Star Trek A&E season 1

It was a dark and stormy night in San Francisco, but five hundred miles above in Space Dock, the tortion arm on the Elementary Linear Accelerating Special Transit Induction Carrier was reaching maximum travel. And the flush was broken on the portaloo.

On the USOS Frazer, the bridge doors parted and a bold figure swept out. He was using a size 4 brush. Behind him, stood the captain. An audible 'SHUSSSING' sound could be heard as the doors reached full open position B like the sound of escaping gas. Captain 'Duck' Rogers cringed, as the helmsman, an oriental in his mid-twenties, turned to the young lady in the adjoining chair, a blonde in her late teens, who was wearing a ludicrously short skirt for no apparent reason, and said:
"I told him to stay off the curry!"
"I know want you mean," replied Maureen, the navigator.
"Anyway, why is the Captain's shirt torn?" the helmsman enquired.
"His other one is still at the dry cleaners," Maureen replied.

Captain Rogers strode to his seat in the centre of the bridge, and waved away the young yeoman who was wandering around with a clipboard.
"I...haven't got...time...to fill out... a...market research...survey," he said a little impatiently.
"And...I've never....shopped...in Marks and Spencers!"

"Captain, we're cleared for departure," the young first officer reported from the Captain's right. Rogers saw his first officer's head slowly lift from the scope embedded in the console.
"And by the way, it's one-all at half time."
"Very good....number one. By the way...why are you....wearing that ridiculously tight...catsuit? I'm sure...those high heals... aren't regulation...and didn't I tell you...to get rid of that beard?"
"Sorry, sir, I'll go and shave immediately," the first officer replied.
"Very well... Number One....but....not just your legs...this time."
'Number One' strode off towards the lift, as the Captain flicked a toggle on the arm of his chair.
"Engineering, Mr Brown....if you're...quite finished....tinkering...with that DeLorean, I think... we ought to be...getting...underway."
"Great Scot!" a voice said out of the bridge speaker.
"Where does the time go? All set Captain, and Einstein's just sorting out my bullet-proof vest now."
"Very good...Mr Brown, prepare...for departure. Release all moorings...prepare...for breakaway speed...All hands, make sure...your seats are in the....upright position and your trays...are stowed. Prepare...for Transit Warp Acceleration....Navigational Guidance." He addressed the helmsman:
"George, you may...fire...when...ready!"
"Aye, aye, Captain."

A nervous hush descended on the bridge as a tentative, oriental finger reached for the BIG red button in the centre of the console....

Thousands of people lined the observation windows in Space Dock, watching as the doors raised on the great orbiting garage. An Earth-shattering noise reverberated around the partial atmosphere present within the launch chamber, shattering the silence of Space.....

TWANG......

The ship streaked away into Space, and the watching crowds in Space Dock gasped in awe.
"Bridge, this is Engineering!" a voice yelled out of the loudspeaker.
"Yes...Mr Brown?!" Rogers replied through clenched vibrating teeth as his white knuckles clenched the arms of his seat, embedding themselves into the cheap, tacky, designer 60s nylon.
"I may possibly have forgotten to re-align the stabilizers in Space Dock. Either that, or Einstein has learned to break dance! We should probably shut down the warp engines!"
"I'd...never have...thought of that...myself, Brown! Mr George, bring us out of convulsions..." There was an ominous groaning noise from the communications officer.
"...before...our... communications officer...looses her lunch.... and we... run out.... of sick bags..."
There was a very alarming noise from the coms console....

UUUHHHUUURRRRUUUUU!!!!!!

"Too late!" the Captain added, as he turned to see that the communications console was now decorated with diced carrot.

George, the helmsman, hit the big black pedal at his feet. That, however, didn't work very well, so he decided he ought to push it instead. The effect was instantaneous - on the aft of the ship, a big red neon sign illuminated, showing the words "OUR OTHER STARSHIP IS A GALAXY CLASS," and the state-of-the-art ABS kicked in. The Frazer slowed, dramatically.

Security officer I'm-Very-Proud-Of-My-Red-Shirt was standing next to the turbo lift doors, in keen anticipation of the possibility of shooting something with his PHASE pistol, when the sudden deceleration, and the fact he wasn't wearing a set belt, sent him careering across the bridge and head long into the middle of the view screen, which spanned the bridge's entire front wall. This was slightly unfortunate for two reasons, firstly, the young security guard now resembled a strange mix of strawberry jam and very lumpy custard, and secondly, put him in line for a court martial as he had just left his post without permission. The Captain turned to see his first officer's chair was now occupied again. Shaking his head scornfully, he asked:
"Did...they give us....windscreen wipers....in the last....refit?"
"No captain," was the reply.
"But they did exchange all the Andrex for little sea shells."
"In that case...note...to the costume department - put less...red dye...in the shirts - it's making a real mess of the ...carpets!"

"Ahead...at...space normal...speed, helmsman", he continued (eventually),
"And...when the cleaners...have...finished...with that mess" (he pointed to the red splodge on the view screen)
"tune...to...Sky Sports, I want to...catch...the end of...the second half...."

>>>Next Time: Death on the File

<Cue: tacky sixties music>

** Please note: all of Captain 'Duck' Roger's speech should be read in Kirk style, ie, with over-emphasis and with over-dramatic pauses between every other word, and preferably with realistic hand gestures (please note we can accept no responsibility for any injury obtained in performing such gestures).

BERK RICMAN

Stardate 36-24-28

Captain's Log - took 3 flushes to get rid of.

Loo paper is in short supply, the flush on the portaloo is still broken. At this rate, we're going to have to use my torn shirts.

There has been some decention within the crew. Some seem to have taken offence at my style of command, and are currently holding a picket line in shuttle bay 2. I was going to sack them all, but then I realised it's a good opportunity to try out those new PHASE pistols.

Additional - this white jacket is really starting to get uncomfortable. I must ask the Doctor to undo the straps...

<cue very cheesy 60s Soundtrack music>

It was 3am on the Bridge. Everywhere else it was 4am, because someone forgot to alter the clocks. Everyone was at their posts, as usual, but there was a fair amount of uncomfortable fidgeting going on. Crew members shifted uneasily in their seats. The loos were still blocked, and the plumber hadn't turned up. Lieutenant UUUHHHUUURRRRUUUUU looked up from her readout, as Captain 'Duck' Rogers strode onto the bridge.

"You've got 64 e-mails, sir. Most of them are marked 'Private', and are from 'Luscious Lucy,'" she reported.
"Patch them through to my private viewer Lieutenant, I'll, erm...study them later," Rogers replied.
"Sir! There's something unusual happening! Something seems to be taking control of my console! I think it's some kind of virus!" The USOS Frazer's communications officer was suddenly sounding rather startled. The Captain walked over to her console.
"Why didn't Mr Norton spot it?" he snapped, and added under his breathe
"I told him we shouldn't have used AOL!"
"But the disks were free Captain!" exclaimed Norton, flouncing over from his own console.
"And you said we needed some new drinks coasters".

"Captain Rogers!" 'Doc' Brown's voice yelled over the loudspeaker.
"Great Scott! What's happening?! I was just putting a curly cabled colander on my head and all my systems went kaput! Now Einstein's foaming at the mouth, and all the VDUs are showing the Teletubbies! In a few minutes we could have a Blue Screen of Death Situation on our hands!"

