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

Yep! Certainly! By all means! H***, yes! Åh ja!

Had a fabulous time when I was down there, wouldn't at all mind redoing it.

And chances are that I will - only no idea when

B/R,

SG V

SG V, welcome back

29 degress Celsius is forcast here today

I do not want to hear more about it! Here it's just about the worst - IMHO antway - kind of winter: 2oC, windy and lots of rain or sleet. ARRRGGGH....! What's so funny about winter when we don't even get a proper one????

I should probably snuggle in fron of the fireplace with a good book and dream about May when we'll go to the south of France for a week...

Well -- enjoy your weather *sulks*

SG V

Hi Loony
How is life in New Zealand anyway? The people I know who have been there say it is a green, mountainous and pleasant land, with lots of sheep, and therefore not unlike my home land, apart from the fact that it's not always raining. A friend came back from Canberra a couple of weeks ago and he said it's boiling hot at the moment.

Your vibrant description of Napier just makes me want to hop on an aircraft and fly out there. I wish I could same the same about my home town.

G'day Felonious Monk. Thanks for the kind words. The following yarn was written about this time last year. The only thing that has changed in the ensuing 12 months is that all the top positions of power in Kiwiland are now held by women. Which of course is how Kiwi men planned it. It gives us more time to slope off to the pub.

At a nearby park, the paths are painted crimson with fallen Moreton Bay figs, round and small and soft, like plums, easy to squash underfoot, and they smell like sweet coconut. Inside, the flesh is dry in the centre, sticky at the edges; and their red skins blacken in the sun. They fall at the very end of barbecue weather.

I picked up about a dozen, and cradled them on top of a banana cake I had bought for $4 from a stall. "Baked this morning," said the woman, who sat in a deckchair in the shade. Another woman was selling books for $1 from a cardboard box. I bought the revised King James Bible. "I don't know if that's the proper one," she said. "Religion isn't my field of expertise."

It was early afternoon on a warm Saturday. I walked across the grass in my jandals, lay down beneath a Californian redwood, and turned to Leviticus.

"And these you shall have in abomination among the birds, they shall not be eaten, they are an abomination: the eagle, the vulture, the osprey, the kite, the falcon according to its kind, every raven according to its kind, the ostrich, the nighthawk, the seagull, the owl, the cormorant, the ibis, the water hen, the pelican, the carrion vulture, the stork, the heron according to its kind, the hoopoe, and the bat."

Away from the small type and the thin, important pages, there was the usual bumbling Saturday scene being played out - an Asian woman standing in an upstairs window above a restaurant, a raffle to win a hamper of Easter eggs, a hippie on a bicycle, and the sky was completely and utterly blue, a pearler, and I got up to buy a cup of tea in a plastic cup and an Afghan biscuit for $2, and then I lay down again.

"And these are unclean to you among the swarming things that swarm upon the earth: the weasel, the mouse, the great lizard according to its kind, the gecko, the land crocodile, the lizard, the sand lizard, and the chameleon." And the camel, the hare, the swine, the rock badger, and "whatever goes on its belly"; and "anything in the seas or the rivers that has no fins or scales".

So I asked my female friend to buy some sirloin. I already had four Hutton's Real Chicken Sizzlers left in the fridge from the previous night's barbecue, when my five-year-old godson and his parents came over, late as usual, which meant I finished cooking in my backyard in the dark. Later, while the adults were blathering, I took my godson outside and we put the dry branches of December's Christmas tree onto the vague coals on the barbecue, and watched them catch fire, the flames shaking shadows all over our faces. "I like coming to your house, Grahame," he said.

I hadn't bothered to clean the ashes by Saturday afternoon. After a snizz on the couch, I waddled outside and piled on paper and pinecones, lit a match, and then walked around the creek at the back of my house. It was at high tide, so the white-faced and presumably abominable herons were nowhere in sight. But the mullets - such an unfortunate name - were jumping out of the water, and their silver scales flashed in the low sun; and the eels looked good enough for Moses to eat. I watched the creek flow. Walking home towards the thin smoke wriggling into the air from my backyard, I saw two well-known lesbians, and the sunset had bathed their faces an interesting orange.

