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

Gentle greetings and humble devoirs to thee.

So here you reside, beyond the wit of any explorer in the realm of the BBC. Hopefully, this forum will ensure that we do not lose contact for at least the forseeable future.

Also, you will discover that there has been a recent exodus from LD if you run the name 'loup' through your search engine.

All mislocated Telewesters will be greeted with open arms into this new space, so feel more than free to drop by and add yourself to the ever growing list of suspicious characters.

Yours with gun and umbrella,

Mark.

Aha! A whole new sub-culture has sprung into life I see. I shall indeed follow your advice.
Hopefully in the near future, I shall have more thorough access to this site, but as of late it involves turning myself into a red squirrel and crawling through a hedge. Nevertheless the important thing is that I am here.

Lets start a conversation.How are you?? I am currently travelling the length and breadth of the country with no money and no prospects. A true traveller, but as they say, things always turn out OK in the end. Perhaps a social revolt will save us all. How are things in the wards & the family? Not to mention the Potato Kingdom, or is all lost to the big corperations now that LD is hald-dead?

My dear Natali,

All is fine at this particular end of the network.

The ward remains, as ever, a place of suffering, woe, terminal illness and wall to wall arterial leakage. Or, to put it another way, extremely well.

The family are increasing in age, experience, height, strength and occasions that they have assisted the police with their enquiries.

The Solonaceous Empire only exists now as part of the memories of all those who took part. I find that the Inaccurate Journals of Mad King Ruprecht allow me a whole unexplored dimension in which to not take myself so seriously. From Genesis to Armageddon I can now tinker with the finer points of all human history in order to ellicit a few cheap jokes.

So where do your travels find you today? Are you still malingering around Manchester or are you now on your way to pastures new and improved and far less dangerous?

And is the Freebird aware that LD is sinking?

Or shall she be found at the helm of the good ship Yoome2 as it ploughs through the shipping lanes of our dependable old Leisure District and throws depth charges at the floundering refugees?

My regards to the chap with the cloven hooves and the three pronged pointy stick. I hope that he is keeping my place downstairs nice and warm.

Ol' Nick sends his best wishes to you and your offspring, but says you aren't booked in until June 4th 2047, so in the mean time, Pat Robertson is breaking in the old recliner.

Freebird is well aware of the shipping news. I believe she is jumping ship with the rats and the children, and may or may not find solace elsewhere.

As for I, I am making my next trip to Manchester (oh those dangerous streets...) on October 4th, via the sickeningly picturesque Welsh railway scenery. Whilst there, I shall attempt to seduce a rock boy away from his girlfriend, squash myself in a crowd of industrial metal fans and gaze lovingly into the eyes of a German musician, become inebriated, watch films, go shopping and contemplate my literary future. All is good.

Then however, I shall return to the squalor of Bristol, penniless and destitute, forced to take desperate measures to survive. Living on the edge. Etc etc...I presume it will make a good story down the line.

Indeed.

Achtung baby.

Natali

Many thanks to the Morning Star for his alarming prediction regarding my eventual demise.

I hope to prove him wrong to the tune of a good three days. Seventy seven would seem a good age to check out. Too early for the worst of arthritis and Alzheimers disease and too late for some hideous sexually transmitted gangrenous nobrot.

Any scoop to the effect of my cause of death would be gratefully received. Perhaps I could avoid taking the bus that day, boarding an aeroplane to Cuba or start eating fresh fruit and vegetables during the next fortnight.

I should also point out that I have every intention of staging a mutiny upon my arrival and donning the old red cape and pointy trident as my own.

Your travel plans for October seem incredibly specific. Aside from the Welsh countryside all appears within the remit of 'a good time was had by all.'

As for Bristol, I know little apart from the fact that the River Severn has its terminus therein. By this measure I must blushingly report that a great deal of my recycled water has passed your way.

Until our next encounter I shall bid you a fair adiou,

With gun and umbrella,

Ah Sir : you push me to my very limits in writing.

