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

A brand new pen and off again
To Grimleys criddled slopes
To find and catch another batch
Of folk to show the ropes

And those dismayed by rope so frayed
May be the first to learn
That ropey trash can earn you cash
But rope can also burn

So up and at em, one and all
Let us back to hero fall
and his adventure, so to log
we spy him now, stranded in fog...

I saw him board the train at Slough
And off at Eton Wick
I lost him at the platforms end
The blessed fog’s too thick

So grabbing candle at both ends,
With knuckles white as bone,
I staggered forth and followed him,
Through dark and rancid gloam.

Alas, alack, the Snock is back,
The best of news for years.
I say alas, I dare not pass
Unheard this vale of tears.

Alas alack, the ballad hack
Must clean his rusty pen,
And flicking through the tattered threads
Review the Grimley fen.

For where in Earth's encumbered girth
Can verse of this high sort
Be found amongst the poets drowned
In meta-post-modernist thought?

Nay, not through all the solemn halls
Of literature's grey pages
Can such enriching food be found
For brains that feel their ages,
As here in Grimley Moer's deep glen
Where folly's river rages.

So welcome back, dear balladeers
(And also ballad noses,)
More sweet to me the Grimley stink
Than e'er so many roses.
And he who thought we'd shot our bolt
Will find that he supposes
Wrongly. Lo, the tap is turned
And from our febrile hoses
A new torrential river flows --
Like desert rock for Moses.

I saw him cross the river Floss
With one stupendous hop;
I saw him do more magic too:
He turned into a shop.

Of Grimley’s shops, there’s little know,
Nor the smeltic wares they sell,
Just the heavy bolted iron door,
And the cataclysmic bell.

Buying shares in smeltic wares
May sound to you preposterous
But several folk of Grimley made
A living that was prosperous

<>
To enter on this lengthy yarn,
Meand’ring through the mire,
Of Grimley Moer and Veedee Yew,
Is something I’d aspire.

To join the half-past-five school,
At Grimley’s Tickled Trout,
And grease the palm of barman Col’,
For news from thereabout.

To hunt the Beast of Grimley Moer,
To read the the Fnurbled Blog,
To chase the fabled a Ventral Snaith,
And trap it in the bog.

To spat with Steeve and ‘Squidgey’,
As they argue ‘bout the toss
And find out from the ancient sage,
Just who the hell is boss.

Down at thr Rat and Trumpet,
The pub from where I come,
I drink mollasage by the quart,
And quilljuice laced with rum.

I’d sit and puff my Shurling's Shag,
With whacky bac enhanced,
And do the Grimely crossword,
In a catatonic trance.

I’d like to meet young Gangly Blay,
Have Dootherby round for tea,
Play croquet with Miss Joicelyne
And Auntie Wurpeegle

I use cephalopodic ink,
It smells a bit, when dried,
But sticks like §hit to blankets,
The very best I’ve tried.

I write in Greek and Hebrew,
I talk in rhyming slang,
And translate Dutch to English
With a slightly celtic twang.

I have the right credentials,
For writing utter twaddle,
All sense has long since left my brain,
Now just an empty noddle.

So, if the bards of Grimley Moer,
Will let this humble scribe,
Append a few odd couplets,
I’ll to their health imbibe.
<>

Then drink Pedantic Bar Steward
Drink one or two or three
If still alive past four or five
Then have a drink for me

In Snoggerday's Select Lounge Bar,
I drank Chaiwallah’s health,
Then six to Snockerty Friddle,
With a dipso’s guile and stealth.

I had for lunch, a pub-dog-pie,
Washed down with Pleedrik’s mead,
Then played shove-halfpenny with the lads,
Gawd – all of us were peed.

Miss Lily Loofah joined the throng,
With Joicelyne Vere de Speightall,
They looked as dressed for hunting,
With shooting sticks and all.

They say that Gangly Blay is back,
From stronkling grenge in Glurry,
He’s got a right fine breeding pair,
But no one’s in a hurry.

The Muggle Hunt was due to start,
The green had been prepared,
And the ladies armed with squeezle sticks,
Made stoutest hearts turn scared.