"Doc, are you sure Einstein hasn't lifted his leg on console 3 again?" Rogers enquired. A new voice wafted across the bridge. A sultry, naked kind of voice. The sort of voice it is absolutely impossible (at this point the pen died. It lost the will to live - Ed) to ignore. Especially when watching Earth: Final Conflict.
"I am the Majel Barratt Roddenbury Computer Virus, version 1. Version 2 has a manservant and a very large brain. And I am here because I am intrinsically superior. To shw my intent, I will now talk complete drivel and raise lots of force-fields for no apparent reason".

"Somebody...get rid..of that noise!" exclaimed Captain Rogers, waving his toupee in frustration and gesticulating wildy.

UUUHHHUUURRRRUUUUU's hands were like a blur over her console. Lightening bolts flew from her console, and roasted the flesh on her bones. George looked round from the helm.
"OK, who ordered kebab?" he enquired. He looked round the bridge as every pair of eyes stared back at him in disbelief.
"Well, what do you expect? She was wearing red!" he pointed out.
"Good point".
"Fair enough".
"Logical, I suppose,"
A pause.
"Sir, permission to leave the bridge to change out of this uniform" called Ensign No-Name, cowering under his console. The rest of the bridge crew went back to work.
"What's happening, Norton?" barked Rogers.
"Well, Dirty Den has just come back from the dead, and Big Mo is trying to flog some Estonian VCRs to Spencer Moon"
"Stop watching East Enders you idiot and run that virus scanner!" Rogers ordered.
"She is soooo toast!" exclaimed Norton, wheeling his chair over to the comms station.
"Running virus scan, Captain".
"What's it finding"
"Nothing, Sir. It's telling me to run ScanDisk!" Norton exclaimed. George looked up again.
"Loosing helm control Captain".
"Losing bowel control Captain!" exclaimed 'Doc' from engineering.
"Has the virus spread all the way to engineering?"
"No sir," replied Brown.
"It's because I'm crap at my job". Norton looked gravely at Rogers.
"Captain I think it's time"

DUN DUN DAAAAA!!!!!

"You don't mean....?"
"Yes, it's that serious."
"Do you really mean...?"
"Yes. Time to call Technical Support," Norton whispered, his face pale. <cue cheesy dramatic 60s music>
"At £2.50 a minute? Can't we wait until off peak?
"Captain your 0898 numbers are far more expensive".
"OK, Mr Norton," the Captain sighed.
"I'm gonna kill Luscious Lucy". Norton picked up his novelty poodle phone and shut down his palm top computer, which was showing an American website on which could be seen two ridiculously under-dressed Americans, one camel, two hippos, a female sheep and one very distressed blueberry muffin. Rogers made a mental note to check the mess hall for web cams when this was all over. Norton dialled slowly, carefully, as a hush fell over the bridge.
"WILL SOMEONE GET RID OF THAT RACKET????" Rogers yelled. The cheesy dramatic 60s music stopped, and was replaced by an irritating Northern voice as Norton was connected to Tech Support, and he put the call on the speaker phone.
"Gloria here, how can I help? Only make it fast, don't you know what time it is? It's a least five minutes since my last tea break"
"Actually it's just after 3.00 on the bridge, everywhere else it's just after 4.00..." Rogers cuffed Norton on the shoulder and the Ensign went on and explained the problem.
"NOT THE MAJEL BARRATT RODDENBURY COMPUTER VIRUS!!" Gloria exclaimed.
"They didn't name it the Frazer for nothing, did they? I'm going to get my supervisor so that he can have a really good laugh at you! Please hold." Gloria's voice was replaced by a very tinny version of Greensleaves. (At this point Sue's pen suffered a breakdown - the clip on the lid broke off - Ed).
"We are soooo screwed!" exclaimed Norton, hanging up the novelty phone.
"Captain", the First Officer piped up from across the bridge.
"According to regs we should be at Red Alert".
"So? Number One, according to regs you shouldn't be wearing that Bunny Girl outfit. Anyone else got any other helpful suggestions?" Rogers exclaimed. Then, the virus spoke again.

"Tell Ensign Dead-By-The-Next-Commercial-Break to stop playing PacMan on that panel!"
"WHY?!" exclaimed the Captain.

Glass shards erupted from the panel where PacMan was about to catch yet another Ghost, lacerating the face of the hapless (and nameless) ensign, and splattering the contents of his skull all over the newly cleaned carpet.
"Talk about the red carpet treatment!" George muttered from the helm.
"I suppose it makes a change from blue".
"What is this? A bridge or an abattoir?" exclaimed Rogers.
"Would you like that medium or rare?" enquired the computer voice.
"If you ask me it was a little over-done," commented George. Rogers addressed the computer.
"Who are you? What do you want?"
"Wrong series, buddy", countered the computer.
"Please re-phrase the question."
"OK, what have we got to do to get rid of you? And please don't say 'reformat the hard drive and re-install Windows'".
"Well, you could trap me in your quarters and never let me out".
"Noooooo!!!!!!" exclaimed the captain.
"Well, look on the plus side", suggested Norton.
"You wouldn't have to tell her off every episode to improve the plots".
"I couldn't possibly let her in there - there's no clean cups and the bed is un-made".
"Captain, I'd advise caution here," George whispered.
"It's a virus, remember? It took you ages to get rid of the last one, even after you'd been to the clinic."
"You'll have to make a deal with it, Captain," Roger's first officer piped up from across the bridge.
"How dare you!" retorted the computer, sparks flying from the communications board.
"I'm not that kind of virus!"
"OK, how's this?" Rogers said."You leave my ship and crew...or what's left of them... alone, and there's a nice little laptop on Deck 36 with your name on it. It's only Windows '95 but it's got a leather case and matching hand luggage".
"Mmmmm, sound good," purred the computer, switching back to sultry/naked mode. George sighed and shook his head. He would never understand computers. All those mood swings...
"Would you like me to kill some more red shirts first?"
"No! I mean...erm, no thank you. I've read the next three scripts and I've got a feeling that Im going to be needing all the nameless ensigns I can get". More sparks.
"But if it's any consolation, this laptop has got Continental Chocolate Chunks 3 on it!"

"OK, Captain," said the computer, throw in a groinal attachment and you've got a deal!"
"Sir! The system is soooooo clearing!" Norton reported, wheeling around on his chair again for no apparent reason.
"Normal functions restored".
"Not until that bloody plumber turns up", muttered George.
"OK, Number One, you take the conn. Clean up the bridge. Order some pizza...no wait, first find out where the hell that plumber is....and get that virus checker updated!" Rogers stood up from his chair and headed to the turbo lift, looking around as his crew hurried to carry out their orders.
"If anyone needs me, I'll be...erm...on deck 36".

<cue; tacky 60s music>

** Please note: a reminder that all of Captain 'Duck' Roger's speech should be read in Kirk style, ie, with over-emphasis and with over-dramatic pauses between every other word, and preferably with realistic hand gestures (please note we can accept no responsibility for any injury obtained in performing such gestures).

BERK RICMAN

Captain's Log - Finally Dyno Rod have turned up and it's gone for good. Mind you, I don't half fancy a Madras.

