The Hitch Hiker's Guide To The Galaxy by Douglas Adams Transcript by Johannes Haglund (j.haglund@swipnet.se) Version 1.0 DISCLAIMER This is a fan transcription of the BBC radio show The Hitch Hiker's Guide To The Galaxy. I am in no way connected to BBC or Douglas Adams. You may distribute this document as you wish, but you may NOT change it in any way. Also, you may NOT sell or in any other way profit from this document. SOME NOTES ABOUT THIS SCRIPT First, I think it would be wise to tell you that I'm not a native english speaker, and therefore my spelling might just be off at some times. If you do happen to find a typo, don't hesitate to mail me about it. Also, with this being a transcript of a radio show, you can't expect me to catch every single word spoken by every single person. If you think you know what someone is saying when I'm not sure about it (see below), do mail me about that too. <> - This indicates a sound effect. {} - This indicates something I'm having trouble hearing correctly, or something I don't really know how to spell. [] - This indicates that I've inserted an explanation or a small note about something. ------------------------------- Episode 1 PRESENTER: The Hitch Hiker's Guide to the Galaxy, by Douglas Adams. Starring Peter Jones as The Book, with Simon Jones and {Geoffrey McGivon}. THE BOOK: This is the story of the 'Hitch Hiker's Guide To The Galaxy', perhaps the most remarkable, certainly the most successful book ever to come out of the great publishing corporations of Ursa Minor. More popular than the 'Celestial Homecare Omnibus', better selling than 'Fifty-three More Things To Do In Zero Gravity', and more controversial than Oolon Colluphids trilogy of philosophical blockbusters; 'Where God Went Wrong', 'Some More Of God's Greatest Mistakes', and 'Who Is This God Person Anyway?'. And in many of the more relaxed civilazations on the outer eastern rim of the galaxy, the Hitch Hiker's Guide has already {surplanted} the great 'Encyclopedia Galactica' as the standard repository of all knowledge and wisdom, because although it has many omissions, contains much that is {apocryful}, or at least wildly inaccurate, it scores over the older, more pedestrian work in two important ways; first, it is slightly cheaper, and second, it has the words 'Don't panic' inscribed in large, friendly letters on the cover. To tell the story of the book, it's best to tell the story of some of the minds behind it. A human, from the planet Earth, was one of them, though as our story opens, he no more knows his destiny than a tea leaf knows the history of the East India Company. His name is Arthur Dent, he is a six-foot tall ape decendant, and someone is trying to drive a bypass through his home. PROSSER: Come off it, Mr. Dent, you can't win you know! Look, there's no point in lying down in the path of progress! ARTHUR: I got off the idea of progress. It's overrated! PROSSER: But you must realise that you can't lie in front of the bulldozers indefinitly! ARTHUR: I'm game. We'll see who rusts first. PROSSER: I'm afraid you'll gonna have to accept it! This bypass has got to be built, and it is going to be built! Nothing you can say or do... ARTHUR: Why is it got to be built? PROSSER: What do you mean? 'Why is it got to be built?' It is a bypass! You've got to build bypasses! ARTHUR: Didn't anyone consider the alternatives? PROSSER: There aren't any alternatives, but gee, {why didn't you} make any suggestions or protests at the appropriate time? ARTHUR: Appropriate time? PROSSER: Yes! ARTHUR: First I knew about it was when a workman arrived at the door yesterday! I asked him if he had come to clean the windows, and he said he'd come to demolish the house! He didn't tell me straight away, of course. No, first he wiped a couple of windows and charged me a fiver. Then he told me. PROSSER: Look, Mr. Dent, the plans have been available in the planning office for the last nine months! ARTHUR: Yes, I went round too find them yesterday afternoon. You hadn't exactly gone out of your way to pull much attention to them, have you? I mean, like actually telling anybody or anything. PROSSER: The plans were on display! ARTHUR: Ah, how many avarage members of the public are in the habit of casually dropping around the local planning office in the evening? It's