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

Thank you for reading the Loonytunes journal. I'm afraid we cannot provide a reply for you at the moment because all our staff are busy. You are being held in a queue and your needs will be answered as soon as someone becomes available.

Well, when I say all our staff are busy, that is putting rather a rosier gloss on the situation than it deserves. Titania, my teasmaid, who is the only one of my staff I can rely on at the best of times, went off to get some Broken Orange Pekoe about half an hour ago and I haven't heard from her since. The last time that happened, we finally tracked her down a fortnight later on a catamaran on its way to Ceylon.

"Nothing but the freshest tea leaves for Loonytunes," she said over a crackly ship's radio. We have tried to retrain Sporky, my former lift man, to deal with readers' inquiries, but I fear he is uneducable. He had performed well in his sole task of announcing my required floor to the lift attendant, but suffered a total breakdown, from which he has never recovered, after a visitor to the building rather unkindly used him as a tethering post for her Yorkshire terrier.

Thank you for holding. All our staff are busy at present. You are being held in a queue.

To he honest, "busy" is hardly the word for Bluebottle, either. He is here on Indolence Experience and he fled the vicinity as soon as he saw you accessing this journal. "I just can't handle it at the moment," he shrieked. "I'm off to make a cup of instant coffee. I may be some time."

So, in fact, I'm the only one here who could reply to the query for you anyway, and what with worrying about Titania and where my next cup of tea is coming from, it's all rather difficult at the moment. And so, instead of getting on with it, I'm holding you in a queue. Of course it might not be a queue at all. You may be the only one attempting to access the journal at this precise moment and I don't think a single person can legitimately be said to constitute a queue.
While we're on the subject, it's wrong to say that you're being held, even if you are in a queue. There's nothing holding you at all. You are perfectly at liberty to leave and read another journal if you wish, then come back later and see whether we're ready for you.
Yes, I know. You have been holding on for so long that it seems a pity to give up now. Having invested all that time, it doesn't make sense to give up at this point. And even though you can't see the queue in front of you, it can't be as long as it was when you started, can it?

Oh yes it can. As I said, you may be the only one who is not being held in a non-existent queue. With Titania steaming slowly towards the Indian sub-continent, Sporky panicking at the thought of Yorkshire terriers and Bluebottle skulking in a corner sipping his coffee, I've probably given up and gone home. Look, why don't you try again tomorrow? It's the best I can suggest.

*Decides to use her time productively while waiting and gives herself a manicure.*

I wonder, am I the only person in this queue?

Witty Moniker, how lovely to see you. Would you like a cup of tea and a biscuit?

Quality of life in the Loonytunes department of h2g2 has improved immeasurably since we took on a new member of staff to assist my teasmaid Titania in her duties. Not that Titania has in any way been inadequate. Far from it. She has performed to perfection her task of keeping me supplied with cups of the finest Ceylon tea. Her responsibility, however, has never stretched beyond tea and the occasional coffee. For many years now I have felt the need for a little more during my beverage breaks - and that is where Irving Washington fits in.

I first met Irving when he was attached to my department as part of his Indolence Experience, and I quickly identified in him a very rare talent indeed. Irving is, quite simply, the best natural biscuit dunker I have ever encountered. Give him a Rich Tea, Petit Beurre or even a Chocolate Digestive or Ginger Nut to go with a hot beverage and he will demonstrate an uncanny sense of precisely how long the biscuit may be left in the drink before it runs the risk of disintegrating and depositing a soggy portion of itself in the cup. I could only watch in admiration as he held the biscuit on outstretched fingers, assessing its weight and texture, then let his hand hover for an instant above the cup to gauge the temperature of the drink, before gripping the biscuit firmly, submerging it in the liquid, and finally taking it out confidently and lifting it, deliciously infused with tea, to his mouth. Or, now that he has been given a staff position, my mouth.

I thought at first that he must have studied under Dr Len Fisher, the Nottingham academic who was the first to write a paper on The Physics of Biscuit Dunking. Yet when I attempted to discover Irving's views on the effect of moisture on the rheological properties, particularly the apparent biaxial extensional viscosity, of biscuit dough, his reply ("I just dunk 'em and eat 'em") left me in no doubt that his talent was innate rather than academically acquired. This pleased me, for I have never shared Fisher's preference for wide-brimmed cups and milk-based drinks for dunking.