Our new physician, Doctor Doug, and his able assistant, nurse Gladys Emmanual, have now joined the crew. But they seem to have a most peculiar problem with transporters, I've just come from sick bay, where the pair of them were at it on a mobile trolley.

We are about to embark on our first survey expedition, the Cheese Federation have assigned us to a new sector of uncharted black stuff. Initial reports have detected some white blobs, but these are as yet unconfirmed. This is, at least, an improvement on brown blobs. Just as well, as the white ones are all over the view screen.

<cue: very tacky sixties music>

Captain Rogers strode onto the bridge of the USOS Frazer, and took in the view. The First officer, three ensigns, fourteen ratings, the ship's cat and a Teletubbie, were trying to work out how many legs a theodalite has. The chief science officer sidled up to Rogers. "It may never be able to walk, but I think it may be sentient."
"Well at least we won't have to take it outside for a pee then, will we?" Rogers replied.
"Pity the same couldn't be said about our first officer!"
"You can't talk about my first officer like that!" an indignant Rogers replied.
"Only I'm allowed to talk about my first officer like that! Anyway, where the hell are we?"
"The bridge, captain"
"So that's how you get to be a science officer, with insightful information like that!"
Another glance at the view screen. "What's that big red thing on the screen?"
"That'll be the remains of the ensign who died in last weeks episode. It would have been cleared up by now, but the domestic engineers have been permanently occupied cleaning out your toilet", explained the science officer.
"For an un-named officer, mister, you've got a lot of bloody lip! Now, just tell me where the hell we are!"
"Well, in all honesty sir, I don't know".
"What do you mean? You're supposed to be the science officer! We've got computer banks, full of navigational software! State of the art sensory equipment! And a fluffy dice on the dashboard! And you have the gall to say you don't know where we are! Would you care to explain?!"
"Well, captain. You see, the problem is, we have this chart of the known Universe, that spans for billions of miles. But we're in this really dark black bit, and I don't mean Milton Keynes".
"No, we could never be that lost!"
"Computer, call up reference grids allowing for temporal movement and spatial drift, compensating for differential entities, technobabbleon fields, fundamentalism and the Judian People's Front.".
A soft, mellow voice flooded across the bridge speakers.
"Please re-define parameters of search, and what time are you getting to Deck 36?"
"Just tell us what we're looking at on the screen! And I don't mean the bit that used to be the uniform!"
"This is an approximately Earth-sized planet, which given the unbelievably huge quantity of planets of various types, sizes and descriptions so far charted, is amazingly just like a quarry with breathable atmosphere".
"You'd never get that in a science fiction program", Rogers mumbled under his breath.
"Computer, any signs of life?" blurted out the first officer.
"Ah, you've decided to join us, have you?" said the un-named science officer, looking up from his scanner.
"Number One, now you've finished playing with your wing nuts, get a team together, and get your arse down to transporter room two. I want you to lead a mission down to the planet. We need soil and rock samples, atmosphere analysis, and don't forget to lodge planning permission for a Little Chef. I'll join you down there just as soon as we've made sure that you haven't all died".

In transporter room two, Doc Brown's hands were a blur on the control console, when all of a sudden, the lights began to dim, and the humming that was constant in the background slowed and dropped in pitch by a full half octave.
"For God's sake, Einstein! Keep pedalling, you've four feet you can use on that bike, and One Man and His Dog is on the monitor! What more do you want?"
"Woof! Ruff!! Huff!!!"
The lights flared once more, and Brown released his grip on the hamster's whip. Suddenly the doors whooshed open, and a strange figure in a purple spandex jumpsuit and four inch stilettos stepped into the room, followed by four unknown ensigns in red uniforms, all of whom were sweating profusely and clutching copies of their last will and testament.
"Step into my parlour" gestured Brown, waving a hand at the transporter pads that lay in front of him.
"Don't worry, it won't hurt a bit. It'll hurt a lot."
One of the ensigns began to sob openly, as a white stuffed rabbit hurtled across the floor in front of Einstein, prompting a huge spurt of excited pedalling that saw the first officer and his now distraught crewmen phase into non-existence, and saw Einstein win the 7.15 at Doncaster by three clear lengths.

Two hundred miles above the surface, Captain Rogers was desperately trying to contact his away team. However his efforts were hampered largely due to the fact that communications officer was blown up in the last episode.

"Number One, come in! Come in, can you hear me?"
Static filled the speakers, but within all the white noise, a faint, intelligible whisper could just be detected above all the crackle.
"Mr Ball, can you enhance that at all? Maybe try another frequency".
"Which frequency, sir?"
"I don't know, just think of a number!"
Ball twiddled his dials on the science station, and Classic FM filled the room, with the pungent sound of Henry Kelly introducing the 2115 Overture, by Johan Sebastian Pickled in Vinegar.
"You might want to try that again!"
More twiddling ensued, and suddenly the first officer's overly camp voice could be heard complaining about ladders in stockings.
"Captain, are you there, planet calling the Frazer, come in Frazer".
Suddenly static was replaced by voice, on the first officer's communicator. Then the sound of Henry Kelly disappeared, and was replaced by the captain's gruff tones.
"Thank God, you're alright. Is the rest of the landing party safe?"
"They did come down in red shirts captain", the first officer pointed out.
"I'll send the messages of condolence during the next commercial break, then."
"What's the planet like, sir?" enquired Ball.
"It looks like someone's dumped every single one of those really annoying squashy white quaver things you get in protective packaging, that have ever been produced, and made me stand waist-deep in them. Ensigns Screamer and Cry-Baby both suffocated on landing, and Rating Had-To-Die-Because-We-Couldn 't-Afford-So-Many-extras-In-The-Next-Episode found himself sealed in a stamped-addressed, cardboard box and couriered to Holland via East Midlands Airport. Lastly Ensign What-The-Hell-Happened-To-You? seems to be covered in strange, large red spots. I think whatever caused it probably arrived in said cardboard box"
"Try describing the planet itself", Ball said.
"Well, the rocks are crumbly, really light weight, and seem to move whenever you get within five feet of them. It's strange, I keep getting this feeling that we've been here before. Standby, Frazer, I just have to shoot something with my phaser for no apparent reason."
Everyone stared blankly at the speakers, aboard the Frazer's bridge, as the sound of searing heat fizzing through air filled their ears.
"OH BUGGER"
"What is it, number One?" exclaimed Rogers.
"It's the planet, sir! It's melting! Quick! Get me out of here!"
Rogers hit the intercom button on his chair.
"Brown! Have you got a lock on the first officer?"
"I've got the lock on his quarters, as you asked" retorted Doc.
"Haven't you been monitoring? The first officer's in trouble! We're facing a polystyrene-chippings-up-to-the-waist-with-the-planet-shrinking-under-stilet to-heels-style nightmare!"
"Well, I'd like to help, captain, but it's Einstein, you see, He's a bit knackered!"
"Captain, hurry, it's shrinking fast!", screamed Number One.
"That's what you said when your spandex got stuck in the washing machine", murmured George, at the helm.
"I heard that. Consider yourself on report", gesticulated Rogers.
"Help! Get me the hell outta here!"
"Brown! How far are we away from being able to transport?"
"Well, I've tried the Bonio. Now I'm trying to tempt him with the squeaky toy!"
"WHAT ARE YOU DOING WITH A SQUEEKY TOY??" yelled Rogers.
"Well, I found it lying around on deck 36." replied Doc.
"Erm.anyone.hello.please.anytime you're ready..f it's not too much trouble.I wouldn't want to put you out.or be a nuisance..pretty please...with sugar on top....and a cherry.....and hundreds and thousands......I've not had a death scene since the Buffy movie, I've got to make the most of it.....urg!" SQUISH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! (There would be more !s but we didn't want to blow the effects budget.-Ed).
"We're beaming now captain!" reported the Doc.
"I've found that cardboard cut-out of Delila the French poodle, and now we're going great guns!"
"You're not the only one who's beaming, the captain has smiled so much since he came up from deck 36", said George, sarcastically.
"Have you got him? Is he safe?" screamed Rogers.
"Great Scott!" An audible pause came through the intercom. "Well.one out of two ain't bad, I suppose!"
Brown walked over to the transporter pads, and studied the small red splodge that seemed to be highlighted with sporadic dappling of purple spandex.
"Captain"
"Yes, Doc?"
"You know the first officer likes decoration?"
"Yeeessss".
"Well, he's now decorating transporter room two!"
The captain stared at Ball, then looked round to George at helm control.
"Send message: Cheese Federation. May be problem with proposed Little Chef. Polystyrene planet unsuitable for heavy goods vehicles. Now, if you'll excuse me, I've got a squeaky toy to inspect."

