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

'Don't you think this city is beautiful?' Teuchter asked them as they walked through the streets of Old Aberdeen admiring the splendour of the granite buildings that housed one of the oldest seats of learning.

'Grey' said Ben remembering another northern location that had been so colourful and so much warmer.

'Cold' added the Trout from inside the Alibaba basket wishing hadn't tagged along. Every dish on the menu seemed to involve some kind of fish, but there was a bridge he wanted to see.

Waz soared overhead. 'A letter! We have a letter! No Trout it's not from France...don't even go there.'

'What doth it thay?'

'who knows we're here anyway?' Grumbled the seal. 'Can't we go and look at the rigs?'

'It's from Boots. "Dear all, trust you are having a good time in northen climes. Jodpur is very blue (not in the way you understand blue, Trout) and hot and you're right sheep, the lavatories are appalling Amend... the lavatories aren't. I can pee where I like and no one gets offended. Hypatia I am sending you a new pair of sandals to make up for the one's I ruined. Any other requests? Sorry I couldn't make Aber-bloody-deen, but I don't do northern and I soooo hate the cold. See you when you move somewhere warmer. Oh and Jazz the kilt suits you...take care boots." The dog's in India!'

'Well that's charming.' said Speckly. Drags us into the journey and then goes walkabout, how many ellipses did it use this time?'

'The hound's like that' said Ben. 'He'll be back or waiting for us.'

Aberdeen. Cold, wet, and full of whores...

Trout just can't help himself, he gets off the bus and goes looking.

"I am going out, I may be some time"

Well, the scenery is lovely - what I can see of it through the rain. But I'm not too thrilled with the change of costume. My hips are too wide to wear plaid.

Jazz, do you suppose they will make us eat porridge? If they do, I hope they put cinnamon and nutmeg in it.

She peeks inside the ali babba basket to see if the lining has miraculously changed to plaid.

Suddenly, a sheep appears on the top step of the bus. A lovely white sheep with large hazel eyes.

Blacksheep's ears peak and twitch as he walks toward the front of the bus. Just as he is clearing his throat for a welcoming baaaaaaaaaaah, whitesheep gives him a come hither look, bounds down the steps and disappears into the rain.

Baaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah!

Trout Montague drew himself deep inside the camel-coloured duffel-coat, its double-crowned hood protecting the piscine biped somewhat against Aberdeen's autochthonous blouters. Oh Captain, my Captain, the Antarctic allusion to oats had aroused the fish-boy's intrigue. Set two picks against a wall and tell your Trout to take his shovel. A door that was not a door because it was a jar slammed arhythmically in the aforementioned element.

Trout Montague entered, pulling the door to, the draft-excluder exuding its customary pleasurable sound of total hermetic satisfaction. His beady eyes adjusted to the dim light, and immediately fell upon three bowls atop the country-kitchen table. He approached gingerly, and despite his consternation that they contained not the type of oats he'd been hoping for set about getting outside the contents. He had forgotten how ravishing he could be. The porridge in the large bowl was almost too hot, the porridge in the small bowl was almost too cold, and the porridge in the baby bowl was ... non-existent. Some other scoundrel, no doubt, had already consumed it. He sat awkwardly on all the chairs in the room, breaking one in the process, before proceeding through another door into what appeared to be a bedroom, where he elected, Boots-like, to urinate on to two of the beds. Then, there limbs akimbo and Brobdingnagian on the baby bed, he spied Sue Pine, supine and peroxide. Or a doppelganger. "Now," thought Trout Montague, "... about those oats ...".

A room away, a door opened silently, letting in a blast of icy Scottish hospitality, closely followed by a broad-brim hat wearing, high-waist trouser sporting, puritanical family of three, shivering tremulously as was the direction of their devotion. Some stereotypical ham-foolery in the name of product-placement ensued. "Someone's had my oats", boomed the bewigged Father. "And someone's had mine", squeaked the Mother, rolling her eyes at the thought of another day without getting her oats. "And someone's had mine", obmurmurated the copper-topped we'un. Some similar ejaculations occurred upon inspection of the chairs, climaxing in lachrymal secretions from the child.

"Shh, someone's coming", warned Sue Pine, most timeously thought the Trout who was busy dispatching a hundred million seamen to active navel duty. Better safe than sorry. Better out than in. And with that, the slippery fish, now S. Pine-less was gone, out the way he'd come in, leaving blondie to explain to the ursine Scotsman, his waif-wife and their bairn just who'd wet the beds.

Hypatia put her arm around the disappointed blacksheep.

"It's ok, Buck. I'll help you find her. Do you know who she is?"