Nothing, in my opinion, beats a Rich Tea dipped skilfully into Broken Orange Pekoe in a modestly brimmed bone china cup. And I know Irving shares my opinion on that matter. It was one of the first things I asked him at his interview. As I sit here, enjoying the sensuous pleasure of pressing a perfectly dunked biscuit between my tongue and upper palate, I appreciate, however, that natural talent is not enough. As Irving would be the first to admit, his own skill with biscuits, remarkable though it was even without any training, owes everything to his studies with the great French biscuiteres at the Light Snacks and Refreshments Department of the Gastronomic University of Dunkirk. In, two, three, four, out. Not a crumb in the tea, and the biscuit gently wilting. Another perfect dunk, young man, if you'll excuse me for speaking with my mouth full.

*Completely forgotton why she's called.*

What was the question? Ah, yes, tea and a biscuit would be very nice, thank you. I'm not a dunker, myself, though. I prefer the separate yet complementary pleasures of a sip of tea and a bite of biscuit.

*Tries to concentrate.*

Loonytunes checked his reflection in the window of a shop selling colonial furniture, smoothed his short black hair, and thought that maybe he would shave his head - it would suit the clothes he wore. He noticed a woman from h2g2 at one of the pavement tables of the cafe next door. Perhaps he might overhear some gossip about h2g2 office politics, so he took the table beside her; but it was a warm afternoon, and it would be nice to sit outside.

The waitress asked him, "Coffee to start with?" and he said, "Yes, please. Long black." He watched her walk back into the dark cafe. Hadn't he talked to her at a gallery opening last week? He thought he recognised the butterfly clips in her hair. Or was she that girl who acted in that brilliant short film about a dripping tap? He began to rehearse a question - "What are the specials?" - when he saw Walter, who was holding the latest issue of Wallpaper.

"Oh, right," said Loonytunes, smirking at the magazine. "The thinking man's House and Garden."

"I thought Lil might like it," said Walter, who caught the waitress's eye. "Coffee to start with?" she asked, and he said, "A latte, please."

Loonytunes said, "God, it's hot. El Nino. But that's what they said last year. I'm so over El Nino. It's so 20th century."

"We went swimming after work yesterday," said Walter.

"Don't talk to me about work. The computers went down this morning. All the emails just froze. Our IT guy doesn't have a clue. Hopeless. I'm sick of that place. I wish they'd make me redundant. I'd love to win a government-size payout." Loonytunes hoped the h2g2 researcher might laugh and make a comment, but she had been joined at the table by someone who looked like a woman from a telephone commercial. Walter said, "Are you going to see that techno DJ from England tonight?"

"Techno's dead," declared Loonytunes. "I was thinking of writing its obituary and sending it to h2g2. It's just something for pissed 18-year-olds who think it's going off. I mean, it's the new lounge music. That dead."

Walter lit a Marlboro Light.

"There'll he none of that soon," said Loonytunes. "Gizzus one ... Ta. They should have non-smoking cities. Hobart. London. Washington. Places I never have to go to."

The waitress said, "Ready to order yet?" They both ordered pasta, and then Loonytunes said to her, "You look really familiar. " She said, "Are you JB?" Loonytunes shook his head. "Oh," she said. "I thought you were this guy I had in my dance class."

After she left, Loonytunes said, "What sort of name is JB? Is that her pimp, or something?" He smoothed his hair, and turned to look at the street. "Look," he said. "There's that guy."

"What guy?"

"That guy. You know."

Walter shrugged. Loonytunes left his elbow on the table and with his wrist, pointed his finger at a man with short blonde hair walking on the opposite pavement, and eating a doughnut.

"Oh, yeah," said Walter. "Who's he again?"

"That guy we met at QMike's party on Saturday. He was really drunk, remember, and kept calling me a jackass. Should have smacked him one." "You? That's funny." "What's funny, come to think of it, is that big fight you had with Lil. What was that about?"

"You're such a bitch," said Walter.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Nothing, JB," Walter smirked.

