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

Yes. In an emergency, when the Lynx has ran out due to being over-stressed at work, there's nothing I like better than to smell of potato peelings and five-day-old pizza. The ladies at the local Young Binwomen's Club can't resist me. They're like rancid butter in my arms.

I'm so happy for you, it's not everyone who finds love in the hopper of a bin lorry.

ahh yes, we so often go driving by dawn on the council estates of Manor top, sitting on the top of the lorry watching the sun rise above the wheelie bins, reminding us that love is better than crap, rekindling our affections that we , all 5 share together in our happy little dump truck

Don't forget the passionate twitter of the circling lovebirds, or seagulls, as I believe the unromantics amongst us call them. They cry their affection at landfill love, and celebrate a binlover's tryst by swooping down, marking the spot for posterity just as they must have done in Keat's day when he wrote, "Odour to a Seagull". If ever there was a symbol of the binworkers union, this must be it.


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some may laugh at us, but when we are together, in our heart of hearts we cry...in terror

Please don't well up, you know that Welsh names make me think of and the love that dare not speak its name (well not on the BBC anyway).

Ahem, where were we? Ah yes.

Well 'tis indeed fortunate then that we are blest not to be in an Iranian tourist camp, lest we occasionally cry "...in interim terror in Tehran internment".

Was it Iran where you developed the fondness for putting your head in a binbag? I developed my affection for them when I was very young and had a speech impediment. I could only say, "Meiaow", and every time I did so, my shortsighted father would stick me in a binbag and throw me into the river in what I thought was a display of paternal affection. It was years later, after the birth of my brother Eddie who could only say, "woof" that I realised how fortunate I had been with my own impediment. Eddie is now short for Edwina.

mooo

"mooo"?



Oh you poor thing. You were a victim of Coldfinger Millie Mulgrew, the Mad Moors Milkmaid? She always used to cover her victims' heads with a black plastic bag so they couldn't identify her in a police ID parade, even if it was rigged by standing her alongside seven miners, a cardboard cutout of Arthur Scargill and a badger called Nigel. Fortunately there was enough fingerprint evidence from her 138 victims called Ermintrude X and the final one called Pedro Y when she was eventually caught whitehanded after forgetting to put her contacts in.

*crosses fingers and hopes it's that, as he can't recall James Herriot using a black binbag*

no, it wasn't that, a cow just flew under my desk and as i'm quite lonely, well, not quite, very more like, i've taken to speaking to him...her i mean. anyway , i've been talking in her language so much this morn that it seems to be taking ove my mmoooo regular speech....moo.

and i'm so lonely that i've got a cow as an imaginery friend come on cowbag, lets drown away our troubles with some milk....mmmmoooooooooo

Luxury.

When I was with Monty in '42 my only friend was a penguin called Gooseberry Fruitcake III. He used to talk to me all the time, albeit his main conversational gambit was, "Give us a fish then". Day after day after day he used to say this, and I would weep tears of frustration as the nearest were 100 miles north of the strategically important grain of sand I was guarding.

One day we were issued with senokot in preparation for the big push and reposted to an oasis which was surrounded by more important sand. Goosey hopped over to the water in the hope of finding some smoked salmon when suddenly a killer whale leapt from the water, ate him, and washed him down with some thin porridge. Nature can be so gruel at times.

Please pass this warning onto cowbag as I wouldn't like it to happen to her if you two go out for a fish supper. Treasure your friendship while it lasts and remember to keep a shovel under your desk in case of "little accidents". You may want to get a shovel for cowbag as well.

if i had more advanced brain matter, i would wish that i could have a penguin which a short conversation capacity as a friend.

me? i lied about cowbag, i only said him as i was so ashamed of my real 'friend'. its a bald rat, he has a certain knack which allows him to control my brainwaves, which means i'm frequently found conversing with germs and the plague down by the riverside "down by the riverside, i'm gonna lay my sword, down bythe riverside". then bringing back any scraps of meat i can find for him.

annnd i take pleasure in doing this as i'm just so happy to have someone or something, to call my friend

Doesn't it say in Holy Book of the Great God Izzard, "And a bald rat shall pass jam through the zimmer of Mrs Stevens before a rich sandwich shall enter unto the kingdom of James Mason"?

I don't know what it means either, but the local theologian Pi Sarticus thinks your bald rat may be a sign sent by the Great Edd-Dee telling you to cast aside all false religions (yes, even the Church of The Seventh Day Advent Calendar Eaters), take a vow of poverty, and spend all your money on tickets to see the Great God on tour.

...and don't forget to buy the jam-stained t-shirt.

*shudders*

I may or may not be going on the Friday.

Shall we be seeing you there then Wumbie?

Dunno, might I suggest the Scottish meet as a good opportunity to make sure I'm in casualty for a fortnight?

when i was young, we wished for sugar and milk for our tea! oh yes, we didn't have any of the luxuries of these days, no sugar, no, milk...or tea!

No tooth decay, no brucellosis, no embarrassing tannin stains on your rags to worry about. Wasn't life wonderful in those halcyon days when all the kids would gather down the mine to play I Spy and swap green bogies?

Whatever happened to green bogies? Many's the family that survived the depression on what their kids grew in their nostril allotments. "Hey mum what's for dinner?" "Ina's bogies and bogey burgers, what a sensational dish..."

Nowadays you wouldn't get poetic gems to rival the work of Stinkypants Howarth http://www.dreamagic.com/poetry/howarth.html#0005

i don't even want to know what you were looking for you found that!!!!

Would you believe, "The flora and fauna of DD's underpants"?

*goes to google loking worried*

Phew! They've removed the link.