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

I always find that when the hangover is really bad, a nice greasy fry'll do the trick. Now, I'm not talking about your average everyday fry, no, I'm talking about the type of fry that could kill armadillos at fifteen paces. Well, they help me.
And in a completely unrelated subject I have now just figured out why I have been forced to be a chicken and red-meat vegetarian for the last five years. Obviously that polystyrene goes on the bottom, hence explaining why my meat always ends up on the floor when I cut open the plastic. It's an absorbent pad, and not some form of overhead coolant. Oops.

The humble fry is God's answer to the hangover, I have to agree, though I always find the first few mouthfuls a bit of a hairy experience. The creeping feeling of stale beer and whatever else I managed to throw down my neck clashing with the hot animal fat in my stomach always gives me a few anxious minutes. I find the ideal hangover cure is to have a ridiculously small amount of sleep, and wake up still hammered, that way you can ease yourself gently with gallons of tea down from the high of inebriation to the troughs of everyday existence. I'm also led to believe marijuana helps, but I couldn't comment on that, obviously.
I have also discovered why Boddington's have started to use a weird kind of male cow to advertise their beer. (A male cow is, surely, a bull, which don't have udders, but I digress.) Upon imbibing a small amount of Boddington's, say eight pints (I wish!), I find that, like the vast herds of cows on the South American plains, I, too, become a significant contributer to global warming. My body feels the urge for days afterwards to emit noxious clouds of stale Boddington's tinged methane into the atmosphere at the slightest provocation, which has not done wonders for my social life. I realise that whoever is reading this thinks I'm strange, but I believe I have the duty to warn people of the perils of 'bitter farts'. Peel wallpaper at twenty paces! Kill wildfowl just by squeezing your sphincter! Re-enact the mustard gas attacks of the Somme from the comfort of your own sofa. Power a medium-size town on your anal emissions, the possibilities are endless, but the potential casualties are horrific. I beg you stick to lager. Thin, pissy as it is, with all the sophistication of Ferrero Rocher, but at least it's not bitter. Or Guiness. Don't get me started on Guiness, for God's sake. Have you no respect for humanity??!! Anyway, it's time to go back to my cell now. Goodbye, Mummy.
By the way, I have to commend vegetarianism. If I liked chicken, which fortunately, I don't, I wouldn't touch it again after some of the things I've seen. Why the in-bred troglodyte knuckle-heads that I work with insist on using polystyrene trays as handkerchiefs, I'll never know. Perhaps it's because "handkerchief" has three syllables, which is a "big word", whereas "tray" is easy to grunt. "Sneeze.Tray" in a gutteral, mongoloid voice is a common sound where I work, which I am NOT going to name because it's easy money, whereas "Excuse me, I'm going to sneeze, do you have a handkerchief or tissue handy?" generally takes about ten minutes to formulate in the wretched creatures' minds.

I've killed everyone with my noxious bowels. Oh well, goodbye.

Well, at least you feel remorse.

Right, that wee face thing didn't work. Just call me a dimbleweed and we'll move on from there. My excuse, I'm new to this stuff.

If you click on 'Don't Panic, you can get up a help menu thingy that'll help you learn how to do 'em. The problem is actually giving a shit enough to remember how to do them a day later, I've found.
I'm new to this as well. What do you think? At first I was extremely excited, and I thought that this was the dogs bollocks, but after a couple of weeks the initial euphoria has faded. It's a bit, er, limited, don't you think? Or am I just a mangy bugger? You tell me!!
P.S., wish I was at Belfast, you lucky thing, you.

What? You want to live where? Belfast!? Surely not!

Though this isn't the worst place on the earth, it certainly isn't the best, and though I accept that we all (probably) don't like the place where we live due to the fact that there is sonewhere nicer (surely), living in Belfast is not my idea of a brilliant time.

Then again the psychologist in my bar playing insult The Chick (and not get served again) thought that I wouldn't be living here in 5 years. What a genius.

Anyway, okay OAC people throwing me there.

Was going to look at the Don't Panic thing, but then realised that I am too lazy to do even that.

Argh! Lecture!

Er, hello, I've not been here for ages and ages. I used to like Belfast lots 'cos I went out with a girl who lives near Newry, Warrenpoint, to be precise, and I used to stay in Belfast a lot. However, since we split up (third of Jan, good timing, eh?!) I'll probably not get to go there in the near future, which is a shame. It's got a certain character about it. I like the frisson of danger of having an English accent, the fear of an imminent lynching is good for the soul!
So did you have a good New Year and everything? I hope so. I got very drunk over Christmas, which was cool, but New Year was a bummer cos I went to see my now ex-girlfriend, but I've made up for it since, though, which has been very enjoyable, to say the least!
Anyway, that's all for now, nothing interesting's happened to me, except that I saw that geezer called Otis off CBBC in Leeds on Saturday night. I tried to offer him a chip, which he declined with thanks, then I bored him by chatting drunken bollocks to him, which I'm sure he appreciated. Right, I'm off to the pub. See you later...

belfast is alright, even if ya do have an English accent. People in Belfast are generally to wrapped up in their own business to give a damn about other people.
The city has a unique character to it indeed. It is a neat place, there are a few good bands and the pubs are generally safe. The best one in Belfast is The Quens bar in Queens Arcade. Its lovely, great women and a good view of the people walking past in the arcade. I love it.
Frys rule too. specially on Saturday night when my mom makes it. Potato Bread is the best thing ever.
Gareth McKittrick