"At least I don't dye my hair," said Loonytunes. He overheard the h2g2 woman say, "Did you hear what she wore to the wedding?" Inside the cafe, he saw a man with short brown hair sitting by himself and writing on a laptop. "Look at that wanker," said Loonytunes, but Walter was flipping through his magazine.

Loonytunes felt moved to write something creative, a novel or whatever, when he got home from work. But then he thought about his city-fringe apartment, which was worth nothing any more. That was a bad investment. And it never looked tidy enough. Maybe he should hire a cleaner - refugees were probably cheap. He could teach her English. She'd be grateful for that. He imagined her laying out his sheets ... God, he needed a holiday. Sydney. Vietnam. But he hadn't seen his family in months. A week in Napier - no. No way. He saw the white pavements, the dry grass. The boasting he'd have to do in front of his old friends from school. "Partying all the time, eh." Well, that was true. But he was 28 years old. He wanted to be somebody. He glared at the laptop author, who was now staring at the ceiling, and scratching his goatee. Wonder who he is, thought Loonytunes. He didn't like the man's shirt. Those wide collars were so calculated, so funky. Still, you could tell he had a good body. The man looked back at Loonytunes, who turned his head, Jesus, he thought, what am I thinking?

The waitress arrived at his table with the two plates of pasta. "Great! " said Loonytunes.

I quit Marlboro Lights.

Sorry Walter, I forgot you smoked these ones...

EXTRA MILD 20, by Peter Stuyvesant ($8.60)

New legislation has raised the price of cigarettes, and the New Zealand Government continues to make threatening noises about banning smoking from bars, cafes, and restaurants. Already these measures have caused a profound impact on my life. My friend smokes even more. She wishes she could smoke two cigarettes at once, and curses the manufacturers for not rolling a filter tip the size of a baseball bat.

All of a sudden, I am giving considered thought to her favoured brand, Peter Stuyvesant extra mild. Their design aesthetic, their rich, fuming history, their many and varied literary merits ... It never used to be the case. Our elected officials have changed all that. They have forced me to examine the product.

First, the cover. The packet is graffitied with all the usual slogans - SMOKING KILLS, YOUR SMOKING CAN HARM OTHERS - that we have come to expect. And yet it still has a simple elegance, a classicism. The use of white space is pleasing, and the Stuyvesant coat of arms - a shield decorated with three crosses - maintains only a discreet presence. At first sight, the typography is garbled: it takes five different fonts, including the kind of italic which nothing should be seen dead wearing, to spell out the simple legend, "Peter Stuyvesant Extra Mild 20 Mild Choice Tobaccos King Size." Cleverly, however, the fonts all belong to the same family of type, Bodini.

Literary matters are crucial. Oscar Wilde wrote, in Portrait of Dorian Grey, "A cigarette is the perfect type of perfect pleasure. It is exquisite, and it leaves one unsatisfied. What more can one want?" Stuyvesant's mild brand offers the kind of unsatisfaction Wilde demands. My friend keeps going back for more.

As for the price, a week or so ago they cost $7.20, but since the legislators pursed their smoke-free lips, our local shop now hocks them off for $8.60. Outrageous. But the fact of the matter is that cigarettes are still amazingly cheap. With cocaine fetching $300 for a mere 100g, and ecstasy about $80, cigarettes remain the most affordable drug of everyday choice.

Your everyday may not be her everyday. She needs cigarettes to write. J M Barrie argues the same case in his book, My Lady Nicotine, and God knows how much he smoked to complete Peter Pan. It's just as well he chose not to stick a fag in Tinkerbell's pretty mouth. Incredibly, anti-smoking cult Ash has praised local filmmaker Michael Hurst's film Jubilee because none of the characters smoke. At least it constitutes the only good review that lame comedy is ever likely to receive.

She also needs cigarettes to drink. At our local club, The Cosmopolitan, it must be admitted that Stuyvesant milds are as welcome as a visit by Prime Minister Helen Clark to morning smoko. "Insignificant may seem the gesture with which somebody will pull out a packet of cigarettes and offer it to a stranger," writes Compton McKenzie in his erudite history of the golden leaf, Sublime Tobacco. "Yet in that superficially insignificant gesture is a handshake."

