The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy Original Radio Scripts Read online

  ARTHUR: Charming these Vogons. I wish I had a daughter so I could forbid her to marry one.

  FORD: You wouldn’t need to. They’ve got as much sex appeal as a road accident. And you’d better be prepared for the jump into hyperspace. It’s unpleasantly like being drunk.

  ARTHUR: Well what’s so unpleasant about being drunk?

  FORD: You ask a glass of water.

  ARTHUR: Ford.

  FORD: Yes?

  ARTHUR: What’s this fish doing in my ear?

  FORD: Translating for you. Look under Babel Fish in the book.

  F/X: BOOK MOTIF, INTERRUPTED BY A SUDDEN SWELLING SOUND OF FANTASTIC ACCELERATION . . .

  ARTHUR: (A slurring distort) What’s happening?

  FORD: (A slurring distort) We’re going into hyperspace.

  ARTHUR: Ugggh! I’ll never be cruel to a gin and tonic again.

  F/X: SOUND DISTORTS TOTALLY. THE NARRATOR’S VOICE CUTS ACROSS IT

  GRAMS: NARRATOR BACKGROUND

  NARRATOR: The Babel Fish is small, yellow, leechlike, and probably the oddest thing in the Universe. It feeds on brainwave energy, absorbing all unconscious frequencies and then excreting telepathically a matrix formed from the conscious frequencies and nerve signals picked up from the speech centres of the brain; the practical upshot of which is that if you stick one in your ear you can instantly understand anything said to you in any form of language – the speech you hear decodes the brainwave matrix. Now it is such a bizarrely improbable coincidence that anything so mindbogglingly useful could evolve purely by chance that some thinkers have chosen to see it as a final clinching proof of the non-existence of God.

  The argument goes something like this:

  ‘I refuse to prove that I exist’ says God, ‘for proof denies faith, and without faith I am nothing’. ‘But’, says Man, ‘the Babel Fish is a dead giveaway isn’t it? It proves you exist, and so therefore you don’t. QED’. ‘Oh dear’, says God, ‘I hadn’t thought of that’ and promptly vanishes in a puff of logic. ‘Oh, that was easy’ says Man, and for an encore he proves that black is white and gets killed on the next zebra crossing.

  Most leading theologians claim that this argument is a load of dingo’s kidneys, but that didn’t stop Oolon Colluphid making a small fortune when he used it as the central theme of his best-selling book Well, That About Wraps It Up For God.

  Meanwhile, the poor Babel Fish, by effectively removing all barriers to communication between different cultures and races, has caused more and bloodier wars than anything else in the history of creation.

  ARTHUR: What an extraordinary book.

  FORD: Help me write the new edition.

  ARTHUR: No, I want to go back to Earth again I’m afraid. Or its nearest equivalent.

  FORD: You’re turning down a hundred billion new worlds to explore.

  ARTHUR: Did you get much useful material on Earth?

  FORD: I was able to extend the entry, yes.

  ARTHUR: Oh, let’s see what it says in this edition then.

  FORD: OK.

  ARTHUR: Let’s see . . . Earth . . . tap out the code (FX BOOK MOTIF) . . . there’s the page. Oh, it doesn’t seem to have an entry.

  FORD: Yes it does. See, right there at the bottom of the screen. Just under Eccentrica Gallumbits, the triple-breasted whore of Eroticon VI.

  ARTHUR: What, there? Oh yes.

  BOOK: Harmless.

  ARTHUR: Is that all it’s got to say? One word? Harmless? What the hell’s that supposed to mean?

  FORD: Well, there are a hundred billion stars in the Galaxy and a limited amount of space in the book. And no one knew much about the Earth of course.

  ARTHUR: Well I hope you’ve managed to rectify that a little.

  FORD: Yes, I transmitted a new entry off to the Editor. He had to trim it a bit, but it’s still an improvement.

  ARTHUR: What does it say now?

  FORD: ‘Mostly harmless.’

  ARTHUR: Mostly harmless?

  FORD: That’s the way it is. We’re on a different scale now.

  ARTHUR: OK Ford, I’m with you. I’m bloody well coming with you. Where are we now?

  FORD: Not far from Barnard’s Star. It’s a beautiful place, and a sort of hyperspace junction. You can get virtually anywhere from there.