not exactly a noted social venue, is it? And even if you had popped in on the off chance that some raving buereucrat wanted to knock your house down, the plans weren't immediatly obvious to the eye, were they? PROSSER: That depends where you were looking. ARTHUR: I eventually had to go down to the cellar! PROSSER: That's the display department. ARTHUR: With a torch! PROSSER: The lights had probably gone. ARTHUR: So had the stairs. PROSSER: Well, you found the notice, didn't you? ARTHUR: Yes, it was on display in the bottom of a locked filing cabinet, stuck in a disused lavatory with a sign on the door saying 'Beware of the leopard'. Ever thought of going into advertising? PROSSER: It's not as if it's a particularly nice house anyway... ARTHUR: I happen rather to like it! PROSSER: Mr. Dent! ARTHUR: Yes, hello. PROSSER: Have you any idea how much damage that bulldozer would suffer if I just let it roll straight over you? ARTHUR: How much? PROSSER: None at all. THE BOOK: By a strange coincidence, 'none at all' is exactly how much suspicion the ape-decendant Arthur Dent had that one of his closest friends was not decended from an ape, but was in fact from a small planet somewhere in the vicinity of Betelguese. Arthur Dent's failure to suspect this reflects the care with which his friend blended himself into human society, after a fairly shaky start. When he first arrived, fifteen years ago, the minimum research he had done had suggested to him that the name 'Ford Prefect' would be nicely inconspicuous. He will enter our story in thirty-five seconds, and say 'Hello, Arthur'. The ape-decendant will greet him in return, but in difference to a million years of evolution, he will not attempt to pick fleas off him. Earthmen are not proud of their ancestors and never invite them round to dinner. FORD: Hello, Arthur! ARTHUR: Ford! Hi, how are you. FORD: Fine. Look, are you busy? ARTHUR: Well, I've just got this bulldozer to lie in front of, otherwise no, not especially. FORD: There's a pub down the road. Let's have a drink, and we can talk. ARTHUR: Don't you understand? PROSSER: Mr. Dent, we're waiting! ARTHUR: Ford, that man wants to knock my house down! FORD: Well, he can do it whilst you're away, can't he? ARTHUR: But I don't want him to! FORD: Well, just ask him to wait 'till you get back! ARTHUR: Ford! FORD: Arthur, will you please just listen to me, I'm not fooling. I've got to tell you the most important thing you've ever heard, I've got to tell you now, and I've got to tell you in that pub there. ARTHUR: Why? FORD: Because you're gonna need a very stiff drink! Now just trust me! ARTHUR: I'll see what I can do. It had better be good. Hello, Mr. Prosser? PROSSER: Yes, Mr. Dent? Have you come to your senses yet? ARTHUR: Umm, well, can we just assume for a moment that I haven't? PROSSER: Well? ARTHUR: And that I'm going to be staying put here 'till you go away? PROSSER: So? ARTHUR: So you're going to be standing around all day doing nothing. PROSSER: Could be... ARTHUR: Well, if you're assigned to standing around doing nothing all day, you don't actually need me here all the time, do you? PROSSER: Umm, no... Not as such... ARTHUR: So if you can just take it {as red} that I'm actually here, I could just slip off down to the pub for half an hour. How does that sound? PROSSER: Umm, that sounds, umm, well, very resonable I think, Mr. Dent, I'm sure we don't actually need you there for the whole time, we can just hold up {our end of} the confrontation! ARTHUR: And if you want to pop off for a bit later on, I could always cover for you in return! PROSSER: Oh, oh, thank you, yes, yes, that would be fine, yes, very kind of you, Mr. Dent, very kind! ARTHUR: And of course it goes without saying that you don't try and knock my house over while I'm away. PROSSER: Oh, good lord, no, Mr. Dent! ARTHUR: You think we can trust him? FORD: Myself, I'd trust him to the end of the earth. ARTHUR: Yes, but how far's that? FORD: About twelve minutes away. Come on, I need a drink! THE BOOK: By 'drink', Ford Prefect meant 'alcohol'. The Encyclopedia Galactica describes alcohol as a colorless, volatile liquid formed by the fermentation of sugars, and also notes it's intoxicating effect of certain carbon-based life forms. The Hitch Hiker's Guide To The Galaxy also mentions