig?"

The Sage was stunned, aghast at this -
"These Greeks are so immoral!!!"-
He'd quite forgotten how this pair
Enjoyed a jealous quarrel.

The chance of sex with Venus was
A treat to make you cry
But he knew of Vulcan's rages, he
Was not prepared to die,
He didn't fancy Vulcan's fire,
Still less to be a fry.

"You are too kind, Your Godessness,
I'm really not so young,
As humans go I'm ancient though
I once was quite well hung,
But I'm sure it's not for Sages
To play games the gods among.

"So thank you both so very much,
I'd better move along,
Your house is really splendid
And the decor is a song."

With that the Sage retreated to
The place his bike had dropped.
He wiped dust off a Venus bust
Against which it was propped.

But hulking Vulcan grabbed his arm
And pinned him to the ground,
"I seen the way youse eyed me wife
An if you sniff around
Our 'ouse again, I'll strip your hide
And eat it, every pound.
Now b*gg*r off, or Cerberus
Will show you he's my hound!"

The Sage leapt on the chronobike
Right there where it was dumped,
And prayed the starter wouldn't fail
Or if it had, he'd jumped.

"Who was that funny little man?
My darling, come back here,"
So Venus gently whispered in
Her Vulcan's hairy ear,
"Were we a little jealous, just
A teenzy bit, my dear?"

The Sage was lost, the warpweave tossed
The bike from side to side
"What's wrong with time?" his sorry whine
Accompanied his slide.

Within the dark, he saw a spark
A distant light appear,
First one, then two, but which god. Who?
He felt appalling fear.

The lights got bigger, huger still
Until, so vast in size,
He just about could now make out
They were two monstrous eyes,
And a long red tongue that downwards hung
Dripped blood on bloody thighs.

A belt of gleaming skulls was all
The dreadful Goddess wore,
A necklace made of bodies flayed
That seemed with death to pour,
And all the while, with a fearsome smile
She danced in blood upon the floor.

"Dhiro na sochati," she said,
"The wise man does not grieve,"
How come you fall before me, child?
Nay, stand, but do not leave."

"Gugg bruggle mudmum, sussuss erp,"
The Sage was lost for speech,
"What's that you say, you want to play
The game that I must teach?

You don't know who I am, it's true
And yet you play with time,
Observe my yoni well, you'll see
That all its flow is mine.

My name is KaliMa, young fool
And this is my instruction,
I bring all things to birth and death
In time, for all, destruction.

You have the choice of life or death
If you can face my cleaver,
Choose well, the prize eternal life."
The Sage did not believe Her.

He said, " I'm jjjust a mmmortal, Ma,
My lllife is nnnearly dddone,
By huhuhuman terms, I've lllived tttoo lllong,
Tttwo hundred, nu nu ninety-one.

But though it's vvvery kind of you
I think I'll slip away,
I hoped to trip through extra time,
I'll come another day."

"Wrong choice, wrong choice, you'll hear my voice
With every living breath
Now go you sorry, spineless wretch,
And look for me in death."

The goddess laughed, and like a raft
At sea, the bike was spun,
End over end, the Sage to send
Back where he had begun.

The timewarp whirled, his stomach swirled,
His head was left behind,
The flashing lights that splashed his sights
Dazzled and left him blind,

The terror of that fearsome laugh
Made mincemeat of his mind,
And yet some part within his heart
Said She had been too kind.

He felt some wealth worth more than gold -
The lesson She would teach,
But fear had jellified his wits
And left it out of reach.

"Oh blast and damn, now where I am
I haven't got a clue,
I'll try reverse, it's so perverse
It might just get me through."

There was a pop, a sudden drop,
He thought he heard some people.
"I'm growing old, it's far too cold,
Where's this? It's Grimley Steeple!"

I find reading this oddly relaxing,
while waning and waxing.





Thanks

And so we find the plot becomes
As gravy overnight
While those who seek the Flergal Gold
Increase, as well they might

A sage who may be lost in time
A dandy lost at sea
A maiden lost in Loughborough
And then there's Flergal Flea

Who may have died by now but
Then again he may have not
And wasn't there a Gangly Bard
Somewhere amongst the plot

Well morning sees the maid awaken
Much improved in form
Though everything about her
Seems to differ from the norm

Strange forces lead her here and there
She knows not where to next
The matter with the reservation
Still has her perplexed

But now her name is changed
The papers signed it's clearly legal
She's going back to Grimley where
She'll visit Aunt Wurpeegle

And also, now she's Bridgéd
Of the purple velvet dress
Strange things occur within the map
She bought in Inverness

"The road most travelled" someone said
"is strewn with Harxton Stridely
dressed in fluff and leopard skin ruff
- an item worn quite widely"

"Of what is this you speak old man
your ramblings are quite senseless
yet your weepy eyes, and whispy hair
leave me quite defenseless"

"I speak of that which is to come,
with monstrous teeth g'nashing
a beast so gnarled and scaralous
and only beat by flashing.

"Dandy suitors oft have fled
when in pursuit of maiden
have caught her with her robes pulled up,
haughty, free and brazen"

The maiden swooned, and blushed a bit
and something inside flickers.
"May gnashing beasts be struck blind by
the freshness of my knickers!

"Their stinking breath, their loathsome look
their claws so long and spikey
filthy, rotsome, heinous beast
spawn of parents pikey"

"Fair maiden don't upset the beast"
the wisened wrinkly stated
"to call it names will agravate
and leave it down - deflated."

Fair maiden, full of vim and zeal
didst sparkle in the gloaming
until the beast, through clearing came
snarfling loud and moaning.

