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

The carpet, the broom, the holy dust - amen.

Praise the hoover!

n i g h t h o o v e r

How hooverable a community we have become, lettuce rejoice N I G H T H O O V E R . .
.

And now a reading from the Nighthoover Book Of Armaments:

...And The Saint did raise the holy Nighthoover up on high, saying, 'O Lord, bless this Thy Nighthoover that, with it, Thou mayest inhale Thine enemies into Thy Collection Bag, in Thy mercy...

...And The Nighthoover did grin, and the people did feast upon the lambs and sloths and carp and anchovies and orangutans and breakfast cereals and fruit bats and large chu--(well, you get the idea)...

...And the Nighthoover did have instructions posted on His side, saying, 'First shalt thou insert the holy power plug into the holy electrical receptacle. The number of prong spaces available in the electrical receptacle shalt be three. No more. No less. Three shalt be the number of the prongs, and the number of the prongs shall be three. Four shalt thou not use, nor either use thou two, excepting that there be a proper grounding adapter to bring the number of prongs to three. Five is right out, and shalt void thine warranty. Once the three prongs, three being the third number, be utilized, then, depressest thou the "POWER" button and move Myself towards thy foe, who, being naughty in My sight, shall be inhaled.'

nh waz 'ere Oh nh return to us please

And I shall read from the Little Book of Nighthoover...

1. Only hoover in the night, for then our prophet shall not look down on your imperfect hoovering and be ashamed.

2. Use only the standard hoover; be it upright or laydown style. Never Dyson, and never Dirt Devil, for these are the tools of the Anti-Hoover.

3. Eat only twice between hoovers; and then only fish and lettuce. Give thanks to the nighthoover for the gifts he bestows on you.

4. Remember, nighthoover is always with you.

Lettuce pray to the nighthoover.

n i g h t h o o v e r

lettuce pray indeed and tomorrow a band of resurchers will descend on manchester and search for the prophet in all manner of drinking establishments

My life is onion. A series of layers. I am currently at level 7.

Walking down the high street yesterday, I found a piece of string. Being of a curious bent, I picked it up an followed it. Thankfully, I was still wearing my "special trousers" from the night before. As many of you will be aware, these trousers have extra big pockets - they have to, heh heh - given what I get up to in them!! Anyway, there was plenty of room in there for excess string, so following the trail was no problem.

I was quite surprised to find that the string wound all the way up the high street, past a post box, across the road, through "Boots" the Chemist, over a small hillock and through some winding streets of a distinctly suburban nature.

Finally, I found myself in a back garden, where TV presenter Carol Vorderman was performing stunning feats of mental arithmatic for Aussie Genius Rolf Harris. It was Rolf who provided the answer to the mystery of the string - for it was found to be wrapped around his big toe.

Rolf was very pleased when I pointed this out to him and he offered to draw me a picture on the spot. Carol held his wobble-board as he set to work. First it was a flurry of nothing, then some seemingly random brush marks.

"Can you tell what it is yet?" asked Rolf.

I caught the letters "N I G H..." and realised that I was about to see - for the first time - Rolf Harris draw Nighthoover. But then I was struck on the back of the head by a beer can thrown by the next door neighbour. I blacked out immediately and woke in hospital. My arm was in a splint. Unfortunately it was a splint for a parrot. Rolf, in his confusion, had brought me to animal hospital. And he still owes me fifty quid.

I wonder whether life is indeed like an apple, or in fact like a pear. You see, apples, once eaten are easily handled towards the bin. Pears however, taste better, but seem to collapse towards the end.

All in the quest for

n i g h t h o o v e r

It is at such moments I find myself ddrawn to the analagy of the pertunia, table leg and bobbly pavement, such is life N I G H T H O O V E R

Why does it always rain on me?
Is it because nighthoover
needs to pee?

Why does it always rain on me?

Even when the sun is shining
I can't excuse the hoovering

Ohhhhh where did this thread turn
strange?

Why does it rain so?

(do
dodo
do
dodo
do)

yea, verily. For once upon a time there was a man. And this man was ruled by his job, nine to five, five days a week. And in this job he was unhappy for the job was unfulfilling. And it came to pass that this man became aware of his lack of purpose. And he heard a faint rumour of Nighthooverishness. And that was enough for him to quit his job and divorce his wife and abandon his life. So he began his great journey to discover the true meaning of Nighthoover. With no money he got a job on a tramp freighter heading to the Middle East. Half way there he was robbed and thrown overboard to fend for himself. After many days clinging to a log he was washed ashore in a distant land. There he was abused and acosted, and left for dead. Many days later he gained enought strength to crawl to the town square where he begged for food, using a broken alms bowl he found in the gutter. After many painfull weeks he aquired enough money to move on. Many rough and ready weeks later he managed to drag himself to the base of a mighty mountain, hundreds of miles from where he was shipwrecked. At the very base of the columns of the world, in far Himilaya he sought the wisdom he had heard of. After dragging his broken, bleeding body up the icy slopes of the mighty mountain he came across a warm inviting cave.
Surely this must be the lair of the mighty Nighthoover!
His broken body was cared for by young, lovely maidens who catered to his every wish. Food, drink, and clothing were provided as he waited for his audience with the Great One. Finally he was ushered into the secret antechamber where a small wizened man sat on a silken cushion, seemingly glowing with an inner light. The man waited. For two days he waited until he could wait no more.

"Great One." he said, expectantly.

"Great One, please tell me what it is all about. Why are we here? What is our purpose? I have travelled long and hard to know.....Please tell me!"

The old one sat and thought. For two more days he thought. And finally he spoke.

"Life is an Orange."

He said.

"Life is an Orange?"

Said the man.

The old man paused and said finally.

"You mean it isn't?"

Obviously it was in fact *not* the Nighthoover.

And in the words of fellow nighthoover disciple, Paul *I didn't die in 1966* McCartney...

Let it be.

True, but then he also wrote "Rupert and the Frog Song" so perhaps he is not a man to be trusted with a pitchfork.

Personally, I blame the parents. If the youth of today didn't eat chewing gum and spend their days running around "tickling" phone boxes, then there would be more time for strict application to the daily hymnal.

The moral fibre of this country has unravelled. I am afraid to say that it now represents nothing so much as a dirty old string vest hanging out to dry in one of the less salubrious districts of Brussels. And next they'll take our pound! I keep mine in a jar, in the basement, for safety.

It is certainly time for the return of the saviour. I expect there will be a run on the cheesy nibbles at Tesco's, just like there was when Oasis came to play at the community youth center.

Excuse me. I need the bathroom.

i have No more turnips and still no nh N I G H T H O O V E R

n i g h t h o o v e r

No more TurnIps? Why, brother, why no TurnIps?

For, earlier this very same evening, did I return from the turnip, some one hours late, and procede to the pub to take part in the reminants of the party to which I had been invited, but becuase of the turnips had to miss much of, and after the much drinking that took place therein, and then, just a few minutes before now, when partaking of food; that rarely stressed thing I often do, was finished, I realise that the turnip has passed, in perhaps the very same way as many a much multiplexed thing does do, but, then, in my despair, I remembered our lord, nighthoover, and all was good, as good as such can be without our nmight one to guide us toward the nighthooverly ways lettuce pray brothers N I G H T H O O V E R

n i g h t h o o v e r

Ohmmmmmmmmmmm...

driftin' driftin' driftin' away...

"."