alcohol. It says that the best drink in existance is the 'Pan Galactic Gargle Blaster', the effect of which is like having your brains smashed out with a slice of lemon wrapped around a large gold brick. The guide also tells you on which planets the best Pan Galactic Gargle Blasters are mixed, how much you can expect to pay for one, and what volentary organisations exist to help you rehabilitate. FORD: Six pints of bitter, and quickly please, the world's about to end. BARMAN: Oh yes sir? Nice weather for it. Care to watch the match this afternoon, sir? FORD: No, no point. BARMAN: {Foregone} conclusion, you reckon, sir? Arsenal without a chance? FORD: No, it's just that the world's going to end. BARMAN: Ah yes, so you said. Lucky escape for Arsenal if it did. FORD: No, not really. BARMAN: There you are, sir. Six pints. FORD: Keep the change. BARMAN: What, from a fiver? Thank you, sir! FORD: You've got ten minutes left to spend it. ARTHUR: Ford, will you please tell me what the hell is going on? FORD: Drink up, you've got three pints to get through. ARTHUR: Three? At lunchtime? FORD: Time is an illusion. Lunchtime doubly so. ARTHUR: Very deep. You should send that in to the Reader's Digest. They've got a page for people like you. FORD: Drink up! ARTHUR: Why three pints? FORD: Muscle relaxant. You'll need it. ARTHUR: Did I do something wrong today, or has the world always been like this and I'm been too wrapped up in myself to notice? FORD: Alright, I'll try to explain. How long have we know each other, Arthur? ARTHUR: Five years, maybe six. Most of it seemed to make some kind of sense at the time. FORD: Alright, how would you react if I said that I'm not from Guildford after all, but from a small planet somewhere in the vicinity of Betelguese? ARTHUR: I don't know. Why, do you think it's the sort of thing you're likely to say? FORD: Drink up, the world's about to end. ARTHUR: This must be thursday. I never could get the hang of thursdays. THE BOOK: On this particular thursday, something was moving quietly through the ionosphere, miles above the surface of the planet, but few people on the surface of the planet were aware of it. One of the six thousand million people who hadn't glanced into the ionosphere recently, was called Lady Cynthia Fitzmilton. She was at that moment standing in front of Arthur Dents house in Cottington. Many of those listening to her speech would probably have experienced great satisfaction to know that in four minutes time she would evaporate into a whiff of hydrogene, ozone and carbon monoxide. However, when the moment came, they would hardly notice, because they would be too busy evaporating themselves. CYNTHIA FITZMILTON: I have been asked to come here to say a few words to mark the beginning of work on this very splendid and worthwhile new {beddingford?} bypass! And I must say immidiately what a great honor, and a great privilige, I think it must be for you, the people of Cottington, to have this gleaming new motorway going through your cruddy little village... I am sorry, your little country village, of cruddy Cottington. I know how proud you must feel at this moment, to know that your obscure and unfound hamlet will now arise reborn as the very splendid and worthwhile Cottington Service Station, providing welcome refreshment and sanitory relief for every weary traveler on his way. And for myself, it gives me great pleasure to take this bottle of very splendid and worthwhile champagne, and break it against the noble {prowl} of this very splendid and worthwhile yellow bulldozer! ARTHUR: What's that? FORD: Don't worry, they haven't started yet. ARTHUR: Oh, good! FORD: It's probably just your house being knocked down. ARTHUR: What?! FORD: It hardly makes any difference at this stage! ARTHUR: My god, it is! What the hell are they doing? We had an agreement! FORD: Let them have their fun! ARTHUR: Damn you and your fairie stories, they're smashing up my home! Stop, you vandals, you homewreckers, you... FORD: Arthur, come back, it's pointless! Hell, I'd better go after him. Barman, quickly! Can you just give me four packets of peanuts? BARMAN: Certainly, sir! Here you are, twenty-eight pence. FORD: Keep the change! BARMAN: Are you serious, sir? I mean, do you really think the world's gonna end this afternoon? FORD: Yes, in just over one minute and thirty-five seconds. BARMAN: What, isn't there anything we can do? FORD: No, nothing. BARMAN: Well, I always though we were to lie down and put a paper bag over our head or something. FORD: If you like, yes. BARMAN: Well, will that help? FORD: No. Excuse me, I've got to find my friend. BARMAN: Oh well, then. Last orders please! ARTHUR: You {penstripe?