The Dreaded Beast Himself replies with these sentiments. That information is strictly classified, and security is hotter than Hell down here (boom boom!). You can't escape death, much like you can't escape Santa Claus or a case of Red Knee in the Alps on a cool summers afternoon. However, if you wish, you may don the red cape and pointy trident garb, but be prepared to be mocked for the next hundred years or so. The last person to do that was Hitler, and he still has to make the tea.

Back in the living world, my travel plans for 2 weeks time are metamorphosing as we speak. It seems as though my unholy plans have been scuppered and I may not be getting man-flesh as I originally anticipated, owing to the precense of the thin girlfriend on the first night out. However, as all good witches manage, I still have the boy under my control and hopefully won't get cornered in the Ladies by a thousand Harpees, and instead shall dance the night away.

You should frequent Bristol one day. It is a fine host for a family day out (plenty of places built for the little nippers with buttons and flashing things), and I assure you that there aren't many peasants.

As for now, I must fly. I have much to do and no way of doing it. But I persist!

Natali

Good morning to you Natali.

If Der Fuhrer has finished with the red cape and pointy trident thing then I would be only too happy to fill his niche in the underworld.

Being ridiculed on a daily basis forms a large portion of my daily activities and an eternity of He Who Walks Backwards can only be considered a bonus in view of my usual domestic tribulations.

I also specialise in making some of the most hellish tea known to mankind so my services in this arena ought to suit the atmosphere admirably.

I wish you every measure of success in the eventual wooing of your target gentleman. If your seductive prowess match your eloquant wordplay then you really should have him in the bag/sack (delete as applicable) within the hour.

It surprises me to learn that Bristol is lacking in peasentry. I was of the uninformed opinion that the majority of the populace still point at aircraft and worship goats.

However, I shall refrain from mocking. In about ten years time such customs will eventually catch on here in Shropshire where the flint axe is still considered a truimph of engineering.

I shall take my leave for the present. There is much work to be done on my personal space this night.

God save the King.

Or El Diablo find him a comfortable chair.

Ah My old friend, once again you reduce me to hysterics with your wit and charm.

Deuce Himself has just this minute sent me a scripture, hot of the press so to speak. He says to me, in his black tongued ways, that he would rather you didn't make the tea. Der Fuhrer makes these little shortbread biscuits with this added, almost chemical touch, that he fears no one would be able to replicate. However, he believes there may be an opening in the meat department, and knowing your experience with fleshly beating things, he thinks you may be perfect for the job. Anyhow, less of the messages from Hell. There are only so many heat rashes one can take in a week.

My target gentleman is being a knob at the moment, and I fear I might have to chain him down and beat him bloody to make him see the error of his ways. However, as with most city drama's all is usually well at the end of the day. Not long to go now, so I suspect my next correspondance will be updating what has gone on in his comfortable chambers. If however, you do not receive a reply by Wednesday the 9th of October of the year 2002 AD, believe that I am dead, and distribute my belongings to the ancient mystical tribal people of the Isle of Wight.

It is only in the far regions (where the cows are white and the sheep are grey) that the peasants still worship the low flying aircrafts and point at the goats (you had it the wrong way around)...but the government are dealing with these types with a hefty chainsaw. A few are being kept in the zoo as examples of their species, but are otherwise culled into extinction. And let me tell you this, we are most grateful. It was getting extremely annoying having to fish the little blighters out of the dustbins on a Saturday morning.

Oh...and it's good to be reminded where you are in the world. I had forgotten. A proverbial *DOH!* rings out against empty walls...

Um. I only have so much wit and cunning to match your deft skills in one message.

Seek Peace (darn Dinotopia. No one told me that they'd resurrected the scaley ones)!

Natali

Hey Mark!

I am alive...just...I battled through last weekend with nothing but a pair of knickers and a stale tube of Jaffa Cakes. Received much abuse and then hitchiked my way from Manchester to Bristol via the Virgin Train service. Oh the blessed Virgin train service.

I shall never return again.