  F/X: MARCHING FEET OUTSIDE

  FORD: That is, assuming that we actually get there.

  F/X: BANGING ON THE STEEL DOOR

  ARTHUR: What’s that?

  FORD: Well, if we’re lucky it’s just the Vogons come to throw us into space.

  ARTHUR: And if we’re unlucky?

  FORD: If we’re unlucky the Captain might want to read us some of his poetry first.

  NARRATOR: Vogon poetry is, of course, the third worst in the Universe. The second worst is that of the Azgoths of Kria. During a recitation by their Poet Master Grunthos the Flatulent of his poem ‘Ode to a small Lump of Green Putty I found in My Armpit One Midsummer Morning’ four of his audience died of internal haemorrhaging, and the President of the Mid-Galactic Arts Nobbling Council survived by gnawing one of his own legs off. Grunthos is reported to have been ‘disappointed’ by the poem’s reception, and was about to embark on a reading of his twelve book epic entitled ‘My Favourite Bathtime Gurgles’ when his own major intestine, in a desperate attempt to save humanity, leapt straight up through his neck and throttled his brain. The very worst poetry of all perished along with its creator, Paula Nancy Millstone Jennings of Greenbridge in the destruction of the Planet Earth. Vogon poetry is mild by comparison, and when the Vogon Captain began to read it provoked this reaction from Ford Prefect . . .

  FORD: Aaaaaaaaaaarrrrrrrggggghhhh!!!

  NARRATOR: And this from Arthur Dent.

  ARTHUR: Nnnnnnnyyyyyyuuuuuurrrrrggghhh!!! (Continues ad lib)

  VOGON: Oh freddled gruntbuggly! Thy micturations are to me

  As plurdled gabbleblotchits in a lurgid bee.

  Groop I implore thee my foonting turlingdromes,

  And hooptiously drangle me with crinkly bindle werdles,

  For otherwise I will rend thee in the gobberwarts with

  My blurglecruncheon see if I don’t.

  So Earthlings. I present you with a simple choice. I was going to throw you straight out into the empty blackness of space to die horribly and slowly. But there is one way, one simple way in which you may save yourselves. Think very carefully, for you hold your very lives in your hands. Now choose! Either die in the vacuum of space or . . .

  GRAMS: DRAMATIC CHORD

  VOGON: . . . tell me how good you thought my poem was.

  NARRATOR: Will our heroes survive this terrible ordeal? Can they win through with their integrity unscathed? Can they escape without completely compromising their honour and artistic judgement?

  Tune in next week for the next exciting instalment of ‘The Hitch-Hiker’s Guide to the Galaxy’.

  FOOTNOTES

  The first series of six programmes was transmitted for the first time starting on 8 March 1978.

  Full details of other transmissions on BBC radio can be found at the end of the book. The pilot of Hitch-Hiker’s, which subsequently became the first programme, was commissioned by the BBC Radio Light Entertainment Department on 1 March 1977 and produced by Simon Brett on 28 June with the assistance of Paddy Kingsland at the Radiophonic Workshop and a small furry creature from the Crab Nebula.

  Probably the script was commissioned in the first place not out of a burning desire to do a sci-fi comedy but because the Chief Producer at the time was rather taken with a sketch Douglas had written for The Burkiss Way about a Kamikaze pilot being briefed for his nineteenth mission.

  Simon has very kindly looked up his diary for this vital time of creative gestation and it seems to consist chiefly of sitting down with Douglas over an inordinately large number of meals (mostly Japanese). In this respect Douglas’ working method has remained unchanged over the years.

  The go ahead for a series was given on 31 August and was ce
lebrated in the traditional way with a large meal (Greek this time).

  Simon remembers that right from the start Douglas knew exactly what he wanted. For instance, he spent some time looking for a signature tune which had to be electronic but which also had a banjo in it. Quite why he was so keen on a banjo is a bit of a mystery (he says he thought it would help give an ‘on the road, hitch-hiking feel’ to the whole thing), but there is no doubt that the choice of Journey of the Sorcerer from the Eagles album One of These Nights was inspired. Interestingly many of the people who wrote in asking what it was were surprised to find that they already had it. It just seemed to be one of those album tracks that nobody had noticed until it was taken out of context.