} barbarians, I'll sue the council for every penny it's got! I'll have you hung, and {drawn}, and {quartered}, and whipped and boiled, and then I'll chop you up into little bits, until... until... until you had enough! FORD: Arthur, don't {toller?}, there isn't time, get over here, there's only ten seconds left! ARTHUR: And then I'll do it some more! And when I'm finished, I'll take all the little bits, and I'll... I'll jump on them! And I'll carry on jumping until I get blisters, or I think of something even more unpleasant to do to you, and then I'll... ARTHUR: WHAT THE HELL'S THAT?! FORD: Arthur, quick, over here! ARTHUR: What the hell is it? FORD: It's a fleet of flying saucers, what do you think it is? Quick, you've got to get hold of this rod! ARTHUR: What do you mean, 'flying saucers'? FORD: Just that! It's a Vogon constructor fleet! ARTHUR: A what? FORD: A Vogon constructor fleet! I picked up news of their arrival a few hours ago on my sub-etha radio! ARTHUR: Ford, I don't think i can cope with any more of this, I think I'll just go and have a little lie down somewhere! FORD: No, just stay here, keep calm, and just take hold of this... VOGON CAPTAIN: People of Earth, your attention please. This is Prostetnic Vogon Jeltz of the galactic hyperspace planning council. As you are no doubt aware, the plans for the development of the outlying regions of the western spiral arm of the galaxy require the buliding of a hyperspace expressroute through your star system. And, regrettably, your planet is one of those scheduled for demolishion. The process will take slightly less than two of your Earth minutes. Thank you very much. VOGON CAPTAIN: There's no point in acting all surprised about it! All the planning charts and demolishion orders have been on display at your local planning department in Alpha Centuri for fifty of your Earth years, so you've had plenty of time to {launch} any formal complaints, but it's far to late to start making a fuss about it now! VOGON CAPTAIN: What do you mean you've never been to Alpha Centuri? Oh, for heavens sake, mankind, it's only four lightyears away, you know! I'm sorry, but if you can't be bothered to take an interest in local affairs, thats your own {lookout}. Energize the demolishion beams! God, {what the heck does he say here?} bloody planet, I've no sympathy at all! FORD: I bought some peanuts. ARTHUR: What? FORD: If you've never been through a matter transference beam before, you've probably lost some salt and protein. The beam should've {cushioned} your system a bit. How are your feeling? ARTHUR: Like a military academy. Bits of me keep on passing out. If I asked you where the hell we were, would I regret it? FORD: We're safe. ARTHUR: Oh, good. FORD: We're in a small galley cabin in one of the spaceships of the Vogon constructor fleet. ARTHUR: Ah. This is obviously some strange usage of the word 'safe' that I wasn't previously aware of. FORD: I'll have a look for the light. ARTHUR: Alright. How did we get here? FORD: We hitched a lift. ARTHUR: Excuse me, are you are you trying to tell me that we just stuck out our thumbs, and some bug-eyed monster stuck him head out and said 'Hi fellows, hop right in, I can take you as far as the Basingstoke roundabout'? FORD: Well, the thumb's an electronic sub-etha device, the roundabout's at Barnard's star, six lightyears away, but otherwise, that's more or less right! ARTHUR: And the bug-eyed monster? FORD: It's green, yes. [A little mistake here. Arthur never said the monster was green in the first place, but in the book, he does.] ARTHUR: Fine. When can I go home? FORD: You can't. Ah, I found the light. ARTHUR: Good grief! Is this really the interior of a flying saucer? FORD: It certainly is. What do you think? ARTHUR: Well, it's a bit {squalled}, isn't it? FORD: What did you expect? ARTHUR: Well, I don't know... Gleaming control panels, flashing lights, computer screens... Not old matrasses! FORD: These are the Dentrassi sleeping quarters. ARTHUR: I thought you said they were called Vogons or something! FORD: The Vogons run the ship, the Dentrassi are the cooks. They let us on board. ARTHUR: I'm confused. FORD: Here, have a look at this. ARTHUR: What is it? FORD: The Hitch Hiker's Guide To The Galaxy. It's a sort of electronic book. It'll tell you everything you want to know. That's it's job. ARTHUR: I like the cover. 