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

So do I - F76049?thread=308615&post=3962250#p3962250

Re: A994287

Is this on the right track?



"If I'd been a born a car, I'd probably be an MG. Or an Audi TT. Or a Beemer Z3. Small but perfectly formed. Well almost anyway. Men want to have me, to have fun with me, and then to put me on display like a trophy. So they can show me off to their mates I suppose. I give them kudos. And satisfaction. As well as occasional head.

Good time girl? Maybe. Floozy? Perhaps, I'm certainly an incorrigible flirt. But tart? Slapper? No. Absolutely not. I'm not the one you want for a sordid knee-trembler and a kebab chaser in the drizzle against the back-alley brickwall of a seedy underbelly pub; I like a touch of class; gin, tonic, a slice of posh and a swizzle stick. That's what I liked about the man astride whose groin I'd been astride earlier that particular April Sunday morning.

Fulton Carter and I went back yonks, to hazy summer days of octagonal paddling-pools and super-8, bee-hive mothers in chiffon and crimplene and turtle-neck fathers in E-Type Jags. We'd grown up together, he'd shown me his, I'd shown him mine. He'd let me fire his first air-rifle, I'd let him touch me downstairs. Fulton was no raging aristocrat, but he was enough blue-blooded enough to know how to tie up his own dicky.

Then he'd moved away. To Royal Berkshire of course, to study to be a Licensed Victauler at the college in Ascot. He didn't return to Kent, instead moving in to London to establish his own business, flogging wine wholesale."

Yes...Yes!!!...YES!!!!

And then ...

... Then he'd moved away. To Royal Berkshire of course, to study to be a Licensed Victauler at the college in Ascot. He didn't return to Kent, instead moving in to London to establish his own business, flogging wine wholesale. I loved visiting his apartment, but more than that, I loved Fulton's riotous dinner parties, to which I always got an invite if Fulton was stuck for a date. On this occasion, last night, we'd ended up snorting port.

Even the most myopic of Russian pilots could have landed an Antanov on Fulton's bed, such was its vastness. Down the years we'd shared it often, seldom going the full eight furlongs, opting instead for the comfort of friendship, or simply the efficiency of effort of messing up just one bed. Last night was no exception. Trashed, and still dressed, we'd slept like a pair of proverbial logs, open plains of crisp white unsoiled Egyptian cotton between us.

This morning, trying to displace my hangover with high spiritedness, I'd mounted him, Sharon Stone style.

"Wake up, I need to show you something, it's my charlies, I think they're odd-sized." I'd said,.

"Woa-uh? Oh, go on, show me." he'd sighed, seeming disinterested.

"You promise not to laugh?", I'd asked as, cross-armed and elbows akimbo, I'd lifted the hem of my t-shirt (plain white cotton, long-sleeved, GAP, £39).

Of course, he did promise as any man would. But inevitably, the first thing I'd seen when I'd disentangled from the birds nest of hair and clothes was Fulton's big white teeth, grinning up at me.

"You promised.", I'd pretended to be hurt.

"I'm not laughing, I'm admiring", he'd insisted. Maybe it was the after effects of the port, but in retrospect, I wouldn't need to have been the Princess with the Pea to feel the ardency of his admiration pressing into my undercarriage, despite the myriad of cloth between us.

It was true though. I was uneven. One, the right, is keen and eager, pumped up like a small football. It's almost enhanced. The other, although not out of place on page 3, is less dramatic, but still solid, like a half a bag of cement. Fulton, love him, was less critical. He said that as long as he can get a set-square underneath without lifting them, then they're all right.

I'd dismounted.

"I'm having a shower".

As ever, the drive back home was a complete and utter schlepp. My little 205 is reliable enough, but I wasn't. Shower, coffee, toast, sunday morning papers, and I still felt like two pound of sh*t in a pound bag. And I was felling a little bit frustrated to boot; I had an itch that hadn't been scratched. And to compound my woe, the sodding A2 was jammed up at the Medway, roadworks on the new bridge.

In the jam, my mind drifted ... to conversation the previous evening ... Lucy had asked me if I'd ever 'brought myself off' while driving (I hadn't) ... to sitting astride Fulton this morning ... my tinny car radio banging out Jethro Tull "... through a wisp of cotton panty ... along a skin of satin sea ..." before I found that, furtively, with one hand dropped beneath the steering wheel, I was, ahem, interfering with myself.

Of course, it was always going to end in tears. As, foggily, I approached the moment of truth, my legs straightened, causing my left foot to slip off the clutch while my right foot jammed down on the accelerator. The 205 gazelled forward, and stalled. But not before it had slammed into the back of the car in front.