Natali

Resounding overtures to the tune of good morning to you dear Natali.

Excellent news regarding your safe return from the horrors of Manchester, although the difference between leaving Manchester and leaving life altogether are practically indistinguishable. Such a shame that you will never again visit the land that proudly boasts the Stockport Hat Works Museum, the sole remaining example of traditional hatting in the country and little wonder. Alas, ne'er will you look upon The Lowry of Salford Quays, possibly the nineteenth most spectacular architectural landmark in North West England. Come to think of it, neither shall I. Christ, the very idea.

To have escaped with a pair of Jaffa Cakes and stale knickers is to be considered a triumph, unless of course I have misinterpreted your previous message.

All hail the Virgin Train network. Blessed be the new pendolino that has passed 'most' of its safety inspections and even now thunders down the tracks in the name of experimental transportation. The only way to combine enjoying the great English countryside and knocking down cows with a red & white engine.

Never return?

Capital idea.

Perhaps the wise idea is to think of the whole complicated experience as another £10 grand in my auto-biography. A fine book that will be, and I've only existed for nearly two measly decades.

I still believe your talents could be placed in the literary world...there is much money to be made my Gun-toting friend.

Breakfast awaits. I am muchly busy; how hails thee?

Natali

My dear satanic Natali.

I shall restrict my literary efforts to the botheration of die hard historians, cinema fans and puritanical literatists if such a word exists. I shall contain myself to my preferred role of fly in ointment installation manager in the hope of toppling the odd pillar of British heritage. In this manner it is my aspiration to tarnish the collective soul just that little further, or at least make the likes of General George Custer appear to all the world as a composite git. I have no known agenda for this course of action other than the fact that no-one else appears to be performing this service.

Two decades of collective experience could produce a most weighty tome. After all, it is not so much a case of the years involved but of the milage incurred during those said two decades.

So, what is this autobiography about?

And did I really just say that out loud?

As for my own life it has reached that stagnant wife, children, mortgage and monthly bills stage where the idea of turning a shotgun on yourself looks to be the most attractive option.

Sadly, the demands of the above leave one without the necessary energy required to load the damned thing, let alone bother to pull the trigger.

Apathy! I cannot even be bothered to look up the meaning of the word.

If I am able to stand the excitement I shall be attending another night shift tonight. In fact, given my general build and enforced divorce from sunlight I am beginning to take on the appearence of one of my more terminal customers.

Enjoy your breakfast. I certainly relished smoking mine.

My dearest elderly gentleman;

This weeks accomplishments have included the following:

1. Ending my cries of *That's not what it means!* in response to the gross misuse of the word "hotting"...
2. Conversing with an old crazy school aquaintance in a bus shelter and then on the bus.
3. Watching no TV and developing hardened skin on my delicate female fingertips from typing far too much on the bookly front.

My autobiography shall be produced many years from now, preferably in the midst of a mid-life crisis/drug-fuelled stupor/prison spell (delete where applicable. Of the content, I know not.

I would not recommend a shotgun for expiration of one's life. It requires an almost supernatural strength in ones lower digits. Instead, use prescription pills. Apathy speeds on the results and makes it all toasty and warm.

Is your everlasting employment as fun as Casualty looks? I am beginning to wonder whether heart surgery really IS the
home for me...

My dear whippersnapper.

Once again I shall put my arthritis wracked fingers to the test, squint myopically at the monitor and grumble incessantly about how these new fangled computer things are destroying the beauty of the written word.

We had a stick and a hoop in my day and we were thankful for them.

Have you created a suitable title for your magnum opus?

'Natali' lacks the suspense that creates a queue outside W H Smiths on the release date. 'Adventures of a Teenage Diabolist' may pull in the crowds but possibly for all the wrong reasons. 'Faust II' probably infringes a number of copyright statutes.