Really? Strangers and friends alike very often refuse any such handshake. Sometimes my friend even makes the offer to people who smoke. Same story. Up at the club, things change as soon as she runs out, and buys a packet of Benson & Hedges mild from behind the bar. They are an uncultured bunch at the Cosmopolitan.

My theory is that they feel threatened by the Stuyvesant mystique. Its marketing blather claims the brand "is associated with exotic destinations, jetset and trendy active people". True, it doesn't get much more exotic than Curacao, where trendy, active intelligentsia attend the Peter Stuyvesant University. As well, the very name itself brings out provincial attitudes. Benson was probably a bore, and no one has ever heard of Hedges. But neither has an exotic, foreign name such as Peter Stuyvesant.

Actually, he was only a Dutchman. Stuyvesant (1610-72) was director general of all Dutch territory in the Caribbean and North America, lost a leg attempting to capture the Spanish island of St Martins, and was the founding governor of New Netherlands, or New York.

History records him as a harsh and autocratic ruler. Helen Clark might have liked his style, but probably not his accessories. Asher Durand's famous 1835 oil painting, The Wrath of Peter Stuyvesant, depicts a thin-lipped b*****d, menacing, upset, full of purpose, and literally putting his best foot forward - he leans back on his rather fierce pegleg. It looks like a spike, and you can easily imagine him dismantling the thing and driving it through someone's skull. Angered by a Dutch settler in New York who was upset by Stuyvesant's attempt to regulate the sale of liquor, he roared, "I will make him a foot shorter, and send the pieces back to Holland."

He may well have approved of the Ministry of Health warnings that appear on the cigarettes named after him - SMOKING CAUSES LUNG CANCER, CALL 0800 778778. Send my friend's lungs to Antwerp.

Strangely, I nearly forgot to answer whether Peter Stuyvesant extra milds meet Wilde's other requirement. For the record: my friend insists they are exquisite, but she is giving up tomorrow. Filthy habit.

Gooday Loony,

Sorry cobber, I never even started Stuyvesants.

Walter.

My friend says not to worry about it. It really doesn't matter. It happens to most men my age and sometimes to men who are considerably younger. She says it won't affect her feelings towards me in the slightest. The things that bind a relationship together go much deeper than this - affection, trust, shared experience.

I'd like to believe her, but I can't. It obviously matters. I'm not the man she met many years ago. I'm never going to be that man again And there's no known cure. Sure, I can take the tablets - they even have them on the Net these days - but they won't work forever, and there are the side-effects to worry about. Why does Nature do this to us guys? Haven't we got enough problems? And all this facile reassurance doesn't help a bit. It's counter-productive.

We know they're talking about it behind our backs, comparing notes, comparing us. Sometimes they even let it slip: "For heaven's sake, look at Walter. His is a much worse case than yours and his beloved says she doesn't care a bit. And there's nothing anyone can do about it. It's the hormones or the genes or whatever. just be thankful you've had it so good for so long."

"Are you telling me you've been talking to Walter's beloved about it? You know what that woman is like. It'll be on the six o'clock news by the end of the week."

"So what? Pretty soon, they'll all be able to see it for themselves."

She's right. They can probably all see it already - the loss of body and bounce, the thinning on top, the recession at the temples. The onset of male pattern baldness!

Loony,

I, like Esau, am an hairy man, except maybe for a TEENSY thinning at the back of the crown and perhaps an ALMOST imperceptibly elevated hairline at the temples which, the beloved assures me, produces a refined and rather elegant appearance, bordering on but perhaps falling short of debonair. On the other hand, if you want to talk about premature greying ...... Take care, cobber

Walter the hirsute.

LOVE the sense of humour. Bumped into you on the Soap Box - fantastic contribution! Wish I could get that level into my postings!
Thanks for the laughs in your journal - LOVED the piece on the Opening Ceremony! Have you received the petition about the taking down of the Olympic Rings from Sydney Bridge? If not reply to me here and I'll send it on to you - NOT very acceptable behaviour in my humble opinion!
Will save reading the rest of your stuff for (another) rainy day.