The Major, dressed in tails and spats,
Respelendant on the dais,
Bade all there drink their stirrup cups,
In alcoholic haze.

A flowing Blakeish mantle take,
The garb of bard or don;
Dip in your pen and come again:
The Sequel! bring it on!

For one who reads the backlog needs
Respect; and a producer
Of limpid verse we'll gladly nurse --
Do try it -- Oh!! Suit you, sir!

We are impressed! That stuff's the best!
You've passed the test, say I;
Assume the dress then, PBS,
And let your verses fly!

So - back to Grimley’s grimsome shop,
Full of its smeltic wares,
Like Snargle strops and Brivvet cramps,
A muggle hunter’s lair.

The air was fetid, sulphurous smells,
Oozd out from neath the floor,
One stood in mortal terror,
That they’d slam the iron door.

But as the time for hunting drew,
They left there one by one,
And headed up to Grimley’s Green,
The hunting had begun.

Bade on their way with wing and prayer,
Bell, book and gutt’ring candle,
The parson from Saint Appo Staight,
Had drunk more than he could handle.

Kneezer Prout’s Forry

Old Kneezer Prout, the mugger scout,
Set forth in splunging wellies,
The guard his legs Slimmereels,
And bogwort’s poisonous berries.

He shambled slowly through the strathe
Towards the muggle’s lair,
A place that any normal man,
To enter wouldn’t dare.

But Prout, well soaked in priddlers gin,
From Colin’s private cellar,
Went strungling through the undergrowth,
With campons and umbrella.

His gait was like a rocking horse,
He lunged from front to rear,
So all that dogged his vorpant course,
Began to feel queer.

He stooped and sniffed the putrid spoor,
As muggler scouts are won’t,
A thing that hunters all revere,
But well-bred ladies don’t.

He grabbed a handful carefully,
And rubbed tween thumb and finger,
‘On, On’ he cried, ‘the bu§§er’s dried,
One moment we can’t linger’.

With pace anew, he did renew,
The trail of muggers dung,
Whilst those behind trod carefully,
The smell is far from fun.

Old Kneezer Prout, strode gamely on,
His skill was well renowned,
For years he’d known the muggers lair,
To him, twas hallowed ground.

He used his gromlets carefully,
The best there that could be bought,
With strongle string and crangle hoops,
The muggles lair he sought.

Then stopping like as he’d been shot,
His knobbled knees he bent,
And sniffed the bogwort’s crumpled leaves,
He’d caught he muggle’s scent.

<>

The Forray of Joicelyne Vere de Speightall

Resplendent on her Clydsedale steed,
Dame Joicelyne looked askance,
She’d lead this motley Grimley crew,
A merry muggler’s dance.

Dressed in her buttock hugging trews,
Her toro trussed up tight,
With straining gussets ‘cross her bust,
She made an awesome sight.

Well armed with sturdy blunderbuss,
And sprangling hooks galore,
For hand-to-hand she’d crample irons,
And buckets for the gore.

With Buggirduck – her beagle hound,
Snapping at heel and hoof,
That Valkyrie of Grimley Moer,
Sat proud and quite aloof.

For Joicelyne was one not wont,
To imitate the pedant,
She’d hunted everything that moved,
And quite a lot that didn’t.

She’d hunted aardvak in Brazil,
She’d stalked wild boar in Fez,
Sh’d even hunted flonglebears,
At least, that’s what they says.

She’d made her plan, devoid of sense,
To outwit Kneezer Prout,
To circumvent the Grimley marsh,
And thus avoid the rout.

She set of at a gallop,
With an ululating cry,
In the opposite direction,
Leaving all to wonder ‘why?’

Two tons of horse and woman,
Unleashed at breakneck speed,
Was - as Sergeant Pluvvet said,
‘The last thing that we need’.

Scattering all before her,
In headlong rampant charge,
With just about as much contol,
As an untowed, helmless barge.

In hot pursit was Buggirduck,
Foam slobbering from his jowls,
With yelping growls and half choked barks,
And occasional hound like howls.