'Don't Panic'. It's the first helpful or intelligible thing anybody said to me all day. FORD: That's why it sells so well. Here, press this button, and the screen will give you the index. You've got several million entries, so fast-wind through the index to V. There you are, Vogon Constructor Fleets. Enter that code on the tabulator, and read what it says. THE BOOK: Vogon Constructor Fleets. Here is what to do if you want to get a lift from a Vogon: Forget it. They're one of the most unpleasant races in the galaxy. Not actually evil, but bad tempered, bureucratic, vicious and {cavous}. They wouldn't even lift a finger to save their own grandmothers from the Ravenous Bug-Blatter Beast of Traal, without orders signed in triplicate, sent in, sent back, queried, lost, found, subjected to public inquiry, lost again, and finally buried in soft {peet} for three months and recycled as firelighters. The best way to bet a drink out of a Vogon is stick your finger down his throat, and the best way to irritate him is to feed his grandmother to the Ravenous Bug-Blatter Beast of Traal. ARTHUR: What a strange book. How did we get a lift, then? FORD: Well, that's the point, it's out of date now! I'm doing the field research for the new revised edition of the Guide, so for instance, I will have to include a revision pointing out that since the Vogons have made so much money being professionally unpleasant, they can now afford to employ Dentrassi cooks, which gives us a rather useful little loophole. ARTHUR: Who are the Dentrassi? FORD: The best cooks, and the best drinks mixers, and they don't give a wet slap about anything else. And they will always help hitch hikers on board, partly because they like the company, but mostly because it annoys the Vogons, which is exactly the sort of thing you need to know if your an {impoveraged} hitch hiker trying to see the marvels of the galaxy for less than thirty Altarian dollars a day! And that's my job! Fun, isn't it? ARTHUR: It's amazing! FORD: Unfortunately, I got stuck on the Earth for rather longer that I intended. I came for a week and was stranded for fifteen years! ARTHUR: But how did you get there in the first place? FORD: Oh, easy. I got a lift with a teaser. You don't know what a teaser is? I'll tell you. Teasers are usually rich kids with nothing to do, they cruise around, looking for planets which haven't made interstellar contact yet, and buzz them. ARTHUR: Buzz them? FORD: Yes, they find some isolated spot with very few people around, then land right by some poor, unsuspecting soul, who no one ever's going to believe, and then strot up and down in front of him wearing silly antannae on their head and making beep-beep noises. Rather childish, really. ARTHUR: Ford, I don't know if this sounds like a silly question, but what am I doing here? FORD: Well, you know that! I rescued you from the Earth! ARTHUR: And what has happened to the Earth? FORD: It's been... disintegrated. ARTHUR: Has it? FORD: Yes, it just... boiled away into space. ARTHUR: Look, I'm a bit upset about that. FORD: Yes, I can understand. ARTHUR: So... what do I do? FORD: You come along with me and enjoy yourself! You'll need to have this fish in your ear. ARTHUR: I beg your pardon! ARTHUR: What the devil's that? FORD: Listen, it might be important. ARTHUR: What? FORD: It's the Vogon captain making an announcment on the PA. ARTHUR: But I can't speak Vogon! FORD: You don't need to! Just put the fish in your ear! Come on, it's only a little one! ARTHUR: Eeeuuggh!! VOGON CAPTAIN: ...time. Message repeat. This is your captain speaking, so STOP WHATEVER YOU'RE DOING AND PAY ATTENTION! First of all, I see from our intruments that we have a couple of hitch hikers aboard our ship. Hello, wherever you are! I just want to make it totally clear that you are not at all welcome! I worked hard to get where I am today, and I didn't become captain of a Vogon constructor ship, simply so I could turn it into a taxi service for degenerate freeloaders! I have sent out a search party, and as soon as they find you I will put you off the ship. If you're very lucky, I might read you some of my poetry first. Secondly, we are about to jump into hyperspace for the journey to Barnard's star. On arrival we will stay in dock for a seventy-two hour refit, and no one's to leave the ship during that time, I repeat, all planet leave is cancelled! I just had an unhappy love affair, so I don't se why anyone else should have a good time. Message ends. 