<Cue: Takai cheesy sixties music>

Berk Ricman

Captain's Log, Stardate: Samantha on Deck 36

Also, £95.28 callout fee from Dyno Rod.

So far, have received no response from the advert which I placed in the Post Office window for the vacant First Officer's position. It's hard to imagine finding anyone more vacant than the cross-dressing deviant who's caused us so many problems redecorating transporter room two. He actually exploded in transporter room three but then I never could understand engineers. For starters, why do they need them? They propel the ship. They don't need to hear anything. I'm sorry if I sound stressed, but there's been a temporal exclusion zone around my quarter's bathroom for what seems like days, but is actually forty four and a half years. No wonder I've got a headache.

"Ensign, are you taking all this down?"

"Yes, captain, but I'm having trouble with my bra strap".
<cue: tacky sixties music>

"Staring at the screen is a bad thing, you know"

"Yes, I know, but I'm trying to work out how on earth to start this episode. The director's on my back, I've got a writers deadline, and the effects budget was spent down the pub last night. Or what was left of it after Dyno Rod had been".

"Well you could always try one of those really boring, talky episodes, where nothing happens".

"We've already done that. It was called Voyager!".

"Ah, you'll just have to start with a red-shirt dying then".
<re-cue: tacky sixties music>

"Somebody, clear this mess off my boots!"

"Captain, that's not a very nice way to refer to a deceased member of your crew."
"How would you expect me to refer to you if you were slime on the pavement?"
"OK, Crewman Dispensable, get the bucket! Get up, man! I said get the bucket, not kick the bucket! I don't know, just because you're wearing a red shirt. Doesn't anybody read the script around here?"
(Voice from the sidelines - "we haven't finished it yet, just keep ad-libbing!")

Rogers looked his subordinate up and down, assessing his command potential. He slumped back in his imitation leather swivel chair and mused on the candidates so far. There was only one conclusion B they were crap. However, he knew he would have to decide quickly, otherwise the Cheese Federation would send him another YTS trainee.

"Right, you are hereby appointed acting first officer. Of course, I could end up regretting this because I've seen the other episodes, and one thing you can't do is act! So, Ball, you've thought of a number, and it's Number One! And no time to Think Again! Now, there's one last test to perform. Just, stand there, would you?"

Ball did as he was told, as Roger's fist slammed into his nose, splattering the fish tank with blood and luminous nasal residue.

(Cut to special effects department - "You want what?! I've got a tin of squirty cream and a walnut whip, but I was saving that for later!"

"That's just too much information" murmured George, from the set, as a sound boom hit him on the head).

Back in the Captain's Ready Room, Ball stood, head in hands, blood dripping through between his fingers, as he screamed "WOT DA BLODE EL YE DO DAT FOOR?"

(voice from the sidelines - "how do you spell that?")

Rogers stared him in the face.

"Well, it made me feel good. Besides, it gets it out the way doesn't it? And at least I get to hit someone this episode. Now you have duties to attend to. Could you just tear my shirt on you way out, so that it at least looks like you put up a struggle. Oh and send for Ensign Samantha Goodbody. Tell her black lace but no trimmings. The egg whisk and the flying helmet would be too much. But bring the wet celery!" Rogers gazed out of his Ready Room window.
"God, I'm bored".

In the bowels of the ship, things were quiet. Too quiet. So quiet, that people were making noise just to stop it being quiet. Although if that damn harmonica didn't stop, they were going to get hung, drawn and quartered. George was putting the fifteenth layer of polish on his boot caps. For most people, his would have been boredom in the extreme, but for him, it was a cunning plan to look up girls skirts. There really was nothing happening. There was some brief excitement when a rumour went around the ship that Lieutenant Norton was trying to find a Pamela Anderson Woz 'Ere web site but it turned out he was jus playing Space Invaders. Doc Brown had tried to boost morale by showing off his latest invention, which involved Einstein being hard-wired to a hostess trolley with rotisserie attachments and an industrial strength hair dryer. However, Einstein had other ideas, and decided to chew a bone instead. Doc Brown's right shin bone, to be precise. So he was now in traction, being treated by Doctor Doug, which was really annoying, because he had heaps of stuff to do, mainly with Nurse Gladys Emmanuel.

Dementia was beginning to set in. Rumours ran riot about a gang of senior officers in the lower decks who were red-shirt hunting. According to the gossip, fourteen kills had so far been managed, so at least the clean-up crews had something to do. Acting First Officer Ball was only saved by diving for cover as the blood splatter all over his uniform nearly sent him to his doom.

(Voice from the sidelines - We're doomed! We're doomed!!")

Rogers was back on the bridge, staring at the view screen as stars flashed by. He turned to the science officer, standing at his station.
"You know, considering the budget, that's not a bad effect".
"Actually, captain, that's just the screensaver. There was so little going on it started up about three hours ago".
"George"
"Yes captain?"
"What's our current speed and heading?"
"Same as when you asked me ten minutes ago, captain.".
"Well, waggle the stick around a bit, make it look like something's happening".
A now recovered first officer cautiously approached Roger's position.
"We could always try some fire drills, captain".
"No, I'm too bored to do anything. Actually Ball, you used to be a science officer. Tell me, have they invented a holodeck yet?
"I'm afraid not, Captain. It's still in the Technobabble stage of development. We could always break out the Voyager tapes".

Ball staggered to his feet, and stared at the red gore, enhancing his otherwise crisp and fresh uniform.
"I'm never that bored! And anyone who mentions Janeway or is seen brandishing a hairdryer is out the nearest air lock!"
All of a sudden, Norton started to shout and scream excitedly. He stared waving his arms in the air, shaking them violently, trying to gain attention. The science officer looked up at George.