They stood beneath the blazing sun
her tartan eyes met his
and witnesses did after say
you could hear the tension fizz.

The beast did snarl and drool a bit
and stumbled forward to her
with actions more than light'ning quick
she flashed her gleaming bloomers.

oooooOOOooooo

dna sdrawkcab gniwolf saw emiT woN
kcis gnileef saw egaS ruO
evag eh, delley eh, demaercs eh, "doog toN"
-kcik a, epoh pu, knits tuO
Drah ti dehcnup eh oS. gnihtoN. epoN
.kcirt eht did tahT. "!POTS. hcuO"

"POTS? Pots?" A Weary Voice was heard
Emerging from the crypt
Now Time was flowing forwards and
Reversal gear was tripped.

The voice was disembodied as
Befits the hidden hand.
Invisible Saint Appo
Didn't really understand,
At least the Sage was safely back
Though not the way they'd planned.

"Pots?" The Weary Voice went on,
"I guess you're not to blame,
But if you use my calling card
You'll get me just the same,
Now what is it you want from me?
Chaiwallah is my name."

"I'm sorry, August One," the Sage
Lay face-down in the dust,
"I didn't mean to call you, but
You won't be cross, I trust.
It's just that time went backwards and
I think my bike is bust.

So sorry to disturb Your Grace
I really shouted "stop"
I've had a rather taxing trip,
Completely o'er the top,
Whatever was responsible
It was, alas, a flop."

"Now listen hear to me, my man,"
Chaiwallah grimly frowned
"Your lucky you survived at all,
I could have had you drowned.

Alright, you really not to blame
When crap lands on your plate,
Except that in some fiendish way
That seems to be your fate.
You don't believe in karma, yet,
But that's your karma, mate.

I know what's in your mind you know
Be careful what you scorn,
Or a "sadder and a wiser man"
You'll "wake the morrow morn!"

Now I'll be off, you don't need pots,
But I must do some work.
I'll leave you here in Grimley where
I rather like the Kirk.
That's it, ta ra, pip pip, old chap -
Enough of cyber-lurk."

The Sage looked round and scratched his head
Then scratched his head some more,
So shall we leave him scratching then?
Let's not, he'd soon get sore
And writer megalomania
Is frankly, just a bore.

The Sage looked round and scratched his head
As we have said before,
And saw the gleaming chronobike
Still steaming on the floor.
Invisibly, Saint Appo then
Appeared beside the door.

"You're not still here? I thought you went
Just now to find the gold,
What's up? You've left your picnic box
Or the crystal-drive on hold?"
The Sage explained, though slightly strained,
His tale was still untold.

Editorial Note:

Dear Ekki and Snockerty. What a delight to find your new twists turning the tale further today. As for the question of "non" and "sense", it depends how you define it, and we can define it any way we please, nicht?

And like all the best interminable ballads, or a Terry Pratchett novel, it benefits hugely by having all these different scenes running concurrently, don't you think? We don't really have a duty to amuse/confuse anyone other than ourselves, but if we're having fun, then anyone unlucky enough to fall into this versicle swamp will probably drown, in fun, of course of course, Neddy.....


o

PS: Weird but true. An ancient Celtic folk belief said that redheads could sour your milk by looking at it, or prevent your cream from churning properly into butter if they saw you churning. The remedy was to turn your back to them, hike up your skirt and flash your cheeks. The original moony!

How redheads might actually make their own butter is not discussed!

Sorry, thought you'd like to know, after all, Brigit/et/id/ged is an Irish name. ( And presumably Birgit is Germanic Celtic version??? )

Observed, for safety's sake, at distance
By some pickle packers
Bridgéd had done the monster down
With spotless undercrackers

Gnurgling pools of retsnom lay
Where had occurred this flap
Relieved the maiden crouchéd down
To look upon her map

It started with a burbling
Which became a steady ffnong
A panel on the back explained
That nothing had gone wrong

It glumpered in the middle as it
Wurtled at the edges
Where there had been blank spaces now
Were roads and fields and hedges

Amongst the many places that
She'd never seen before
Appeared just one she recognised
Its name was Grimley Moer

The question of the sense or non
Need not be of concern
I merely thought a clever plot
I'd started to discern

Amazed as anyone would be
At such a startling twist
I made it rhyme in half the time
It takes to get well pi$$ed




Arriving on the village green
At seven forty two
She bumped into a Sage who stood
Admiring the view

While seated on a chronobike
She'd never seen its' kind
But paid it little notice as
She'd dinner on he mind

her mind

Dear Readers and Lurkers,
Heisenberg's Uncertainty Principle, one of the foundation stones of Quantum Field Theory, states that you can never know for sure both the position and momentum of, for instance, an electron.

At the risk of being a Bohr', ( though maybe I was Born" to it ), I draw your patient attention to the fact that this applies equally to the nonsense ballad. Inasmuch as if you have the sense of it, you probably don't know where its going, non? and vice versa. And if you have a non, well you can't have anon with this one, because we know who's writing it.

And if any of this makes sense, remember that under Quantum Law, you can't have an electron, still less a photon, be particle and a wave at the same time. Which considering that John Gribbin defined the electron ( whose "real" nature nobody knows, just that it behaves "as if" it were a particle or a wave, and can become a positron by travelling backwards in time ) as a 'slithey tove', means that here in Grimley we're at the cutting edge of scientific gibberish. Well, where do you think they got the name for quarks? One of these days there'll be a sub sub sub atomic particle called a snock, or an ekki, you just wait and see.

' A quantum theorist
" Another one.

Meanwhile back in Grimley........................