Nitpicker, thanks for your kind words. Yes I have seen, and signed, the petition you mention. Believe it or not, most of my family live in Adelaide - and have done so since 1973. They keep me informed on matters Aus

One of my favourite poems (since I've always been a bit short in the hair department all my life):

God is just,
God is fair;
To some he gave brains,
And to others hair.

There was tremendous media excitement - well, I'm sure somebody must have said something somewhere along the line - to Shazz's recent call for columnists to write for the h2g2 Post. It might well signal the future direction of this whole website. Overseas models tell us that the way to go is to get rid of paid staff, with their nagging demands for holidays, sick leave and better pay, and farm out their work to a few self-employed mercenaries. That's easily done. The next wise step is to reduce the number of these various contributors and consultants, and load up their services onto a select few - at a reduced price, of course. in short, the age of the specialist is dying; the modern need is for someone who can confidently perform a wide range of tasks. As such, it seems in my best interests to stake out some other h2g2 territories. Apologies to Mark, Peta, Abi, Ashley and the gang, but a man has to provide for his welfare in these perilous and uncertain days.

FOOD
Winter rains make it difficult to enjoy an outdoor barbecue, which is traditionally the domain of summer, but there has to be a way. I recently stepped outside and lit a few coals in a dreadful downpour - but took the precaution of carrying an umbrella. This experiment was fine and dandy, until the smoke billowed up beneath the umbrella, and I found it difficult to breathe. And so I grabbed a pair of scissors and snipped out a few strategic vents in the umbrella. The smoke sailed away, and left me free to consider what I might cook, but then the rain fell onto my head, and I got soaking bloody wet. Well, they say there's more than one way to skin a cat, which brings me to this week's recipe.

DRINK
The delicious cherry and violets of 1996 Gaga Yellow Piis, with its wicked twinge of wild reek, fills your head with seductive textures and feelings of poetry. And then I drakn three or 4 more b ottles and your th best frebnd I everhad ya fucjllinghdf bstard. cheeers!

SPORT
There has been a lot of talk about Mark Todd, who completed his MA thesis in philosophy four years ago and is now working as a potato peeler in Methven, after he was arrested last week by a passing television journalist on suspicion of taking drugs. The reporter told his editor that he found Todd face down in the snow on Mt Hutt. "It could have been cocaine," he said. Fair enough. Drug-testing among university graduates who peel potatoes should be mandatory. But I thought the journalist went too far when he claimed that Todd was gay as a goose. What has the private life of a goose got to do with sport? Search me. You won't find any concealed drugs, that's for sure, and even if you did, it's because I sometimes write the health column.

HEALTH
Feeling crook? See a doctor. They should see you right. But the last time I made an appointment with my quack was due to an intimate complaint; I sat down, rather gingerly, and he says to me, he says, "How are you?" What was I supposed to say - "I'm good, thanks, and how are you?" If I was fine, I wouldn't have been there in the first place, would I? I don't know. Sometimes I think we'd be better off dead.

COMPUTERS
A new project called Internet 2 will help define Protocol version 6 (IPv6), and lengthen IP addresses from 32 bits to 128 bits. What does it all mean? I don't know. I really don't.

LIFE OF BRIAN
I ran into a h2g2 Post political wannabe the other day. She said, "Your name isn't Brian." What a bitch!

POLITICS
What does George W Bush do all day when he is not killing people?

GARDEN
A mangrove swamp makes an attractive addition to your garden, but how to go about it? There has to be a way. We all know that mangroves require the daily movements of salt-water tides to keep them alive. I recently conducted an experiment to see whether I could simulate tidal flow in my backyard, and feel I have come close. First, stick some mangrove seedlings in a patch of mud, and sprinkle with salt. Then you get a hose, right, and squirt it at the mud so that the water moves straight ahead. And then you walk to the end of the row, turn around, and repeat the exercise. It gets a little tiring to do this all bloody day, I admit, but it might just work. It also pays to dump a whole lot of garbage into the mud, such as straws, bottle tops, plastic bags, combs, socks, engine parts, sheets of asbestos, and take-away cups of coffee bought from espresso slophouses. You want your mangroves to look realistic.

FOOL'S PARADISE
There was tremendous media excitement - well, I'm sure somebody said something somewhere along the line - when I took over as the chief h2g2 Feedback correspondent last week.