"Baaaaaaaah," replied Buck. "Her name is Fiona. She's my pen pal. I recognized her from the picture she sent me."

She looked as much frightened as come hithering, thought Hypatia. I wonder if she could be in trouble of some kind.

Orchid pointed to a battered board with faded lettering. "What doeth that thign thay?"

Jazz squinted in an attempt to make it out. "Aberdeen Abattoir 2 miles".

She glanced at the agitated blacksheep. His friends were scattered. The hound was somewhere in India relieving himself on a street corner, Ben was asleep in the ali babba basket, and Trout was off rewriting fairy tales. The vulture had taken flight into the rain soaked sky, Pin was on the phone to Speak and Orchid was busy trying on her tartan tutu.

It was time Speckly and Teucher paid for their bus tickets. "Jazz and I need to go check out the....erm...establishment mentioned on the sign. Speckly and Teucher, see if you can pick up her trail. Buck, I want you to write her another letter and post it to her address. We need to find out who is collecting her mail."

Jazz and Hypatia trudged throught the cold rain toward the abattoir, fearful of what they would find.

"I don't seen any hoof prints. The ground is soft. There would be prints if she came this way," the engineer offered.

The large building looked abandoned, and the grounds were overgrown with weeds and brush. "It doesn't look like it's been used for years."

"Look over here." Jazzme squated beside the narrow driveway that led behind the building. "Tire tracks. And fresh ones too. Someone has been here recently."

The wind died down long enough for the two shivering sleuths to hear low sounds coming from inside the slaughterhouse. "Quiet," Jazzme whispered, "someone is still here."

As they crept around the corner of the building,the sounds grew louder and a dim light could be seen through a partly boarded window.

"It sounds like chanting," whispered Hypatia. "And the light flickers like candlelight."

Jazzme recalled hearing similar chants during one of his forays up the Congo. "If Fiona is inside," he whispered, "we won't have good news for Buck."

Jazz shivered a little, he didn't like black magic and the forces of evil, nor even the cold and rain - they got plenty of that in his Northumberland but he resented the intrusion.

He was just coming out of the golden rosy glow that had embraced him ever since he fell into Hypatia's arms on that bus, tasted the first delicious kiss and drew Hypatia into a side seat, away from the jealous seal, under his robe from which emanated oohs...ahs...and giggles interspered by long open mouthed silences, until he emerged singing 'You make me feel so young'.

He apologised to Speckly for his mix-up between the two new arrivals -it was Teuchter, of course, who was the wee scots lassie who had first suggested Aberdeen. Aberdeen? he wondered. If we were coming to Scotland I could have suggested a dozen places on the West coast which I would have preferred - over the heather clad mountains of the highlands speckled in red deer to the wild, beautiful desolation of the Ardnamurchan peninsular; the white sands of Morar; Kyle of Lochalsh with the new bridge across to the beautiful island of Skye (No more 'speed bonny boat' unless you take the winding road to Glenelg for the private ferry) or Laide, on the shore of Guinard Bay where you could sit and watch the sun set over the island of Lewis, setting the waters of Griunard Bay on fire with yellow, red and orange hues, or even Lochcarron where they made the tartan for the kilts.

But you'll no find me in a kilt he said, my family were of the Border Reivers when Northumberland was a battle ground and we kept out the marauding Scots, theiving our cattle, sheep (and women) and we raided back over the border to do the same.

I'll no be wearing the tartan.aye. And the porridge, Hypatia my love, comes plain - oats and milk only with a touch of salt if you wish - but it's not obligatory!

And Trout, if you 'come out by the same door as in you went' and make your way across to the Griunard river you will find lots of trout in the wild waters - no doubt you'll get your oats there (and not scotts porridge oats) But I wouldn't encourage the seal into those sea lochs with the salmon farms - there could be a very stick end for a seal in those parts, rather settle for the summer isles to the North of Gruinard bay where you'll find companions galore.

And now for this deserted abattoir, let's make the sign of the cross and go in to see what's happening.

The Jazzme had found abstruse the absurd plan to visit the above-mentioned Aberdeen Abattoir, abominable place that it was despite its apparent abandonment. Nevertheless, he was not about to abdicate his responsibilities and abscond. In a state of abnegation, "This OAP is not for turning", he abbreviated, abating the abysmal rumour that he would about-face. Abrupt abstinence from absinthe abuse because of an abscess had been abhorrent enough; now again he would rather be abed with Abigail among an abundance of matter-absorbent. Oh abracadabra. But eyes ablaze, and abetting abidance to Hypatia's plan, he, with Hypatia up front and two-abreast, approached the abattoir abutment, abutting their butts thereto and abrading them against the abrasive masonry in the process. Momentarily abeyant, "The chanting?" questioned the Jazzme, "It sounds like that which would emanate from an Abbey". If he'd been absolutely aboveboard, the Jazzme would have let it be known that he was half-expecting to find the abducted Fiona rotating on a giant spit, a whopping great lamb kebab with buckets of mint sauce, surrounded by monks. Or monkeys. But he abridged his abstraction ... it would surely only serve to abash Buck. And besides, he was drooling like one of Pavlov's finest.

