Category: Rave The Day


Yesterday, 25th May, was International Towel Day.

I’ve been harping on about this on Facebook for a couple of weeks and I’m quite sure no-one knows what the hell is wrong with me anymore, but that’s because many of them have yet to have their minds and hearts delightfully corrupted by the wondrous “Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy” series of books, by the late great Douglas Adams.

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For other like-minded ladies and gentlemen, here is a profound explanation of the importance of towels, as found in Chapter 3 of Adams’ work The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy:

“A towel, it says, is about the most massively useful thing an interstellar hitchhiker can have. Partly it has great practical value. You can wrap it around you for warmth as you bound across the cold moons of Jaglan Beta; you can lie on it on the brilliant marble-sanded beaches of Santraginus V, inhaling the heady sea vapours; you can sleep under it beneath the stars which shine so redly on the desert world of Kakrafoon; use it to sail a miniraft down the slow heavy River Moth; wet it for use in hand-to-hand-combat; wrap it round your head to ward off noxious fumes or avoid the gaze of the Ravenous Bugblatter Beast of Traal (such a mind-bogglingly stupid animal, it assumes that if you can’t see it, it can’t see you); you can wave your towel in emergencies as a distress signal, and of course dry yourself off with it if it still seems to be clean enough.

More importantly, a towel has immense psychological value. For some reason, if a strag (strag: non-hitch hiker) discovers that a hitchhiker has his towel with him, he will automatically assume that he is also in possession of a toothbrush, face flannel, soap, tin of biscuits, flask, compass, map, ball of string, gnat spray, wet weather gear, space suit etc., etc. Furthermore, the strag will then happily lend the hitch hiker any of these or a dozen other items that the hitch hiker might accidentally have “lost.” What the strag will think is that any man who can hitch the length and breadth of the galaxy, rough it, slum it, struggle against terrible odds, win through, and still knows where his towel is, is clearly a man to be reckoned with.

Hence a phrase that has passed into hitchhiking slang, as in “Hey, you sass that hoopy Ford Prefect? There’s a frood who really knows where his towel is.” (Sass: know, be aware of, meet, have sex with; hoopy: really together guy; frood: really amazingly together guy.)”

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There are five books in Adam’s original Hitchhiker’s series, and a sixth novel written by Artemis Fowl author Eoin Colfer, which I haven’t read and probably never will.  No disrespect to Colfer, but I have such a close relationship with the original books that any semi-official additions seem distinctly sacriligious.

I’m not the only person who feels this way.  These short, humourous science-fiction novels have brought so much joy to readers that they hold them close to their hearts in the way that only a genuinely funny, insightful author could achieve.  The bittersweet tone of the last two books in particular establishes Adams as a writer with great heart.

So what the hell is this Towel Day all about?

It’s a simple commemoration of the author, who was not only a great writer, but a proponent of environmental protection, technological innovation, as well as a respectful (and erudite) atheist.  Adams died suddenly twelve years ago to widespread grief.   The simple towel, as described above, is as good a mascot as any for his commemoration – not to mention that Adams would no doubt love the silliness of knowing that thousands, maybe millions of people around the world are all walking around with towels…

The dedication is huge.  The official Facebook page has some great stories and photos of people across the globe who are celebrating Adam’s life and work in this uniquely peculiar way:

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chile

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scrabble

Thumbing for spacecraft (https://www.facebook.com/towelday)

 

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kurdistan iraq

Wearing your towel for protection against solar radiation, in Kurdistan, Iraq (https://www.facebook.com/towelday)

 

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texas 2

Texas – With these towels they do wed! (www.facebook.com/towelday)

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This hoopy frood from Texas already has a ride (www.facebook.com/towelday)

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israel

The answer to Life, the Universe and Everything, from Israel (www.facebook.com/towelday)

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This couple has found the Answer (www.facebook.com/towelday)

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star wars

May 25th is also a Star Wars anniversary, so there are plenty of weird franchise-mixes going on … Stormtroopers celebrate (www.facebook.com/towelday)

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Group celebrations in Argentina (www.facebook.com/towelday)

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A towel as a cape in India (http://imgur.com/6WiQp6T)

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astronauts

Get this – astronauts on the International Space Station know where their towels are! (twitter.com/AstroSamantha)

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Most of these amazing photos are pilfered from the Facebook page, which I expect will keep running each year.  You can also read about the massive support worldwide at the official site.