I threw some coals on the barbecue, changed into long pants, and watered the garden. The cat chased the hose. I felt extremely stupid, and very happy. The phone rang: it was my oldest friend, a union official who lives in Sydney, back in the country for a week's holiday. He said, "I'm going to go fishing tomorrow morning, but what are you doing after that?" I said, "Mate, come over and I'll light up the barbecue." About 10 minutes before he called, I had placed the barbecue lid over the sirloin. It was now a perfectly cooked steak. I got the bottle of Wattie’s tomato sauce, and my friend made some sort of green salad with mint sauce, and boiled a potato, and I put the Hutton's Real Chicken Sizzlers on the barbecue grill in case I got hungry later in the evening, and then I sat down at the garden table and filled my fat, dazed face. Delicious.

The sun had gone down in the west, over the silent mangroves and the creek that now shuffled back towards the bay, and a full moon was rising in the east. I had put the Moreton Bay figs in a bowl on the table just for their smell. It was black night by 8.23pm, and it was the last day of daylight saving, the last day of summer.

Hmm, I can smell the meat cooking now.....or is that yet another bonfire of dead sheep and cows that have fallen prey to the benightedly mediaeval British policy for controlling foot-and-mouth?
I must admit to knowing very little about New Zealand, apart from Ernest Rutherford, Peter Jackson, the car tyre-eating kea (and its rather more self-effacing cousin, the kakapo) and sheep farming (and I'm not even sure if they all are attributable to NZ). To us antipodeans, twinkled on at night by alien stars in an alien sky, it is an enigmatic country, hinting at Arcadian bliss and calm, defined mainly by the fact that it is NOT Australia. So do spin some more of your evocative yarns, as there will always be someone 'down under' who'd like to know more about you and where you live.

All the things you mention are attributable to Godzone (NZ).

Kiwiland and Australia are vastly different. NZ is a surprisingly large (to some) sparsely populated, clean, green country providing (among other things) adventure tourism for visitors.

Australia is a few overpopulated, over-priced cities clinging to an ever-decreasing green-belt encirling a dirty great desert. You can't visit the interior in case something stings or inflicts a fatal bite upon your body. These things, plus others, also live in the rivers and oceans.

I have good memories of a few years spent living in Britain and Europe in the 70s.

INSIDE THE MIND OF A MAN AT C&A.
An extract from The Secret Diaries. Friday, June 23, 1975

Woke late and took it easy in bed listening to You Ain't Seen Nothing Yet by Bachman Turner Overdrive. One of the chicks brought me breakfast (bacon, sausages, eggs - sunnyside up, natch - just like I like) and then it was time to get on out.

Cruised downtown in the Lancia and swung by the chemist (Malc The Talc's) for Brut and something for the weekend. Then to the main business of the day - a seasonal wardrobe rethink with my man Ray down at C&A. "Ray," I began, "let's do the easy stuff first. It's going to be summer soon and you know what kind of a guy I am. Tell me you haven't run out of those yellow Y-fronts with purple trim." "Not at all, sir," said Ray. "Plenty left. I take it that the maroon and beige have lived up to expectations."

"For me to know and you to guess. Now, what's new?" The next 30 minutes, dearest diary, were life-changing. First of all Ray comes over with these, like, special trousers - tight where the ladies like it tight but flared at the bottom.

Then he fetches one of these sweaters designed so that you can.show off the watch to maximum advantage - even wear it on the outside, over the sleeve, if the mood is rude (and it usually is). Both garments, by the way, with full-stretch freedom (and doesn't that come as a big relief).

But the final touch was all mine. I spotted the belted tunic - the camel and white combo was a killer. Man, I came up with the "Three Piece Set". Fashion comes and goes but style... well, what can I say? It's here to stay. Two words: C&A.

And yeah - later, you could say that I hustled a few frames off Fat James down at The Lazy Baize.