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 better be prepared for the jump into hyperspace, it's unpleasantly like being drunk. ARTHUR: Why, 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. ARTHUR: What an extraordinary book! FORD: Help me write the new edition! ARTHUR: No, I wan't to go back to Earth again, I'm afraid, or it's nearest equivalent. FORD: You're turning down a hundred billion new world to explore! ARTHUR: Did you get much useful material on Earth? FORD: I was able to extend the entry, yes. ARTHUR: Now, let's see what it says in this edition, then. FORD: Okay. ARTHUR: Let's see... E... Earth... Tap out the code... There's the page... 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 Six'. ARTHUR: What, there? Oh yes... THE BOOK: Harmless. ARTHUR: Harmless? Is it 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 that you managed to rectify that a little! FORD: Yes, I've transmitted a new entry out 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: Well, that's the way it is! We're on a different scale now! ARTHUR: Okay Ford, I'm with you. I'm bloody well coming with you. Were 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. FORD: That is, assuming that we actually get there. 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... THE BOOK: Vogon poetry is, of course, the third worst in the universe. The second worst is that of the {Asgoths} of Kria. During a recitation by their poet-master Grunthust 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 {hemorigin}, and the president of the Mid-Galactic Art-Snobling Council survived by gnawing one of his own legs off. Grunthust was reported to have been 'disappointed' by the poems 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 though his neck, and throttled his brain. The very worst poetry of all perished along with it's creator, Paul Niel Millen Johnstone of Redbridge, 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: NNNNHHHHGGGHHHH!!!! THE BOOK: And this from Arthur Dent: ARTHUR: NNGGHH, NNAAAAGHHH! VOGON CAPTAIN: ...see if i don't! [Yes, I know he recites more of the poem, but right now I don't want to sit and listen to every word he says, and I don't have the book here right now. Expect to see more in a future update.] VOGON CAPTAIN: So, Earthlings... I present you with a simple choice. I was going to throw you straight out to the empty blackness of space, to die horribly and slowly, but there is one was, one simple way in which you way save yourselves. Now think very carfully, for you hold you very lives in your hands. Now choose: Either die in the vacuum of space OR..... Tell me how good you thought my poem was! THE BOOK: Will our heroes survive this terrible ordeal? Can they win through with their integrity unscathed? Can they escape without completely compromising their honor and artistic jugement? Tune in next week for the next exiting installment of The Hitch Hiker's Guide To The Galaxy. PRESENTER: In that episode of The Hitch Hiker's Guide To The Galaxy, Peter Jones starred as The Book, Simon Jones was Arthur Dent, and {Geoffrey McGivon} Ford Prefect. Bill Wallace was Prosser and the Vogon captain, with {Jane Candal} as Lady Cynthia Fitzmilton, and David {Goodison} as the barman. The program was written by Douglas Adams and produced by Simon {Brett} with the assistance of {Patty Kingsland} at the Radiophonic Workshop, and a small, furry creature from the crab nebula. ARTHUR: I quite liked it really... The imaginery was really particularly effective and the metaphysical... ------------------------------- Version History 1.0 July 29 1998 The first version ever, probably packed to the rim with typos and other mistakes.