Shotgun wounds are particularly vulgar and I have decided against any of my own. Prescription medication rarely help in these matters as many an intoxicated would be dead person will freely attest to following their gastric lavage. Beachy Head can get a tad parky at this time of year. Hanging is not to be encouraged, especially if the intended rope is possessed of elastic properties. One may receive a nasty bruise to the top of the head and completely fail to enjoy the experience. Carbon Monoxide has its merits, but only if the car in which you are eventually discovered may be considered cool.

Regarding Casualty I have avoided watching the programme for many years at it is rather akin to attending a training seminar without suitable fiscal incentive. Excitement, adventure, glory, fun.... it is possible that you have nursing confused with a rewarding and interesting career. As do the production team of Casualty it seems.

Well, it is nearly time for my tartan slippers, mug of cocoa and four hour stand at the toilet with the taps running in the desperate hope that something will happen before the sedatives kick in.

Yours incredibly still not dead yet,

Ah Mister;

I begin to wonder whether you ever see your own child(ren?) if you post on here at this hour. I begin to wonder whether I will ever see the light of day, when I am posting at this hour.

I decided (as I posted on the Ask H2g2 thread) to call my AutoBiography "I can't deal with this", as well as the fact that it would be published posthumously after a prescription pill death.

Well. One can dream. I would be shocked if the current novel is completed before the Four Horsemen of the Apocolypse are done Ending the World with their prettie horseys...

Having said that, all would be progressing fine if it weren't for this place. Darned drug is h2g2.

This weeks accomplishments have been : nothing nothing nothing. Except for being one of the top post-ees on this site three days running. I need help.

How many dead this week? It is the only piece of news that you could deliver me from the cardiology type problem ward that would provide a lovely smile on my face. I do like to see people die

That is all. I believe I should go to bed, before my head rolls under the sofa and I can't find it the next day...

Natali

My dear Natali.

Photographic evidence from mid summer appears to indicate that I have a number of relatives who reside under this very roof. I have heard strange noises during the day that corroborate these pictures and witnessed evidence in the form of muddy carpet footprints and primitive artworks on Post-It notes that bear the legend 'Need To Buy Bread' and other such nonsensical narrative.

I shall be mounting a carefully planned expedition in January with the aim of proving the existence of this spectral family. I am beginning to suspect that they may very well be an elaborate hoax, but if so, who - or what - is spending my wages?

Given the nature of my nocturnal world I have also become something of an enforced celibate, much to my horror. In fact, I am a serious contender for the world title this year and next week I shall be meeting Jesus in the quarter finals.

Regarding your inquiry into this months deceased quota I am afraid to say that I have no confirmed kills to report at this time. This is all for the good on at least two counts. Initially, there is a staggering quantity of paperwork that accompanies the cadaver into the next world. Secondly, the poor souls last vision of Earth is often myself; unshaven, half asleep and invoking the ancient catechism "Oh sh*t oh sh*t oh sh*t!" As you can imagine, this does not adequately prepare the average individual for the pleasures of the afterlife and leaves them in a distinctly bad mood for the first three to four thousand years of eternity.

Congratulations on the fruits of your addiction to h2g2. Cries of 'Hussah', 'Bravo' and 'Deary me, has she nothing better to do?' must be echoing through the draughty corridors of power within the BBC. As to your failure to achieve any goals this week, all I can say is at least you have goals. For myself, a lifelong dream has been realised as I finally managed to watch Spiderman on DVD yesterday. I can now die happy with something suitably sarcastic on my headstone.

Veni. Vidi. Verpus.

I came. I saw. I was circumcised.

On reflection, perhaps not.

Love to Ol' Nick.

Oh dear. I cannot face replying to one of your beatufiul posts now. I am vodkavodkavodka drunk.

I am glad there is at least *evidence* of your offspring and wifey person.

I've been celibate since birth. The guy I pulled tonight CHEWED whilst kissing. I ditched him diring a Nine Inch Nails song. I *didn't* want to f**k him like an animal.

*guzzles down more water*

Got to consume my weight in water before I am allowed to sleep. No hangover...no hangover...

Ah Mark I your posts...

Mayeb there will be a carefully thought out post later...

Maybe not.

Natali