There are also numerous shots of pets with their towels, so it’s great to see our quadrupedal planetary co-inhabitants joining in the fun (no dolphins yet though).

I also happened to come across this restaurant whilst taking a walk in Leeds yesterday, so I just had to take a photo:

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The 42 restaurant and bar in Leeds, England

A restaurant and bar, prominent at no.42 on a street in Leeds, England

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Why do I care about all this?

Not because I have an interest in towels, or even for the basic pleasures of supporting a much-admired writer and activist.

It’s partly because Adams suffered from crippling low confidence (not to mention writer’s block), as many of us do, but mainly because his books have always managed to make me laught out loud, even on my darkest days.

No other writer else has been able to do that before or since.

—db

Thirsty

I’ve explained in an earlier post about the chronic spates of creative thirst I suffer from. Non-work (“work” being creative stuff I do at home, rather than the template-driven box-ticking administration of work in the office) is just a period where you don’t realise you haven’t had a glass of water for a fortnight until you’re pretty much dead – and then there is, to destroy the analogy, the sudden desire to write something, immediately and excessively, almost to the extent of recording the minutae of a character’s actions, of his or her thoughts and feelings, of his outward appearance and expressions, that take place in a single minute of his life; and then his interactions with the hundred other characters that must be included, who all inhabit a world with its own minutae to document, fervently.

Clearly I’m saturated by this weird neurosis as I write this (not something I suffered from until maybe three years ago, already in my twenties, and for no apparent reason), being at my wordiest and thoughtlessly speediest – so forgive the redundancies, or denseness, or typing errors, or absurdity of the lot.

But at the edge of the desert where you see the buildings glinting, all you can imagine is the silver plumbing inside and the water it must be full of. You imagine yourself swimming in it and gulping it down. In my desert, this ceaseless focusing on the desired future comes in the form of planning, planning for the next thing to be written, almost always a novel (in the desert, you don’t imagine only an eggcup of water), and all the intricate note-taking and research and frantic scribblings this requires. Sometimes the ideas come so fast your handwriting turns to indecypherable Arabic, and knowing this you draw a picture instead (“X = 1k wds”) because you’ll be damned if you’re going to lose the five other ideas you need to write down just because you were thinking of how best to describe that one cinematic moment you imagined.

I had a similar outbreak, let’s call it, a month ago, inspired by my completion of a dreadful book called “Sandworms of Dune“, being one of two sequels to the great Dune science-fiction series by Frank Herbert. His death left the incredible series apparently unfinished, and his son, being one of those Christopher Tolkein-esque relatives who can’t damn-well resist, ressurected the franchise to write the two ‘finale’ books that have corrupted a near-perfect literary vision.

So disgusted was I by the dilution and contamination of the senior Herbert’s creation, and so badly written it was too, that I acted upon one of my “fuck me if I can’t do a thousand times better than that” moments and decided to end the series myself. Having recently re-read the six originals, I could remember very well the characters and themes and significant events that drove the series. With this bigger picture in mind, I felt that I could faithfully see where Herbert was going and constructed a breakdown of my own version of “Sandworms of Dune”. But it is only when you realise that you’ve scribbed twenty pages of dense notes, reminders and tiny images, all at your desk at work, that you’re suddenly aware of how noticable your fervour must have been to those sitting around you, and, oops, how valuable your job is.

I suppose we should be supremely grateful for these creative trances (“we” being the half of you who, I realise, are also creative types of your own kinds, and hopefully can relate), because they are the combusting coals that we need to then slow-burn our way through that 100,000 word novel, or 30 hour painting, or endless nights of programming. But damn if they aren’t an inconvenience, like an erection on a bus, being probably extremely useful in another time and place, but otherwise utterly inappropriate.

–db