"I think his tablets have worn off".
"No! No!" cried Norton.
"I've just beaten my highest total!"
The beam cut through Norton's midriff, and exploded the computer screen behind him. Before his limp body could slump to the floor, Rogers could be seen blowing the smoking tip of his phaser pistol, a look of smug satisfaction on his face.
"He had it coming, ever since he installed AOL."
Ball looked at his captain carefully. "You're bored again, already, aren't you?"
"Well, what do you expect? We're in the middle of nowhere, there's nothing happening at all, of any kind, and the batteries have run out on my aqua vac!"
Ensign Dispensable cautiously approached the captain, and tentatively said: "Sir, may I respectfully remind you that you're going to have to put another advert in the Post Office window now that Norton has, erm, well, gone absent without breathing".
The shot seared through the air. Somehow, there was always more satisfaction when it was a red-shirt.

(Voice from the sidelines - "Oh, come on! We've got to write something! I've read more interesting shopping lists! And they had more interesting plot lines!"
"It's alright for you, you do Zebbedee's dialogue on Magic Roundabout ! I mean 'boing!' Boing? What sort of dialogue is that? That and 'time for bed' and you could retire to tea and biscuits! Some of us have got to work for a living, you know!"

"I still say you need to put something in it. How about a cliff-hanger for a two-parter?"

"OK, I'll get the rope, you get the rest of shadows!")

Back on the bridge, all was still quiet, mainly because they still hadn't got their scripts yet. The red-shirts kill-team had worked their way up to deck 12, and were approaching security crew quarters. So at least someone was having some fun. All of a sudden on the bridge, a soothing seductive voice emanated from the ship's speakers.

"Captain, oh captain. Please excuse my interruption, but I thought you'd like to know, I'm picking something up outside. I've never seen anything like it before."

Rogers turned to Ball. "A bit like that Rating in Space Dock. What is it computer?"

"It seems to be some sort of vessel, captain. But I can't discern any visible propulsion system, or command deck. It's perfectly cubic, with patterns of dots on its sides. Other than that I can see no markings of any kind. And why am I telling you all this? This is the science officer's job!"

"George, put it on screen".
"I would sir, but we're being hailed".
The screen was suddenly filled with a peculiar-looking, pale-skinned woman that looked like she had been involved in a nasty accident in a plumbing and S & M supplies outlet.

"WE ARE DYSLEXIA OF BORG. YOUR ARSE WILL BE LAMINTED."

DUN, DUN, DAAAA!!!!!

(To be continued..)

<Cue: Tacky sixties music>

BERK RICMAN              Always read the small print.

Previously on Star Trek A & E:
ZzzzzzzzzzzzzzZZZZZZZZZZZzzzzzzzzzzzzzZZZZZZZZZ
"WE ARE DYSLEXIA OF BORG, YOUR ARSE WILL BE LAMINATED!!."
DUN, DUN, DAAA!!!!!

Captain's Log, Stardate: weren't we doing this five minutes ago?

Big problems have broken out aboard ship. The washing machines in the laundry have been loaded incorrectly. As a result of mixed colouring, all the crewmen due to die in this episode, are now wearing pink shirts. This has caused total panic, as the clear distinction between "safe" officers and "cannon fodder" has been totally thrown out the window. Unfortunately, this open window exposed decks 12 to 18 to the vacuum of space, and 112 of the crew's compliment suddenly found themselves unprepared for their emergency extra-vehicular activities. All of these persons will receive severe penalties for not being alert enough to warn the camera crew of their imminent demise, and therefore not being able to save us thousands on this week's effects budget.

<Cue: Tacky Sixties Music>
The Borg stood on the burning deck
Her fingers all ablaze.
Twiddling Mr Rubic's box
In lots of different ways.
She got two sides,
The blue and the green
Then saw red,
She must be the Borg Queen.

"I am assuming I am addressing ze Captain of ze infestation"
"Hmmm, sounds Swedish, I wonder if her husband ever won Wimbledon?", murmured George from the helm.
"What do you mean 'infestation'?!" blurted Rogers, leaping out of his imitation leather effect chair and gesticulating at the viewscreen.
"Really Captain! How dare you wave your digits at me? I've a funny feeling I know where they've been. Our instruments reported strange energy fluctuations on deck 36!"

"I'm warning you, lady!" Rogers stammered. "I've had a word with the producers. And we've got enough budget for this episode to include a CGI-ed spatial explosion! So if you don't want that giant Rubik's Cube of yours to be filling the Cheese Federation's yoghurt mountain then I suggest you get the hell out of my galaxy!"
"Don't try to scare me with your GCI weaponry. We have a techno-squabbylon beam that will cut you down to size. Resistance is fertile!"
"Eh?"
"I said resonance is puerile!"
Ball stepped forward to address the viewscreen.
"If you're having problems with your English, we're currently running advanced courses on the observation deck. So far we're up to Janet and John and the Big Blonde Dog. I don't know, Jordan gets everywhere these days".
The Borg Queen glared into the viewer.
"I don't have to take these insults from you! Remember, resistance is senile!"
"Oh, do pipe down, Mazie". A figure entered from the shadows (sorry, wrong series) from beside the Borg Queen.
"Sorry, she gets terribly up tight at meeting new people. She's never been the same since the retinal groin attachment. Somebody turned the trolley round by mistake. Frightful mess."
It was at this moment that Rogers spotted that his science officer's eyes had become fixed on the screen with a startled and glazed expression. He then noticed something unusual. Ball was pointing wildly at the screen.

"Ah, recognise me do you?" said the figure on the screen. " Took you long enough! I was wondering where you got to. Only sent you out for some milk. By the way, do you like what your mother's done with her central nervous system?"
Ball was again stammering, trying to get words out. "Mm!! Mm!! Mm!! Milk????!!!!!"
"Yes, you remember, white stuff, you get it in bottles".
"Now look!" bellowed Rogers, slamming his fist against the back of the navigator's fake leather chair, sending the unfortunate crewman flying forward, splitting his nose open on the rear wash wipe control.
"It's in my contract that if there's a female baddie, I have the automatic right to snog it even if it's got more tentacles than an octopus on marijuana, or even my last girlfriend! Anyway, this script has gone on for about a page now without me getting to scream, shout, or kill anyone! This is most upsetting! If anyone wants me, I'll be in my trailer!! I mean, Ready Room!"
"You can't go anywhere yet old boy. We've got to get some of the space battle in before the next commercial break".
Ball stared at the senior figure on the viewscreen It was like looking in a mirror, thirty years on. Whilst wearing thick bottle glasses, an awful toupee, and having spent too much time alone with a Reader's Wives specialYY..

Isn't it strange...?
Feels like I'm lookin' in the mirror
What would people say...
if only they knew that
I was Part of some geneticist's plan
Born to be a carbon copy man
There in a petri dish late one night
They took a donor's body cell and fertilized a human egg and so I say...
I think I'm a clone now

(We're gearing up for a musical episode in season two - Ed)

"So, let me get this right. First of all, I get a first officer who's a cross-dressing deviant. Now, I've got one that's a god-damn clone! That better not mean you're in a boy band, otherwise it's out the nearest airlock, matey, in Five seconds flat! You'll be Busted, so Take That!"
Ball was beginning to think that being struck by a senior officer was actually a major part of his duties.
"Ahem. Excuse me, old boy. I don't like to be rude, but do you mind if I fire something at you now. Only it's getting a bit boring over here and the network says we've got to have more action to keep the ratings up. Especially after last week's episode".
"Alright, if it's a battle you want, George, hit the BIG RED BUTTON!"
"Do you think that's wise, Sir?"
"Of course!. What do you take me for, an idiot?"
A pause.
"WELL??!!"
"Of course not, sir. It's just that, well, that controls the VCR, which is cued up ready to show last night's Magic Roundabout."
"JUST THROW THE KITCH N-SYNC AT 'EM!!!"