"Oh for goodness sake, stop him wintering on like that" said the seal. "That damn fish has swallowed a dictionary".

Ben wasn't paying much attention, but realised that the Trout was in some kind of trouble. He was coughing and spluttering and retching and stuttering. There wasn't much time to lose. She marched round behind him, and grabbed him firmly under the ventral fins her hands slipping over his scales. She jerked up hard under his rib-cage, and sure enough, a dictionary came shooting out of the Trout's mouth, and rose up over the group's heads in a graceful arc. It span end over end in a longshot against the sky, before falling slowly down past the Seal who reacted with an inbred pavlovian instinct and snapped at it as it sailed past his nose.

"Exclamations of exasperation!" said the Seal. "That bothersome salmonid has done it now! I am hyperverbalising."

Ben lets go of the Trout, wiping the slime on her hands carefully onto her slimey clothes and walks purposfully towards the Seal.

Trout Montague was somewhat agog to have had the Heimlich manoeuvre performed on him by the bint Ben ... although a twinkle in his eye may suggested that under different circumstances and a reversal of roles ... yes, that shaggy-dog story wouldn't have lasted very long at all. Reluctantly then, banishing cogitations of canine coitus from his noggin, he casted about for his Oxford Shorter. Which to his utter consternation appeared to be bound for the seal's digestive tract. This was a test of the phocid's mettle ... expectorate or peristalsis?

He still had N-Z though.

Hypatia and Jazz edged slowly, quietly into the abattoir. It was dimly lit by the candles held by a circle of people, about thirty in number, all chanting in some unfamiliar language, and looking into the centre of the circle.

The men were dressed in black robes and wearing black masks. The women were dressed in white robes, with white masks and carried golden orbs in their hands. Jazz noticed that the speed of the chanting was slowly speeding up.

They edged a little further from the shadows and saw what the circle was witnessing. In the centre of the circle a naked couple, man and woman, were copulating to the beat of the chant, which was slowly rising to a crescendo.

Out of here - quick, said Jazz, this is nothing to do with the sheep, and pulled the curious Hypatia away from the scene. I would have thought this was more in place at Rosslyn, Edinburgh, than Aberdeen, he thought.

Dear SYWM,
Here we are in Aberdeen. The weather is quite nice for albatrosses and everything is a restful grey colour.
But unfortunately Mr Pinniped has now swallowed half a dictionary, and is looking a little unhappy. Ben was moving purposefully towards him, which I think he might have secretly enjoyed, but that was yesterday and I think she's probably moved off purposefully somewhere else instead.
Mr Trout is ejaculating again.
Some people just behind us are engaging in an orgiastic ritual of some sort, but the backthread is so complicated that I couldn't say for sure whether I know them or not.
Orchid chose the postcard, with the nice cow picture. We haven't seen any, although there is a MacDonalds. We all send our love.
Yours,
Alberta x

Dear Orchid

Thought you might like this. I picked it from in front of the Taj Mahal. So romantic the Taj and as Valentine's day is only a few weeks away I decided to send it now. You can never rely on the post office to deliver on time. It's called a cymbidium orchid. Fleshier than the phalaenopsis variety - it reminded me of you.

Say hello to the others and be careful in those dreaful northern climes, you never know what you might pick up.

take care
boots

"Aberdeen in the Summer!"

The Speak-Your-Weight-Machine gave short shrift to the pitifully unfunny message that underscored the battleship grey piece of card that had arrived in the post. "Presumably, this passes as jocularity in Scotland", he muttered scornfully, and, ignoring his own pun as well as the sentiment expressed on the reverse, pinned up the postcard with the others.

"Deltiology", he sighed, "is for the delinquent, not the Delphic."

Meanwhile, the Arctic winter, including inter alia a certain Upsalla glacier, was beginning to deliquesce.

Waz flew over the city. In the rain the close knit mosaic of granites shone and the red buses glowed like rubies. Leaving the dumpy twin towers of St Machers behind she flew over Old Aberdeen to be slightly startled by the gaudy new paint and gilding on the shields and crown of King's College, then headed for the city centre using the spines and spires of Marishal College as a landmark.