Having pulled off, so to speak, onto the hard shoulder, I climbed somewhat ashamedly out of my car to inspect the damage. The other driver, tall, chiselled, tousled curls, suit, no tie, was doing likewise. His registration plate was embedded in my radiator grill. I fished it out ... "EK 1" and in small red block capitals underneath "Edward Knight Mercedes". I looked at the car I'd mangled ... "INTERKOOLER". Bugger. A Merc.

He was charming ... "Look, I suppose we should exchange details ... here's my card ..." he held it out. I took it, my hand was shaking. I was less cool. I was in tears.

"Look, why don't you follow me ... I only live five minutes away, down there, on the river, you can almost see it ... we can do this in more civilised circumstances. You can sort yourself out. What do you think?"

"OK", I said , and held out my hand for him to shake. And as he did, I recalled what had caused the accident in the first place. I grinned through my tears.

"The Mercedes?", I nodded towards it, "Doesn't it have a Wankel engine ...?"

It's bl**dy good.
Not quite sure whether we describe this as top-drawer or sock-drawer...

You know Boots, right? We need an editorial consensus. (She's a sensitive little old lady, so it might need some delicacy )

I'll direct her here, OK? In the meantime, have a think about Merc-man, the secrets he might hide and who we could commission for Part 4.

(I've got half of an other idea, too, btw. Maybe this isn't Chaucer at all? Maybe this is a ring of Seven Deadly Sins? In that case, yours is obviously lust. Trouble is, the other two might both be Pride. Hmmm...)

Pin
*with the mind in this rhythm, must be careful about driving...*

'Sensitive little old lady' eh? A little less of the sensitive please! You don't get to be as old as I am and have any of your senses or sensibility unsullied.
Caught the first part of this the other day, loved it. It gets better...clever little fish those trouts! Disagree with the seven whatsits though Pin. Am totally and utterly fed up with any kind of religious dogma, it has so much to answer for. Just keep it real and if is stays as much fun as this and those that have gone before we may have something.
take care
boots (off to do something constructive like stabbing th staff!)

Cool as mints (or is that mince?), thanks, both. I still need to sort out some of the grammar (mostly punctuation and spelling) and make sure the tenses are all in the right order. But I can do that in the Entry itself. I just wanted to get it off my plate and see if I was wasting my time when instead I could be simulating (SIMulating) Exeter City's latest promotional gambit.

Edward Knight already appears too dynamic to be sloth. Perhaps he's married, unhappily. He's giving the dog a bone. Meanwhile his wife is a useless lazy good-for-nothing bovine. She looked all right, first time he saw her, but all that glitters is not gold. She's not even pyrites. Bitch. Cue 'Anti-Nowhere League'. She's stretched out on a rooftop sun-bed while he's getting duffed up by gangsters in the greenhouse. She could be Sloth. Drunk on gin.

There's worse ways to be. 50p for a cuppa tea?

Other writers ... have you tried U208309? He's an aspiring writer. And (I think) a Pipey like AB, funnily enough. Others that spring immediately to mind include the Deckchair ... U216365 and The Snockerty Friddle ... U191777. What about Peregrine U217868? You could court their interest?

T

So agree with your recommendations. '50p price of a cup of tea'...my my that takes me back. ten years ago Euston station, we had the 'clear the planters' gig. twenty five syringes, one complete homeless home (in the planter) 30 empty wallets...rain pouring down and mud caking our steel capped boots and likewise gloves (requirements because of the expected syringes)and this old boy selling the big issue...'50p price of a cup of tea' driving me mad. Having been homeless appreciated his valour but not on this gig. Gave him a fiver to move to the other end of the station. Don't think that was what you were talking about though but memories are great! What is Pyrites? Oh boots you are so stuffing useless!
take care both

That's exactly what I meant. I got it off your page ... A1154215

Pyrites. Isn't that fool's gold? Spelling might be to cock.

Trout

Dear god in heaven...this site is but a (my favourite expression) b*gg**y Bo***cks veritable web of nosey parkers! This is better than cool... this is getting a life. We three now have a shared moment of cyber life...albeit an alternative grammar traumatised... living with our demons cyberlife...but we have a culminative cauldron (wish I could spell) of a literary brew...Ravager would be dead proud (he loved a good home bew) Actually and unfortunately he has left the room but he would be proud of the creative think tank and would applaud the irreverence (knowing how much I leak)and say...Only fifty P price of a cup of tea...two lumps for me old girl!
take care you mad creative pair.
boots (who knows her place below the upstairs downstairs...another clue)

I've been down...

No, not like you guys have been down.
(50p...really...)

I've been refenestrating.
I got a really horrible case of the Bills.

Anyhow, if you've quite finished with the dirty macs, etc, there are some interesting suggestions for the remaining contributors, f'which thanks.

