Zaphod goes on a quest to unlock his brain, Trillian tries to take over The Guide, Ford finds out what a Hrung is, and why it chose to collapse on Betelgeuse Seven on an epic trip with memory lane, Marvin tries to find the question once and for all, Random discovers what an egg salad sandwich is, and Arthur Dent for once takes the guide's advice to heart in this all out grand and sweeping adventure to discover why the English like tea so much. Also, there may be some evidence of a thinly veiled plotline.

Disclaimer: Arthur Dent, Zaphod Beeblebrox, Ford Prefect, Trillian Astra, Marvin the Paranoid Android, Random Astra, the Hrung, and tea are all inventions of Douglas Adams and are in no way property of the rest of the galaxy or the british. Please read the official publications; they're really good :)

There is a theory which states that if ever anyone discovers exactly what the Universe is for and why it is here, it will instantly disappear and be replaced by something even more bizarre and inexplicable.

There is another theory which states that this has already happened.

Arthur Dent did not like Saturdays. Saturday was a day when one got up, sat down, ate breakfast, got back up again, did nothing particularly useful, had tea, and then skipped everything else and went straight to bed. Nothing much ever happened on a Saturday. In fact, Arthur often pondered if they'd got it all wrong, and God had actually chosen Saturday to take a break, and do nothing in particular.

This particular Saturday was exceedingly normal. Arthur found himself eating breakfast, having recently got up, and was looking forward to doing nothing particularly useful before having tea. The grand and sweeping universe seemed somewhat vague and pointless beside his vague and pointless existence on the small planet of Kricket.

In an exceedingly normal twist, Arthur was also considering going and practicing bird talk. It seemed a particularly pointless and useless thing to do, so it suited Saturday well. Saturdays, as much as he hated to admit it, were good for nothing but hating, and one could not hate a Saturday unless they did something particularly pointless and useless on it. Otherwise the day might well be considered a Sunday, and on a kricket calendar where only a three day year was celebrated, missing a day could prove catastrophic.

As he pondered the possibilities of extending his bird vocabulary, Arthur stumbled upon a nearby calendar on the wall. He realised that his birthday was the next day, and then his next birthday three days after that. This was exceedingly confusing for Arthur, who had spent his last three Saturdays either getting drunk or under the influence of massive hangovers from said getting drunk. The particularly blurry quality of the bacon on his plate hinted that this particular Saturday would be no different. He wondered if it had something to do with the large amount of alcohol he had consumed that Thursday, while celebrating his one hundred and thirty-seventh birthday.

The phone started ringing, and at first Arthur thought that a fly might have flown into his ear. Next he considered that the odd sound may have had something to do with the toothpaste moustache he had recently adopted. Finally he realised that the ringing phone was, in fact, the source of the ringing, and picked it up.

"Hello," he said into the receiver, wondering why there was toothpaste on the phone. "This is Arthur Dent speaking."

"Is there anyone on this line that doesn't speak bird?" wondered the voice at the other end.

"I speak English," tweeted Arthur, wondering who the voice could belong to, and why it wasn't chirping like the rest of his friends usually did.

"Do you speak English?" the other voice posed. Arthur realised that the other voice was speaking English. He wondered why a bird was speaking English, and decided that perhaps if he spoke English the bird would resort to a nice bird sounding language.

"Is that you, Ford?" he asked.

"Arthur! I'm glad to hear from you, mate. You wouldn't believe how expensive collect calls are from Betelgeuse Five." Ford's wavery tone sounded slightly off key to Arthur. He wondered if he should drink something alcoholic to make it sound less distorted.

"Ford, what are you doing in Betelgeuse? I thought you were with Zaphod and Trillian?" Arthur was confused. He was also extremely hung-over.

"I asked them to drop me off at the nearest pub. Listen, Arthur. I need to know if you still have that book I gave you. The Hitchhiker's guide to the galaxy. I need you to look up what a Hrung is."

"No one ever knew what a Hrung was nor why it had chosen to collapse on Betelgeuse seven," chirped Arthur, recalling the phrase with another tweet.

"Sorry?"

"No one ever knew what a Hrung was nor why it had chosen to collapse on Betelgeuse seven," Arthur told him, resorting to English as a last resort, "why do you ask?"

"What does the guide say about it, Arthur?"

Arthur did not realise it, but Ford was sounding quite desperate. It might have been due to the fact that he was being chased by a rather large Hrung which was on the point of collapsing, but both Arthur and Ford were completely unaware of this. A more likely explanation for his desperation might be that he had not been drunk for at least a minute, and had no alcohol on hand to cure his ailment.

"That's what it says," explained Arthur, still ignorant of Ford's desperation. "I looked it up yesterday, when I was planting my garden. I thought it might be a type of frangipani. If you do happen to find out what it is, do tell me. My garden is looking rather bland at the moment."

Ford hung up the phone, single-handedly averting the imminent collapse of the giant hrung, of which he was still entirely unaware, and Arthur listened to the dial tone, wondering why there was a fly in his ear.

Had he been less hung-over, he might of wondered how Ford had managed to contact him via phone from several thousand light years away. Instead, he sat around doing nothing particularly useful, and considered how long it would be until it was time for tea.