She could follow her nose from there to find the docks, lying between the ringed tiers of houses climbing Torry and the old fishing village of Footee. The P & O ferry to the Orkneys dwarfed the rusty multicoloured converted trawlers, loading up supplies for the oil rigs. In her clean whites the ferry made her way like the Purser wading through the hoi polloi of third class passage. Waz turned north around the harbour lighthouse, over the green squares and painted boat sheds of Footee to the esplanade. This was what she'd been looking for; sand and sea stretching north for mile after uninterrupted mile in blends of bleached pinks, greys, blues and golds.

'Grey!' She snorted. And headed for Forvie (with a brief diversion up Pittodrie Place to check all was in order there).

Speckly and the Lizzard were wandering around the abbatoir district. They had lost Hypatia and Jazz a while ago but weren't especially worried just yet.

'It's a bit nippy. You don't think I should have worn something else?' she asked the Lizzard. Lizzard looked Speckly over with a bright eye. Tiny tartan dress, adorned with bondage straps; a great deal of exposed clevage and a very large pair of purple Docs. Lizzard sniggered, remembering the many charming young women they had passed on the way to this fragrant part of the city.

'You fit right in'

'Yes, thank you. Well this is the only tartan garment I own.'

They had passed through the abattoir district without a sighting of the sheep. Speckly considered giving up and turning back but the rain was light and the city interesting so they walked on...

...and found themselves at the docks where a flash of a bright woolen back disappearing onto the big white P&O ferry caught the skink's eye. 'Quick, over there,' she trilled.

Speckly hesitated but for a moment before following the sheep on board. A guard started to protest as they pushed their way past but Speckly turned the full force of her cleavage in his direction and hurried on unhindered into the passenger lounge.

The sheep was soon found though she had tried to hide in a funnel. And if the distressed Baas were anything to go by she might well be stuck.

'Now we just have to get her out of there and get off this tub before,' but of course as she said that the engines of the ferry shuddered into life.

'oh bugger' lizzard commented, helpfully.

The check on Pittodrie took more time than planned. A colony of pigeons squatting in the attics had had to be sorted out. The ring leader had strutted and pouted but the rest took flight after she'd made a quick snack of him. By the time Waz got back to the coast the Orkney ferry was sailing north across the bay. The ferry looked unaccustomedly untidy, it was sending up smoke signals.

Pufff, puff, puff,............puufffffff, puff, puff, puufff, pooffff, baa, puff...

'Baa?!' That could only mean one thing.

Waz sighed, Forvie would have to wait, and headed out to sea.

Blacksheep wasn't sure what he wanted to write. He was worried about Fiona. It seemed strange to write "Hi, I'm in Aberdeen, let's meet for tea." But if someone other than Fiona collected the mail, then he didn't want them to know that someone was here to rescue her.

He chewed the end of his pencil and sighed.

Ok, here goes, he thought.

Dear Fiona,
It has been a pleasure corresponding with you over the past few months. I have come to regard you as a friend and look forward to meeting you in person. I have unexpectedly found myself in Aberdeen. I will be at the Sign of the Ram Inn with some friends on Friday at 5 o'clock. It would be great if you could join us. I have pictures of Oakwood to show you.

Yours truly,
Buck

P.S. I'll be wearing a red carnation.

He folded the letter, scribbled Fiona's address on an envelope and exited the bus to find a mailbox. He was halfway back to the bus when a combination of worry for Fiona's safety and Ohio do-it-yourself stubbornness kicked in.

No! I won't leave it to others. Fiona is my friend and it's up to me to find her. He spotted a phone booth, made sure no one was watching, then entered and closed the door. Flashes of light could be seen emananting from the phone booth along with a lot of baaaaaaaaaaaing, a whistle and one quick shriek.

The magnificent creature that emerged bore little resemblance to blacksheep. He was tall and strong with broad shoulders, sharp eyes concealed behind a black mask and a firm chin. A black cape with a red satin lining and dozens of specialized pockets was tied around his neck and each hoof now sported Reebok Sheepmasters with racing stripes and self-pumping gel insoles. But the piece d'resistance was a jaunty cap with a feather that he wore rakishly over his left ear.

Buck let out a hearty Baaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah, and bounded into the night.

He was followed by a robin, flying close to his right shoulder but looking around all the while for any signs of white sheep.

Trouble was, they didn't know in which direction to go, so just headed North - it's as good a direction as any when unsure.

In a few minutes they came upon Hypatia and Jazz coming back from the abattoir, who, upon being greeted with a friendly baaaa, reported no sighting of white sheep in that direction.

Let's head East, suggested Jazz, working his way clockwise around the possible routes, so they trotted off towards the docks, a lucky choice after all.