  Peter Jones was not the first person approached to play the Book, but curiously from the start there had been a desire to cast someone with a Peter Jonesy sort of voice’. After three or four people (including Michael Palin) had turned it down the search for the Peter Jonesy sort of voice narrowed in on Peter Jones. His calmly reassuring tone as the Earth and the Universe disintegrated around him was a great comfort for those people who were somewhat bewildered by the whole thing, and his performance perhaps took much of its strength from the fact that Peter himself was somewhat bewildered by the whole thing.

  Douglas claims to have based many of the characteristics of Arthur Dent on the actor who played him, Simon Jones (who contrary to several people’s belief is not in fact Peter Jones’ son) though Simon himself is wary of being seen as a role model for a character he describes as ‘whingeing around the Universe trying to find a cup of tea’. An early thought was to call the character Aleric B., but the name Arthur Dent was chosen as being distinctive without being peculiar. (Peculiarly enough quite few people had already come across an Arthur Dent who in 1601 had published a Puritan tract called ‘The Plaine Man’s Pathway to Heaven’. Douglas claims never to have heard of this, despite being hard pressed about it over several large meals.)

  Ford Prefect (whose original name is sadly only pronounceable in an obscure Betelgeusian dialect) was played by the estimable Geoffrey McGivern, star of several Footlights revues. He was virtually typecast as the disreputable alien, Ford Prefect. Fit the First also featured David Gooderson as the barman, Jo Kendall (who had featured in I’m Sorry I’ll Read that Again and The Burkiss Way) as Lady Cynthia Fitzmelton and Bill Wallis (who literally came in on the day to replace another actor who had gone sick), memorably doubled up as Prossor and Prostetnic Vogon Jeltz.

  Many people have been interested in the recipe for a Pan Galactic Gargle Blaster. It must be said that it is in fact impossible to mix a Pan Galactic Gargle Blaster under Earth’s atmospheric conditions, but readers will be delighted to know that all profits from this book will go towards purchasing a ticket on a future space shuttle to see if it is possible to mix one in low orbit. (This is in fact a piece of complete nonsense, thought up over several large lunches, which have already, in fact, absorbed all possible profits from the book.)

  As Paddy Kingsland points out the effect of the Earth’s destruction (page 25) is an amalgam of very ordinary sounds . . . thunderclaps, explosions, old train crashes and so on. In fact, all it would have needed was a heartbeat to have the complete set of radio sound effects clichés. Despite that it’s all mixed together in a way that makes it the technical highlight of the first show.

  The Vogon space ship background, with its distinctive little pings, was inspired by Star Trek, and (rather more obscurely) the Book Motif was inspired by Tom and Jerry and made up from lots of little bits of tape that had been left lying around on the floor in the Radiophonic Workshop.

  The Babel fish is a brilliant device for getting round a basic problem which most Sci-Fi series seem to ignore, namely, why is it that all aliens seem to be able to speak English? Although it is never actually mentioned again it is safe to assume that Arthur has it firmly in his ear over the next eleven episodes.

  The extraordinary noise of gargling, howling, sniffing and so on (page 28) was the first of many effects that were made perfectly satisfactorily by completely ignoring the convoluted directions in the script. In fact, it was made quite simply by reversing the speech.

  Mildly interested Hitch-Hiker’s devotees will note that Paula Nancy Millstone Jennings (page 31) is a pretty strange name. Real fanatics will know that it has been changed from the name that actually appeared on the programme. This is for legal reasons, and is not in fact a typing error made after a particularly arduous lunch.

  Absolutely tonto Hitch-Hiker’s fans will also be interested to know that in a recent edition of the fanzine Playbeing the line ‘I never could get the hang of Thursdays’ was voted the most popular line of the series, shortly ahead of ‘Life? Don’t talk to me about life.’ (About which see the note on the second episode.)

  Music details

  Here are some of the main pieces of music used in the first programme in addition to the signature tune.

  Lontano. From A Modern Mass for the Dead by Ligeti.

  (Used in the opening speech, the ‘On this particular Thursday’ speech, and the Vogon constructor fleet speech.)

  A Rainbow in Curved Air by Terence Riley.

  (Used in the ‘None at all’ speech, the Pan Galactic Gargle Blaster speech, the Babel fish speech and the Vogon poetry speech.)

  Volumina by Ligeti.

  (Used as the final dramatic chord.)