They skirted Grimley’s grubious wood,
Leaving Vedee Yews intact,
If hit by this leviathan,
They’d never stand the impact.

The cattle in the meadows quailed,
At the truly awesome sight,
Of Joicelyne and her mighty steed,
Stampeding in full flight.

Now there’s one thing ‘bout a Clydesdale,
With a hefty maid atop
Once it’s going at full gallop,
Tis impossible to stop.

Last seen the haughty parson’s neice,
Was heading north of east,
With buttocks clenching valiantly,
Astride her rampant beast.

<>

Mow muggles are peculiar beasts,
Not normal hunters’s quarry,
The only dead ones norm’lly seen,
Are those squashed by a lorry.

Half way between an antelope,
And North Mongolian ferret,
They’re quite impossible to tame,
And for eating of no merit.

They live in burrows or in trees,
Depending on the season,
And alternate between the two,
With very little reason.

They like to live on marshy ground,
And wallow in the bog,
When sleeping there they look much like,
A putrifying log.

Although they move quite slowly,
As they forage for their prey,
They can run like crippled light’ning,
If they need to get away.

To catch one in the open,
Is impossible to do,
And corner one, when not well armed,
Is something that you’ll rue.

They’re best caught unattended,
When they’re eating unawares,
Or trapped at night when sleeping,
With some grimplevating snares.

When caught they are ideal,
For the taxidermist’s art,
When mounted ‘bove the mantle shelf,
They give guests quite a start.

But mostly they are pickled,
In vitriol and brine,
And served to guests that you don’t like,
With cheap-and-nasty wine.

Squidgey’s Lesson

Steeve and Suidgey viewed the scene,
Not being ones to fight.
As they propped the bar at the Tickled Trout,
And put their wrongs to right.

“The problem is,” as Steeve explained,
“One of kinetic force,
“A girt great maid of Joicelyne’s size,
Upon a giant horse.”

“The weight of horse and rider,
Times the speed at which they travel,
Would give the load on impact,
If the sum I could unravel.”

“Does wind resistance matter?
For you really must concede,
That Joicelyne’s not a racing snake,
By any means indeed.”

“But the again consider,
That if they ran into a wall,
They’d calculate the damage
As the square root of eff all.”

Such thoughs of mathematics,
Confused old Squidgey’s brain,
T’was hard enough to calculate,
Whose round it was again.

He stuffed his ancient briar,
With a twist of Shurling's Shag,
Which he kept inside his waistcoat,
In plain brown paper bag.

This procedure took him ages,
As he fumbled with his kit,
Steeve looked as though he might well have,
An apoplectic fit.

In vain he tried to argue,
That the problem still at hand,
Was that if the horse were stopped stone dead,
Just where would Jossy land?

As Colin poured two further pints,
The leechy hound awoke,
Arose and cocked its left hind leg,
And peed on Squidgey’s coat.

With wild gesticulations,
And a beer mug in each fist,
Steeve expanded on his theory,
As to just what Squidgey’d missed.

“If Joicelyne’s weight were nineteen stone,
Plus nineteen miles per hour,
From nine feet up you can extract,
The gross kinetic power.”

“Take four for wind resisistance,
Then one for latent heat,
The answer will be forty-two,
When converted into feet.”

“Eureka,” Steeve yelled boldly,
“You lard brained bar-room bore,
We’d ‘ve had the answer right away,
If your hearing weren’t so poor.”

But Squidgey’d heard ‘You reek – ugh’,
And took an uffish hump,
Saying that he’d washed three months before,
At Grimley’s village pump.

OK, his clothes smelled horrible,
That wasn’t hard to glean,
When Colin’s mangey leechy cur
Used them as a latreen.

The argument continued,
Refusing to abate,
While Colin stood there stoically,
And totted up the slate.

Seem to have killed that one stone dead, anyone like to continue?


Forrée Artistque

Then Lady Ann Tuwer-Peagill,
With Arri Dootherby,
And the foppish Lau Lewellyn Bowen,
Set forth on a separate spree.