Ford slammed his head against the wall a few times. It didn't help.
"Zarking zark zark belgium!" he shouted.
"What was that?" Arthur called out from the kitchen.
"Your zarking television," Ford growled, "has infected my mind with catchy slogans."
Arthur thought about this for a moment. "You mean you have a song stuck in your head?"
"I wouldn't call it a song. It's a commercial, Arthur. Very different."
Arthur walked into the livingroom, carrying a tray of tea and biscuits with him. "Ah, I hate when that happens. Which one?"
Ford scowled. "Fruity oaty bars," he sang in a mockery of the original ad, "make a man out of a mouse! Fruity oaty bars,"
Arthur cut him off, "Yes, I particularly hate that one. A bit," he searched for the right word, "risque."
"It's thoroughly odd and I want," Ford began to bang his head against the wall again, punctuating each word with self-inflicted pain, "it. Out of. My head."
He collapsed into the sofa, grabbed a biscuit and swallowed it whole. He began choking, but got over it fairly quickly once Arthur began beating on his back.
"You ought to come down to the pub with my friends. Once they get drunk they start singing badly-written jingles. It doesn't help that none of them can sing, either."
Ford had stopped listening. What kind of a planet forces you to think of things beyond your will.
All of them, actually, he mused, but he liked to think that they did it less often than they did on Earth.