Alas, so I am told, C&A are no more

Talk of the demise of C&A reminds me of a (true) story which would make a good article, if I could get more detail of what went on.
I originate from Swansea, South Wales, a fairly grubby city surrounded by nice countryside. I now live in Nottingham, which is a nice city surrounded by unremarkable countryside. So it goes.
The city centre has few noteworthy sights: people come to Swansea to sample other people and the Gower peninsula. Amongst the undistinguished '50's buildings, there is one building that stands out as being even less distinguished than others: St. Mary's church. A squat, limestone-built building, it crouches timidly near the centre of the city.
Back near the beginning of last century, the existing church, as it was, needed to be rebuilt. The architect chosen was a Mr. Fothergill (I think); there is a quite famous Mr. Fothergill who built a lot of buildings in Nottingham, but he cannot be the same man as these buildings are quite nice. Anyway, this Fothergill was not a local man, and at that time, parochial pride was quite strong. It was especially strong among local architects, and one of these, who felt that his talent had been slighted by the choice of Fothergill to redesign the church, took it upon himself to exact a particularly 'diabolical' revenge.
He bought the plot of land opposite the nave of the church, and erected a rather pleasant row of red-brick shops. This would have been unremarkable in itself, were it not for the fact that the architect then had a large red wooden effigy of Old Nick himself, with horns, leathery wings and barbed tail, mounted on the front of the building so it could scowl down through the nave window into the serried ranks of worshippers. It is one thing to be reminded of the glories of heaven while worshipping, quite another to see Hell gazing upon you.
The effigy became famous and was eventually known as the 'Swansea Devil'. His creator prophesied that the devil would see St. Mary's church burn, and so he did, when, during the Blitz, the church got bombed and heavily damaged, such was his malign influence.
St Mary's church only had the Luftwaffe to contend with: the Devil had Swansea's town planners, an altogether more resolute foe. The church was rebuilt, but the row of shops was torn down to make room for (you guessed it) a large, ugly concrete C&A store. The Devil got lost and mouldered in a garage in Swansea for years, until, when in the 1980s it was discovered, restored to its former glory, and mounted as close as possible to its original siting without offending the churchgoers. So they put it in the entrance to the Quadrant shopping centre, looking down into the C&A store.
Now C&A is no more, not in Swansea, not anywhere. On my last visit I noticed that the Devil has been moved again. I don't know where, but I hope he has been placed somewhere where he can do no harm. Either that, or overlooking the entrance to Buckingham Palace.

FM, a splendid story and, as you say, it would make an excellent guide entry. You could probably check out a few facts using the net. In my experience virtually everything is posted somewhere.

What's it with Welsh people and monks? Another Welsh guy I have chatted to on h2g2 calls himself MadMunk

I'll get cracking on the research,. I think I'll actually have to do some physical legwork as I have so far drawn a blank on the web. My dad told me the story, and he can probably fill me in or has the newspaper cutting somewhere.

Why 'Felonius Monk?' Well, I like jazz, I pretend to know something about it, and Thelonius Monk seemed to me to be a rather exotic name. So somebody mentioned the word 'felonius' in earshot, I happened to think of Thelonius M., and FM was born, a mendicant friar who scribbles republican and scientific tracts in his cell (solitary, of course). I used to be 'deadlyvices', which is a rather apt anagram of my name, so I would probably not make a very good monk. Besides I'm too besotted with worldly pleasures.

The Welsh and monks go back a long way. Even back in the days of Henry VIII, it was a backward country and therefore ideal for those who wanted to get back to God and Nature. (Now you can see why Charles is Prince of Wales ) There were numerous, grand abbeys built in the most beautiful places: Neath (not beautiful now, believe me), Tintern and, possibly the most mellifluously named of all, Strata Florida (meaning 'vale of flowers'). Of course, after the dissolution of the monasteries by Henry, these places were left to decay into the now glorious state of ruin that inspired the likes of Wordsworth to wax lyrical.
Welsh religion has now rebelled against virtually any institution that was handed down from Pope or King, and is now a bastion of non-conformism: an austere and spiritually enervating Calvinistic creed that believes in predestination, austerity and not drinking any alcohol. Being a 'monk' (even on h2g2) I suppose is an external expression of an internal desire to get back to a way of communing with God through lifestyle and drinking home-made ale, rather than sitting in a freezing cold, depressingly bare chapel, listening to some balding taff preacher telling the congregation that they're 'all DOOMED, do you hear me?' Mind you, the singing is nice.

I'll get cracking on the research,. I think I'll actually have to do some physical legwork as I have so far drawn a blank on the web. My dad told me the story, and he can probably fill me in or has the newspaper cutting somewhere.

Why 'Felonius Monk?' Well, I like jazz, I pretend to know something about it, and Thelonius Monk seemed to me to be a rather exotic name. So somebody mentioned the word 'felonius' in earshot, I happened to think of Thelonius M., and FM was born, a mendicant friar who scribbles republican and scientific tracts in his cell (solitary, of course). I used to be 'deadlyvices', which is a rather apt anagram of my name, so I would probably not make a very good monk. Besides I'm too besotted with worldly pleasures.

