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It was 24 December 197..., late afternoon, and Arthur Dent was panicking. This was not unusual for Arthur Dent, nor was it unusual for the small[1] number of ape-descendant creatures milling about in the same geopolitical division of territory as Arthur Dent during that particular phase in the planet's revolution around its system's central star.
"Er, really, Ford, it's not a proper party, just boring family stuff - my close relatives, and maybe a bunch of distant relatives in search of free food."
As soon as the words left the safe comfort of Arthur's mouth, he knew he'd made a mistake releasing them.
"Just food?" Ford inquired, as Arthur's words curled in on themselves, taking the shape of forlorn little clouds of mist.
"Er?" Arthur replied, finding his train of thought wobbling slightly on its rails.
"I thought Christmas was supposed to be a great time for alcohol, and the food was mostly to make it possible to drink even more."
"Well, there will be mulled and non-mulled wine. Getting drunk is how my family gets through the holidays without killing each other."
"Great!" Ford said cheerfully. "I don't often get to meet kindred spirits here. How do we get there?"
This year, Arthur had done his Christmas shopping early - uncharacteristic of him and 99% of the other ape descendants, had even found a reasonably appropriate or generic item even for that uncle that no one ever knew what to get, and looked presentable in time for the regularly scheduled Christmas family reunion. It figured that something had to go wrong, and since all the Arthur-dependant things that he usually got wrong had been dealt with, it had to be something out of Arthur's control. Ford was definitely a force out of Arthur's control. Ford was a good friend, Arthur thought, but he seemed awfully fond of free meals and free drinks, and would often be found at the site of events providing the above items. It was uncanny how he found out about them, really.
If he would have spent a minute to think about it in a detached, cool-headed manner, Arthur would have realised that it was entirely within his control to say "No, Ford, you can't come to my family's Christmas party", and Ford would have most likely given up. But it was inconceivable for Arthur to do that, for a number of reasons - one, he was English, and the unbearable rudeness of rejection was as unnatural to him as meekness and kindness were to a Vogon (not that Arthur knew about Vogons, although it would have benefited him greatly if he did); two - Arthur was panicking, the number one way to avoid any kind of rational thought from entering one's mind and polluting its flailing with the semblance of sense; three - he was not entirely under his own control; unbeknownst to Arthur, Ford was exercising a minor but decisive telepathic pressure to get himself accepted to said Christmas party. Between all these metaphorical hammers and anvils, Arthur didn't stand a chance, really.
"Oh, hello, Arthur, come in, come in, dear!"
"Er, hi, mum, hello, Aunt Beth," Arthur said, awkwardly trying to dodge the suffocating embraces while not looking like he was doing it. "This is Ford, my friend who's joining us."
Twin expressions of polite surprise slid on his mother and aunt's faces. If Arthur hadn't been so absorbed in his continuous state of mild panic, he might have noticed that his aunt's expression was faking politeness, whereas his mother's was faking surprise. She was, however, determined that she would fake it well.
"Oh, hello! I- I wasn't expecting a-"
"Ginger," Aunt Beth said firmly. It should perhaps be surprising, but she was determined that they would have a nice Christmas party, and no awkward gestures on the part of her awkward nephew were going to spoil it for her.
"Er, oh yes, that's what I was going to say, dear, you took the word right out of my mouth. Arthur's always had a thing for brunettes, like that journalist girl."
"Ahem, ahem," Aunt Beth coughed loudly. "Don't bring that up now, dear," she whispered just as loudly, "show a little tact!"
"Oh, no, I didn't mean to suggest we're like those people who are prejudiced against gingers! I like gingers! I had a big crush on Turlough," Arthur's mother finished, with an all-too-believable nostalgic glint in her eyes.
Arthur's panic joined hands with Arthur's mortification.
"It's all right, I don't mind," Ford said encouragingly. "I should have done more research before I came to this planet, probably. By the time I figured out the ginger thing, it was too late to do anything about it."
Aunt Beth tittered. "Oh, bless, poor darling! Of course you couldn't help it, you were born like this!"
"We're still talking about Ford's hair, are we?" Arthur's mother asked tartly.
"Yes, Susan, that's what I meant," Aunt Beth said, elbowing her sister discreetly.
Arthur's mortification and Arthur's panic made a suicide pact to jump off the edge of Arthur's sanity at the nearest opportunity.
"I like that you're not shy about your food. Some people, you have to beg them to have more of the pastries, and they'll make such a fuss. Have one more, dear, there's plenty for everyone!"
"Fanks," Ford said through his mouthful. "They're free, and just greasy enough to make the wine slide smoofly."