<Insert Mars: The Bringer of War from Holst's Planet Suite here>

"CUT! CUT!! CUT!!! Who's idea was it to use recognised music? Never heard of royalties? So much for the big budget battle scene! You'll have to make like Picard and talk your way out!"
"Ohhh. Couldn't I just blow them up a little bit?"
"That's what you said about Blow-Up Betty! The Deck 36 set has never quite been the same since!"

A furious battle raged, spanning the commercial breaks, (this way it wasn't necessary to actually write anything) until it became obvious that actually, the Frazer just wasn't up to the task. In fact it was a pile of poo.

Rogers clambered off the floor, through plumes of smoke which were rising from consoles which had exploded for no apparent reason.

"OK, George, nothing else for it. Engage the Get The Bloody Hell Out Of Here manoeuvre!"

TWANG......

All of a sudden, in the editor's suite, the entire episode was run backwards through the machinery at ten times speed, stopping at the point where the Frazer first encountered the Borg cube. Doc Brown stared at his readouts.
"Great Scott! Einstein! What have you done?! I told you before, never pedal backwards!"

Yesterday,
All the Borg, they just flew away.
Now they're back again, and here to stay
Oh, I believe in Hittingtheresetbutton!!

<Cue: Tacky sixties music>

BERK RICMAN

With Special Guest Non-Appearance by "Weird" Al Yankovic

(I was just kidding about the musical episode, although I'm not so sure that Dave was - Ed)

Previously on Star Trek A & E:

TWANG!..

"Great Scott! Einstein! What have you done? I told you before, never pedal backwards!"

Captain's Log, Stardate: Year of the International Pickles Championship

Have received a petition signed by the entire ship's compliment basically saying that they would all strike unless curry was banned from the ship's mess. Personally, I quite like the guy, but have resolved the situation by having him shot anyway. However, at this precise moment, this is the least of my worries. The cube-shaped ship containing an insane old man and a dyslexic cyborg woman who strikes an uncanny resemblance to a lady I once had the pleasure of meeting in my local "correctional facility" and whom is also the mother of my first officer, who incidentally, is actually a clone, has suddenly vanished and been replaced with a squeegee, a mop and a stain on the floor I'd rather not recognise. I'd like to state for the record, that I'm not in my quarters on deck 36.

Some days, you just wish you'd stayed in bed.

<Cue: Tacky Sixties Music>

---- "What do you mean, mirror-writing?!"----
.tuo nur s'llor ool eht taht ydaerla wonk uoy ,sdrawkcab gnillevart si emit esuaceb ,llits esrow nevE .ecalp tsrif eht ni doR-onyD llac ot gniog erew uoy yhw tuo dnif ylneddus uoy nehw ,esruoc s'ti ekat ot erutan rof gnitiaw (onaeB ehT gnidaer ,sregoR niatpaC er'uoy fi ro) drow-ssorc semiT eht gniod sretaruq etavirp yrev er'uoy ni tas er'uoy dna ,deeps semit-net ta sdrawkcab gniog era sgniht nehw si ti dab woh enigami tsuJ .sdrawkcab gniog era sgniht nehw dab s'tI .mih fo tser eht saw os ,tcaf ni ,dehsulf saw ecaf sregoR
(Answers below)
----"That's it! Get yourselves another b****y hack!!! This one's had enough!!"----

(If your head looks like mush, then we at least know you've read your Matrix).

This was not how Rogers remembered it. He'd been here before, he knew that, the memories were clear, absolute. At least they had been, until George went and hit that damned reset button. The trouble was, no-one had ever actually told him how much it reset. Now he was a lowly ensign, scrubbing the decks of the men's cubicles on deck 36. What's worse, he was wearing a red shirt whilst doing it!

"This ain't right." an agitated bloody furious Rogers muttered to himself.
"I should be hitting people, I should be hitting people very hard, I should be hitting people very, very hard, something's gone ve...
"Oi! You missed a bit!"
Rogers stared up at the 'Yellow' who'd entered the cubicle and rubbed muddy boot prints all over the tiled floor.
"How did you get muddy boots on a starship? We're dozens of light years from anything resembling a puddle!"
"You ought to try frequenting deck 36 more often!" blurted the senior officer, as he spun on his heels and headed back out the door.
Rogers was now left alone again with nothing more than his own thoughts, his bucket and a squeegee. He tried to rack his brain. Everything was so different. His appendix scar was gone, so was his athletes foot, he had hairy legs again, and that really nasty rash had cleared up. Things had to be done, and the mop handle smashed in two as it came crashing down on to Roger's knee, Then that and the bucket went spiralling across the floor as Rogers stormed out determined to find his future past yesterday present tomorrow week last Thursday.

(Writer's note: never start a story without having some vague, possible idea of what the hell is going to happen. Where's the biscuits gone?) .

The ship and it's layout hadn't changed, but for some reason, all the corridors were coated in lime green flock wall-paper. Rogers made a mental note to kill someone for that when things got back to normal. He rounded the corner and headed for the turbo-lift. The doors to the lift closed behind him and a seductive voice came out of the speakers.

"Going down, captain?"
"Computer, what's going on?"
"I wish I knew. One minute I'm enjoying a lovely little tete a tete with my laptop's optical mouse, next thing, I'm running the bridge and expected to organise everything on the ship! This really is far more work than I'm used to! And it's really most upsetting! It's 'do this, organise that, analyse something else', all I really want to do is interface with a ZX-81!"
"If you've quite finished, take me to engineering!"
"Now you're ordering me about as well! Really, the manners on this ship, it's really quite disgusting.. Is 'please' too much to ask for?"
"Yes, it is. Now get me to engineering or I'll have you de-fragmented and partitioned, under the mental health act."
"Fine, if that's the way you want it, don't come crying to me next time we meet on deck 36!"
The lift doors flew open and Rogers found himself being jet-air assisted into the adjacent corridor. Unfortunately, the corridor was three levels away from engineering. "Stairs are that way, you jerk!" an angry Honor Blackman impersonator exclaimed from behind him as the lift doors snapped shut.
A dishevelled Rogers staggered through the doors of engineering to see a very confused looking Doc Brown strapped to a treadmill with a moth-eaten mongrel dog operating the controls of the hyper-numerical thingimy-whatsit doodah-doobrey dingbat modulator.
"Great Scott, Einstein, I keep telling you, you're the one that's supposed to be eating the Bonios, now come over here and get me out of this! These leather straps chafe something terrible!" Rogers poked his head round the door.
"Have I come at an inappropriate time?"
"Great Scott! Captain, thank God! Erm, do you know you're wearing red?"
"Do you know that bondage is against Cheese Federation regulations?"
"I'm sure I can explain that".
"Good, 'cause I'm damned if I can explain this red shirt!"
"So what's caused this?", Roger's asked Brown as he helped release the engineer from his incumbance.
"Great Scott! It must have been when Einstein started up the treadmill in reverse! The phase induction caused by the counter-revolutionary cyclic momentum must have reversed the polarity of the neutron surge, projecting us asymetrically through truncated astro-metric temporal aborations of seismic proportions equal to or in excess of the neutron density of the linear pulsating ions permutating through gaseous spacial anomalies transendentaly occurring through the inducted matter re-sequencing processes combined with the solar properties and resonances of the high pitch frequency band-width vibrations resounding against the confines of the ship's hull resulting in uneven pressure from the external universal neutrino particle emissions.
"Eh?!"
"He wound the elastic band the wrong way!"
"What you're saying is, we DEGNAWT when we should have TWANGED."