The Welsh and monks go back a long way. Even back in the days of Henry VIII, it was a backward country and therefore ideal for those who wanted to get back to God and Nature. (Now you can see why Charles is Prince of Wales ) There were numerous, grand abbeys built in the most beautiful places: Neath (not beautiful now, believe me), Tintern and, possibly the most mellifluously named of all, Strata Florida (meaning 'vale of flowers'). Of course, after the dissolution of the monasteries by Henry, these places were left to decay into the now glorious state of ruin that inspired the likes of Wordsworth to wax lyrical.
Welsh religion has now rebelled against virtually any institution that was handed down from Pope or King, and is now a bastion of non-conformism: an austere and spiritually enervating Calvinistic creed that believes in predestination, austerity and not drinking any alcohol. Being a 'monk' (even on h2g2) I suppose is an external expression of an internal desire to get back to a way of communing with God through lifestyle and drinking home-made ale, rather than sitting in a freezing cold, depressingly bare chapel, listening to some balding taff preacher telling the congregation that they're 'all DOOMED, do you hear me?' Mind you, the singing is nice.

Well explained. Perhaps the basis of another interesting yarn....

There must be a lot of historical stuff involving olden day Wales you could write about.

One that springs to mind was that time in 1905 when Deans scored that dodgy try against the NZ All Blacks...

How about in 1973 when Llanelli, a small unremarkable town near to Swansea, beat the All Blacks 9-3? Not that the likes of this will ever happen again, given the demographic changes in Wales. The holy trinity of Pit, Chapel and Rugby Club is no longer worshipped with the same reverence, so we don't produce the same quality of rugby players, which is a shame.

A pity indeed. NZ, Wales and a few Pacific Island states are the only places where rugby union is the national sport (religion). Even in South Africa, soccer is the opiate of the masses.

One of the reasons NZ rugby is not as strong as it once was is because the rise of professionalism has sidelined the farming community - a traditional source of big forwards. Most of the top NZ teams, players and coaches are now city-based. Being a top-line rugby player has become a lucrative career choice. Similar to the situation in Wales, the traditional Kiwi trinity of Farm, Family and Beer centred around the rugby club is no more.

It was a good call by Wales to sign New Zealander Graham Henry as national coach a couple of years ago. If he had stayed in Kiwiland he would probably by now have been appointed All Black coach. In the rugby coaching world there are not many jobs bigger than that.

It's a sad thing now that rugby is no longer the national religion. I think the scenario of Welsh rugby decline goes along the lines of: no pit, therefore no miners, therefore no strong young men with bugger all to do at the weekends, therefore no rugby clubs etc. And I also think that a similar problem re. professionalism to that in NZ has sidelined the valley communities. Even Graham Henry can't fight the fact that Max Boyce's 'nine-foot seams of outside-halves that lie below the ground' are mined out.
Professionalism was inevitable in RU, I think, because it was a bit of a joke about how all the best players (e.g. Jonathan Davies) ended up playing Rugby League. And, of course, the practice of 'boot money' had been going on for years.

You might find the following link a bit interesting, if only to show that I haven't imagined it all:
[URL removed by moderator]

Moderation, don't you just love it?

FM, you may like to email the link to me. My email address can be found on my Home Space. It's at the bottom of the biography yarn.

An interesting trend in Aus/NZ rugby is that quite a few big name rugby league players are switching to union. In a huge turnaround, at the top level, there is now more money to be made playing rugby union.

Some commentators are predicting that if rugby league keeps on losing their best players then eventually public interest in league will dwindle and the sport will die out.

Oh Bugger,

Well, I'll email you directly with the link. It was just following on from that dark tale of diabolism and bruised architectural egos, but the moderator obviously viewed it as being too contentious.

I'm a Union man myself (hardly surprising, really). I can't be doing with all this tackle-stop-kick the ball back business, and I find Union a much more fluid and complex game. Which do you prefer, Union or League? Living where I am an the moment, one is starved of both: there's no league to speak of in Nottingham, and the Union team is not exactly, well, scintillating.

Myself, I'm all for professionalism if:
* It stops the game from dying out
* Union gets to keep all the best players
* More people want to play Union
* It improves Wales' current standard of playing to something approaching that in the glory days of the '70's. This is a long shot, I think...