Arthur groaned, and reflexively swallowed more of his own wine. It was not the best wine. In fact, it was rather lousy wine, neither sweet nor dry - "vinegary" was the most fitting adjective, if Arthur were entirely honest with himself. (Which he was, as a rule, especially in matters of great importance such as wine; he made an exception for insignificant things, such as sexual preferences, or where precisely his discontent with the current qui-pro-quo lay.)
Aunt Beth smiled uncertainly, while Susan laughed.
"Oh, a sense of humour! Just what Arthur needs, really. I always worry about the boy, he can be a bit of a bore."
"Susan! What kind of a mother are you? You'll end up scaring poor Ford away!"
Ford looked the opposite of scared, comfortably stuffed with turkey, pastries, mince pies, and mulled wine.
"You can really hold your alcohol, can't you, Ford?" Susan mumbled, vaguely poking in the direction of Ford's glass, which kept refilling almost by itself.
"I have to, in my line of work," Ford said vaguely.
"He's an actor," Arthur supplied, before Ford could start babbling about spaceships and hitchhiking, as Arthur knew by now he was wont to do when he got sloshed.
"Ooh, an actor! But that's fantastic, isn't it, Susan? I mean, well, you had to be, you're the creative type after all, but I figured you more of the photographer sort, you know, see and record things to share your vision about the world. Hic!" Aunt Beth said.
Ford grinned, the manic, slightly insane grin that would have instantly revealed him as anything else than an ape-descending native of Earth.[2]
"My first job was a journalist gig. I'm on a bit of a forced break right now."
"I hope you hadn't figured him as a fashion designer," Arthur said acidly. His mortification, his panic, along with his desire for a peaceful Christmas family reunion having turned off the lights, left the building, and locked the doors, he felt brave and daring enough to defy his family's pretence of being welcoming of Ford's presumed place in Arthur's life.
"Why not?" His mother took the bait. "His clothes have a-a personality."
"Multiple personality syndrome, rather," Arthur muttered in a low voice.
"Oh, Arthur, you little Scrooge," Susan chuckled.
It was the 25th of December, just barely, and a considerable number of wine bottles had been sacrificed to celebrate the joy of Arthur Dent showing up with what his family still presumed was a romantic partner. Arthur Dent himself was, unlike many of the ape descendants inhabiting the same geopolitical division of territory as him, napping in an armchair.
The non-ape descendant humanoid being known to Arthur as "Ford Prefect" was, just like the majority of the ape descendants among whom he'd (crash)landed, sloshed, and imbibing even more alcoholic beverages.
Arthur woke up to the sound of Ford saying "yellow spaceships". For some reason, this gave him a surprising jolt of adrenaline, and the strangest deja vu feeling swept through him in the shape of a strange dizziness. His body, unaccustomed to the ripples of time and space, interpreted it as a sudden need to go to the toilet, as the human body makes of the most varied gamut of sensations that it doesn't know quite how to respond to.
Arthur was, therefore, not privy to the ensuing conversation between a sloshed Ford and a sloshed Susan Dent. Luckily for you, I, as an omniscient author, can report on it and say with reasonable confidence that it went like this:
"Oh, Ford, hic! You're the best thing to happen to A'thur e-ver! You won't leave him, will you, when you catch your big ride to the stars?" she asked, huge metaphorical quotes hanging in the air between them. "I know he's a bit of a - hic - but he's a good, reliable boy."
"I'm not sure he'll want to come," Ford said, entirely non-metaphorically. "Arthur doesn't have a taste for adventure and really wild things. Well, most of you don't."
"Don't-don't hold us boring old family against him," Susan hiccuped again. "That boy was meant for big things, like, like, adventure and, wild things! Always knew he wasn't going to bring me any grandkids, this one, but I don't mind. He just needs a nudge up the backside."
"I will do my best," Ford said solemnly.
Susan clapped a hand over her mouth. "Oh dear, oh dear me," she giggled helplessly, "I didn't mean it to sound like that. Not that you shouldn't... ah... I'd better stop speaking, I'll make a fool of myself, won't I?"
Ford took the opportunity to pour himself another glass of wine.
"Just promise me you'll take him with you?" Susan pleaded.
"All right," Ford said, and forgot about it instantly.
[1] 56 million is not a big deal, relative to the total number of inhabitants of the unfashionable corner of the galaxy that Arthur Dent called home, or would have if he'd ever thought about "home" in terms of interplanetary travel rather than "a construction of brick and mortar", which he had no reason to do.
[2] To an educated observer. Of course, none of the observers present were educated in the slightest, as even the minimal quiz on galactic trivia would have revealed.