Douglas Adams (1952-2001) was a satirist, author, scriptwriter and just generally all round wonderful chap who occupies a hallowed space in the hearts of many. As you can see from the picture of his gravestone, fans (like me) leave the writer a pen as a mark of respect. He is best known for his delightful radio/TV/Book/Computer Game/Movie franchise The Hitch-hikers Guide to the Galaxy.
The benefit of this multi platform success is that you get the chance to enjoy the slight variant stories in several forms, my personal preference is the first iteration, the radio show.
That being said, it was in his fourth book, “So long and Thanks for all the fish” that he committed into print one of his favourite anecdotes which captures the essence of Englishness. The story of the biscuits. Whether it truly was an anecdote from his own life or a retelling of a classic joke is still under question, but it serves to remind that sense of humour is often strongly tied to cultural experience. The tale was repackaged as a straight anecdote in a book posthumously published built on his notes and snippets collected from his belongings and computers, The Biscuit Story from The Salmon of Doubt. Rest in Peace Douglas, or at least make sure you have your towel.
“This actually did happen to a real person, and the real person was me. I had gone to catch a train. This was April 1976, in Cambridge and I was a bit early for the train. I went to get myself a newspaper to do the crossword, and a cup of coffee and a packet of cookies. I went and sat at a table. I want you to picture the scene. It's very important that you get this very clear in your mind. Here's the table, newspaper, cup of coffee, packet of cookies. There's a guy sitting opposite me, perfectly ordinary-looking guy wearing a business suit, carrying a briefcase. It didn't look like he was going to do anything weird. What he did was this: he suddenly leaned across, picked up the packet of cookies, tore it open, took one out, and ate it.
background, upbringing, or education that teaches you how to deal with someone who in broad daylight has just stolen your cookies. You know what would happen if this had been South Central Los Angeles. There would have very quickly been gunfire, helicopters coming in, CNN, you know. . . But in the end, I did what any red-blooded Englishman would do: I ignored it. And I stared at the newspaper, took a sip of coffee, tried to do a clue in the newspaper, couldn't do anything, and thought, what am I going to do?
In the end I thought, nothing for it, I'll just have to go for it, and I tried very hard not to notice the fact that the packet was already mysteriously opened. I took out a cookie for myself. I thought, that settled him. But it hadn't because a moment or two later he did it again. He took another cookie. Having not mentioned it the first time, it was somehow even harder to raise the subject the second time around. "Excuse me, I couldn't help but notice . . ." I mean, it doesn't really work. We went through the whole packet like this. When I say the whole packet, I mean there were only about eight cookies, but it felt like a lifetime. He took one, I took one, he took one, I took one. Finally, when we got to the end, he stood up and walked away.
Well, we exchanged meaningful looks, then he walked away, and I breathed a sigh of relief and sat back. A moment or two later the train was coming in, so I tossed back the rest of my coffee, stood up, picked up the newspaper, and underneath the newspaper were my cookies. The thing I like particularly about this story is the sensation that somewhere in England there has been wandering around for the last quarter-century a perfectly ordinary guy who's had the same exact story, only he doesn't have the punch line.”