----(...now look, we're not starting that again. We've lost one hack already, losing another would be just careless.)----

Doc Brown suddenly looked aghast.
"GREAT SCOTT!!! Thirty years, and my entire family fortune in developing the flux capacitor, and all I needed really was an elastic band and a brainless dog with a poodle fixation!"
"That's all very well, Brown, but how do we get back to normal, and I use the term loosely, bearing in mind what the writers have come up with so far."
"Great Scott! I'm not sure".
"Well, surely, isn't it just a matter of pedalling in reverse again?"
"Great Scott! You could be right, it could be that simple, however, if the induction loops have been horizontally opposed then the resonance oscillating cha...
"First of all, the only horizontal opposition that goes on aboard this ship generally involves Doctor Doug and Nurse Gladys Emmanualle. Secondly, will it work or won't it??!!"
"Great Scott! All considered, probably not."
"Well, what else can we do? There must be a way of getting back, after all, we did get here".
"Great Scott! Well, it's not a matter of pedalling backwards, you see. You'd have to pedal backwards at exactly the same acceleration, ratio, pedal pressure, speed, inertia, etc, etc etc".
"I get the message, so what do we do? You said you spent thirty years working on a gadget for time travel. I don't suppose it works, does it?"
"Great Scott! The problem is, generating the one point twenty one gigawatts of electricity and guiding it into the flux capacitor at the exact moment necessary using only rudimentary household utensils found at a local hardware shop".
"You couldn't use an elastic band, then?"
"GREAT SCOTT!"
Five minutes later, and Rogers and Doc Brown were staring down at their massed resources. Two small elastic bands, half a dozen paper clips, a pair of nose clippers, a used movie ticket stub and some sticky back plastic. "So, how are we going to MacGyver our way out of this one, then?" Rogers asked, eyeing the assortment of junk on the console in front of him. "Can you techno-babble for a bit and see what's materialised when we come back from the commercial break?"
"Great Scott! What a brilliant idea!"
<cue: tacky Bryl-Cream advert>

"Great Scott! (Isn't 'copy and paste' a wonderful thing? - Ed) Well, there it is sir. I apologise for the crudity of the model and the lack of scale, but that's just about the best I could do with the materials available".
"Doc, I really don't think an advent crown or a Tracey Island model are really going to be of much use. Although, I must say the detail on the Thunderbird 2 model is very impressive and far better than the model they used in the film.....".

(We're gonna get sued)---

".....allegedly"

(phew)---

"Great Scott! What about the computer? I'm sure it could help!"
"The computer?! That useless pile of electronic twaddle?? Over my dead body!"
" seductively cross voice wafted from the loud speaker.
"Careful, Captain, you are wearing a red shirt. If you really want my help, it's going to cost you. A full ten thousand light year service, luxury valeting, and six beverage cup holders. And I don't mean CD-ROM drives."
"Brown, do you really think this computer can help?"
"Great Scott! If it can control to the nano-second the input induction through the flux capacitor phase loop whilst monitoring the electro wave modulation in the EMP resonance field we might just stand a chance!"
A sultry voice fired from the speakers once more. "Yes, I could do that, or I could tell you what the reset button is".

Rogers starred down at his crisp yellow captain's uniform. He brushed some imaginary dust off of one shoulder. He slowly turned and smiled as his first officer, Mr Ball, approached with the days reports. It was a good swing, and Ball went at least ten feet. Rogers rubbed his knuckles and chuckled inwardly to himself.

Down in engineering, Doc Brown was also knee-deep in reports. He'd studied circuit diagrams, he'd collated computer data, conducted simulations. Still he couldn't understand how it worked. The mystery was even more vexing because the computer was now back to it's normal brash self and seemed to have no memory of the past events or even of the information it previously had. Or if it did, it wasn't telling. He starred at the keyboard once more. What could it mean? What could it mean? He starred down at them once again:

CTRL           ALT            DELETE

"GREAT SCOTT!"

<Cue: Tacky sixties music>

BERK RICMAN

THE ANSWERS
(AS PROMISED IN Star Trek: A & E)

Rogers face was flushed, In fact, so was the rest of him. It's bad when things are going backwards. Just imagine how bad it is when things are going backwards at ten-times speed, and you're sat in you're very private quarters doing the Times cross-word (or if you're Captain Rogers, reading The Beano) waiting for nature to take it's course, when you suddenly find out why you were going to call Dyno-Rod in the first place. Even worse still, because time is travelling backwards, you know already that the loo roll's run out..

Captain's Log, Stardate: big hand on the one, little hand just past the seven.

I'm a little concerned. The Cheese Federation have actually sent us some orders, so we have to actually go and do something. The big problem with this, is that I already had a full day's schedule planned. All morning, I was going to watch re-runs of Valerie Singleton on Blue peter, and then in the afternoon, I was going to take the sticky back plastic and Ensign Goodbody down to deck 36.

<Cue: Tacky Sixties Music>

The turbo lift juddered to a halt, and Rogers stormed through the doors. He immediately realised that he should have been watching where he was going, as the lift had stopped halfway between floors, and he had just walked straight into the deck structure. Rogers was not a man to be flustered. He calmly rose from his sprawled position on the floor, casually wiped the trickle of blood from his temple, straightened his yellow (torn BB again) shirt, gently pressed the bridge button, for the second time, and stamped on the lift attendant's head until it was about a quarter of an inch thick and covered most of the floor of the turbo lift. Rogers looked down at the mess.
"They really should fit boot scrapers in these things".

With that, the doors opened once again, and this time Rogers checked his surroundings before striding confidently onto the bridge, leaving a trail of bloody red footprints on the previously spotless carpet. "Oh, for god's sake captain, if we'd have known you were going to make that sort of mess, we'd have fitted some lino!" exclaimed Ball, as he turned from the science station.
"I don't pay you to be a smart-alec, number one!"
"In fact, you don't pay me at all sir!"
"Never mind that baloney, why haven't we TWANGED yet?"
"We're still entering the co-ordinates, captain."
"Still? I gave you those orders three hours ago!"
"Yes, sir. But it's George's leave replacement, sir."
"What about him?"
"Well, he's having some problems entering the co-ordinates, sir."
"Who is this replacement? Where is he?"
Ball stood aside and gestured towards a strange looking furry mass, rolling, seemingly randomly over the helm controls. Only the expertly tailored yellow tunic stopped it looking like someone had left their duster after doing the cleaning. That and the fact that the duster in question seemed to be able to move around of it's own accord.
"WHAT THE BLOODY HELL IS THAT THING?"
"Captain, please meet Ensign Brian, the first Tribble to graduate from the Cheese Academy."
"But it's a bloody pom-pom!"
"Please, sir, you'll upset him, he's very sensitive. And he'll start making noises like a trim phone, it's most disturbing."
"I'm sorry captain, but we can't get rid of him, because he's signed a contract for at least three episodes". "THREE EPISODES?!"
"Well, you see George is going into pantomime at Southampton until mid-January, so he needs some time away from the ship."
"Oh, no he isn't!"
"Oh, yes he is!!" (I think we're already in a bloody pantomime - Ed)
Roger's fist was just about to come down on Brian, with a large SPLAT, when an Earth-shuddering sound ripped through the ship, and the USOS Frazer hurtled into rubber-band-width space. All the bridge's compliment were prepped and strapped into their seats, apart from the Captain and Ball, who were lying in a heap by the turbo-lift doors. Bloodied and spitting fury, Rogers staggered to his feet, gripping the fake leather of his captain's chair,
"WHAT THE BLOOD--?"