I reckon we drop 7DS, then, yeah? Back to Canterbury. Which maybe means we could put upon Ben for the final piece - she's a Kentish Lass, right? Or a Lass of Kent, or whatever.

That last piece has to splice two others, so it'll be a toughie. We also need some editorship here already, to get our three to splice. Shouldn't Trout's young lady have tailgated the Yummy-Mummy? Come on Boots, get a grip! You're the one with the organisational talents, yeah? Tell us what to do. (The rest of us suffer from the world's commonest genetic defect, remember. We can't organise a proverbial in a wotsit)

Hmmm. Y-M needs a 4x4 to negotiate speed-bumps, and Miss Manual needs something with a rotary engine...
*wanders off to browse Autotrader*

Re: Charlotte. Yes she hit the wrong car. But I couldn't resist.

Re: Wankel. I think a Mazda may be what you're looking for. But that's only a nearly thirty-year old memory of Top Trumps. I'm not good at cars.

Trout

Yeah, RX-7 was the classic.
Not exactly a 4x4 though, was it?
I tried Mazda, specifically. Mazda 4x4s seem to have V6s in them.
There are a few 4x4s with Wankel engines. Only trouble is, they're tractors...

A1156745

Maybe Edward Knight can be the link between Charlotte the Harlot and the Yummy Mummy? He could sell her a 4x4. Or something.

Trout

Sounds good. He would own the garage though? I can't imagine yummy mummy buying from a salesman...unless of course there were exceptional extras thrown in...Mmmm now there's a thought! What about the link from Yummy Mummy to Miserable git? I recall a change of name being brought up, Perdita? Who was the link character in Canterbury Tales? And weren't there more than four tales? It was a lifetime ago that t'were read. Can you put the link to miserable git up again...my lurking head not working too well.

A link to the theme-cover, linked to both O-G and Y-M.
A994287
Yeah, Hermione still needs changing to Perdita in O-G.
I've been meaning to re-read Chaucer too...
(shame they never wrote cheat-sheets for the old-fashioned entertainment, innit? The Canterbury Tales Strategy Guide, now there's a thought...)

Maybe there's a student guide, for A-level or sumpt'n. Do they still do A-levels?

Evening all. Just back from the Surrey/Kent night out. Hmmm what do we all look like? Who goes where? What and who did we talk about? You'll just have to wait for the post meet report boys!
take care
boots (on a mission)

Not much of a night-out if you're back at this time...

I am Edward Knight, Monarch of All I Survey, Öberführer of the luxury Teutonic car market throughout the whole of North Kent. Every new Mercedes sold between the Thames and the Escarpment, from Dartford to Dover, passes through my books. Deutschland, exporting to Kent, Mercedes instead of doodlebugs. Progress, I like to think. Plus ça change.

All sorts venture into my showrooms, some more welcome than others. I know in an instant who can and who can't afford to buy Mercedes. The worst are the yesteryear wanna-bes, erstwhile young men with ambition and dreams. Now twenty years down the line, these Rover-driving five-day week failures replete with lame lies about how they are considering "... upgrading to a Merc" turn up in my showroom to run their unctuous mitts along sleek polished lines, leaving behind a trail of utterly irksome slug-like slime that will take a half a day to buff off. Middle-class, middle-aged, and middle-of-the-road, their professed enthusiasm is belied by mournful head-shakes and doleful sighs, will-o-the-wisp statements that these vehicles always have been, are, and always will be out of their reach. Instead, in lieu of reality, they try to elicit from me a test-drive, a momentary sumptuously comfortable glimpse into the life that could've, should've been. Alas (for them) they are ever so politely declined "... as a matter of policy ..." and so they leave, saying they'd really "... prefer to Buy British anyway ...", and will be off "... to look at Jags". 'To look at' having been the pertinent stated operation, I mutter some unintelligible good riddance and ensure that someone escorts them off the premises before they sully any more paintwork.

Then of course, there are the nouveau riche, bankers mostly, loathsome individuals with loud ties, even louder mouths, and the audacity to take calls on their ubiquitous mobiles mid-demonstration. Heidi, secretary and cello-playing object of my singular nocturnal fantasy, is trained to charge briskly up to me during these events to report that "Mr. Schmidt from Stuttgart is on line nine" thereby giving me opportunity to beat retreat, replaced in the showroom by Gordon, monotonal ginger-headed technical sales advisor. Inevitably, we get the business.

Wow!
(bookmarked, deserves much thought, no time right now)

...can car salesman (even uberkraut ones) afford to be this superior? Resonances with O-G? Maybe not, O-G is pure cynicism but not really egotistical, whereas this guy...

*Anyway - stop it. Get back to work...*