  FIT THE SECOND

  After being saved from certain death during the demolition of the Earth, Arthur Dent now faces a hopeless choice between meeting certain death in the vacuum of space or finding something pleasant to say about Vogon poetry.

  GRAMS SIG: ‘JOURNEY OF THE SORCERER’

  GRAMS: NARRATOR BACKGROUND

  NARRATOR: Far out in the uncharted backwaters of the unfashionable end of the Western spiral arm of the Galaxy lies a small unregarded yellow sun. Orbiting this at a distance of roughly ninety million miles is an utterly insignificant little blue-green planet whose ape-descended life forms are so amazingly primitive that they still think digital watches are a pretty neat idea.

  This planet has, or had, a problem which was this: most of the people living on it were unhappy for pretty much of the time. Many solutions were suggested for this problem, but most of these were largely concerned with the movements of small green pieces of paper, which is odd because on the whole it wasn’t the small green pieces of paper that were unhappy.

  And so the problem remained; and lots of the people were mean, and most of them were miserable, even the ones with digital watches. Many were increasingly of the opinion that they’d all made a big mistake in coming down from the trees in the first place. And some said that even the trees had been mad move, and that no one should ever have left the oceans.

  And then one day, nearly two thousand years after one man had been nailed to a tree for saying how great it would be to be nice to people for a change a girl sitting on her own in a small cafe in Rickmansworth suddenly realized what it was that had been going wrong all this time, and she finally knew how the world could be made a good and happy place. This time it was right, it would work, and no one would have to get nailed to anything. Sadly however, before she could get to a phone to tell anyone, the Earth was unexpectedly demolished to make way for a new hyperspace bypass and so the idea was lost forever.

  Meanwhile, Arthur Dent has escaped from the Earth in the company of a friend of his who has unexpectedly turned out to be from a small planet somewhere in the vicinity of Betelgeuse. His name is Ford Prefect, for reasons which are unlikely to become clear again at the moment, and they are both in dead trouble with the captain of a Vogon spaceship.

  VOGON: So, Earthlings, I present you with a simple choice. Think carefully for you hold your very lives in your hands. Now choose! Either die in the vacuum of space, or . . .

  GRAMS: DRAMATIC CHORD (SHRUBBERY)

  VOGON: . . . Tell me how good you thought my poem was!

  FORD: I liked it.

  VOGON:
(Relaxing) Oh good.

  ARTHUR: Oh yes, I thought that some of the metaphysical imagery was really particularly effective.

  VOGON: (Prompting) Yes?

  ARTHUR: Oh . . . and, er, interesting rhythmic devices too which seemed to counterpoint the . . . e . . .

  FORD: . . . counterpoint the surrealism of the underlying metaphor of the . . . er . . .

  ARTHUR: Humanity of the . . . e . . .

  FORD: Vogonity.

  ARTHUR: (Getting desperate) Vogonity, sorry, of the poet’s compassionate soul which contrives through the medium of the verse structure to sublimate this, transcend that, and come to terms with the fundamental dichotomies of the other, and one is left with a profound and vivid insight int . . . into . . .

  FORD: . . . into whatever it was the poem was about! (Aside) Well done Arthur, that was very good.

  VOGON: So what you’re saying is that I write poetry because underneath my mean, callous, heartless exterior I really just want to be loved. Is that right?

  FORD: (Laughing nervously) Well I mean, yes, don’t we all, deep down, you know . . . er . . .

  VOGON: No, well you’re completely wrong. I just write poetry to throw my mean, callous, heartless exterior into sharp relief: I’m going to throw you off the ship anyway. Guard! Take the prisoners to number three airlock and throw them out.

  F/X: THEY ARE GRABBED AND PUT UP A STRUGGLE. THE STRUGGLE CONTINUES DURING ALL THE ENSUING DIALOGUE

  FORD: You can’t throw us off into deep space, we’re trying to write a book!

  VOGON GUARD: Resistance is useless.

  ARTHUR: I don’t want to die now, I’ve still got a headache! I don’t want to go to heaven with a headache, I’d be all cross and wouldn’t enjoy it.

  (They are being urged further and further away)

  FORD: You can’t do this!

  VOGON: Why not, you puny creature?

  FORD: Oh ‘Why not?’ ‘Why not?’ Does there have to be a reason for everything? Why don’t you just let us go on a mad impulse? Go on, live a little, surprise yourse . . .