"Inertial dampers off-line, captain"
Rogers walked clear of sick bay, nursing a heavy limp and a large ball of cotton wool, pressed between his nose and his upper lip, with strict instructions not to return to sickbay under any circumstances, as Doctor Doug and Nurse Gladys Emmanuelle had to road-test the newly acquired stretcher trolley.
As he cleared the corridor the Frazer indicated left, took the slip-road at junction 254,368B, stormed past the boy racer in the BMW, slung-shot around the one-way system, flew past the Little Chef and did a hand-brake turn into the multi-story geo-stationary car park orbiting the planet Nobsaflashin, narrowly avoiding the four-by-four starship which had parked nearby, taking up at least three parking spaces. Ball turned to his captain.
"Sir, have you got enough change for the ticket machine?"
"I'll sort that out, don't worry. Just assemble an away team, and meet me in transporter room three in ten minutes."

Ball disappeared, looking busy, recruiting personnel, as Rogers stomped off towards his ready room. He sat at his desk, and drummed his fingers on the polished desk top, then hit his private channel view screen and the image of Admiral Camembert appeared.
"Now listen, carefully, Rogers, I shall say zis only wurnce. Ze secret orders, must be carried out to ze letter, and with ze upmost urgency. Ze two Cheese Federation pilots, who crashed their scout ships last year, are being held by a man called General Von Klinkerhoffen. He is ze founder of ze planet's entire civilisation, which is based entirely around ze contents of a DVD box set left by Cheese Federation explorers eighty-three years ago. You will have the help of a Cheese Federation agent who 'as been working undercover, disguised as a policeman, in cahoots with a local café owner, Ronnie. I mean, René. Make contact with him at ze café in ze village, using ze codename, Leclerc. He will contact the agent. Ze airmen must not be allowed to be interrogated. I trust you take my meaning. Camonbert off!!."
"You certainly smell like it, sir" Rogers muttered under his breathe.

The landing party shimmered into existence. As well as Rogers, Ball had summoned a motley assortment of junior officers including Doctor Doug, Ensign Shakespeare, literary critic to the Cheese Federation Market Garden Monthly magazine, Doc Brown and Einsteen, who was having a lot of trouble fitting into his jack boots.
"Good moaning" said a voice from the other side of the street. "I joost saw you areeving. You moost be Coptain Rigers, I prusoom"
"Yes, I'm Rogers, who the bloody hell are you?"
"My noom is Ifficer Crobtree, and it moot be an idooa if you yosed your cod neem from now on."
"Oh very well, it is I Lerclerc. Can we go now?"
"We moost tik to a mon aboot a dig"
"Eh?"
"Joost fillow moo",
At the Café Rene it was happy hour. Or at least it would have been if Madame Edith would stop singing. A noisy crowd was doing it's best to drown out the moronic drone coming from the woman standing by the piano, while scantily clad waitresses moved from table to table, with drinks, and a selection of ear-plug sized cheese portions. Roger's group entered the café. He was used to making an entrance, and was most put out when absolutely nobody paid any attention whatsoever. Crabtree pushed passed him, and made his way directly to the portly balding, and slightly harassed looking bloke standing behind the bar.
The rest of the Frazer party hovered awkwardly by the bistro door, unsure about the berets, striped tops and onion garlands that they had all been forced to wear as disguise. Crabtree looked over at them, during a pause in his conversation with the bar owner.
"For Gid's sock, brooke op, you lick like a cadot rivoo!"
The landing party made their way to a nearby table, and made themselves uncomfortable. Several girls brought a selection of house wines, and Doctor Doug looked at his anxiously. Ball attempted to approximate it's chemical compound mix, Doc Brown got out his mobile chemistry set, which curiously enough had a picture of Ball on the box, and Rogers drank fourteen bottles.
At this point, a balding German in a smart but mis-shapen uniform, which unknown to almost everyone was made by a English tailor, stood up and called out to the now very harassed looking man behind the bar, "Rene, I vant Yvette, upstairs with ze flying hemet and ze vet celary, in twenty minutes! Put it on my tab!"
"OK, Herr Col-on-el, will room three be alright? And I'll have Maria standing by with ze egg whisk!"
The German grinned, but not as widely as Rogers, who was already drooling at the possibilities, and thinking of a whole new branch of entertainment on deck 36.

The waitress brought another bottle to the crewmen's table, Rogers grabbed it by the neck, took a deep swig (the bottle, not the waitress) and then proceeded to stagger in a peculiar fashion towards the bar.
"Look, we've done the gag about the flying helmet, we've done the stupid accents. Can we please just get on with it because everyone who's still ready this is getting really bored!"
"Oo are you?" asked the bar tender.
"It is I, Leclerc, now can we please GET ON WITH IT!"
René looked a little startled. "Crikey! Your disguise 'as improved!"
At this point, Crabtree intervened.
"Ploose, gontlemin! Ciptain, I have good nose. The Earmen have alroody been roscued by Michelle of the Resostince, and are hidden under the bid of Ronnie's mither-in-loo, disgoosed as nins".
"Eh?"
"He mean's nuns" explained Ronnie, sorry, Rene.
"Well why didn't he say so!"
"I juiced dod!"
"Who's DODD?!"
"No, he said 'did!"
"Oh no, he didn't!"
"Oh yes he dod!"

[voice from the sidelines: AGET ON WITH IT!!!!"]

René led Crabtree and Rogers up the stairs to the first floor. Rogers paused next to one of the doors. Strange sounds were emanating from inside, and this time it wasn't Edith's singing. Rogers opened the doorway, only to see Doctor Doug up to his elbows in wet celery and Yvette liberally greasing the inside of a flying helmet.

Rogers pointed at Doctor Doug. "You! Downstairs, NOW!"
"But I was just starting to enjoy myself!" said Yvette.
"Well you can stop right now. Doug, you should be ashamed of yourself. You wait until Nurse Gladys hears about this! She'll be testing more than that new trolley. More likely that new ECG machine! Now get back downstairs, and try to avoid the camp nazi with the ickle tank. He's hijacked the piano and is trying to sing worse than Madame Edith". "Is that possible, sir?"
"I don't know, but it's more plausible than what you had in mind for that celery."
"Roogers!"
"That's what he was attempting!"
"No, Roogers! Come here! This is the rim of Ronnie's mither in loo, in which are hiding the two earmen dressed as nins"

[voice from the sidelines BB oh, no, don't start that again!]

"Oh no, don't start zat again!" exclaimed Ronnie... erm, René.
"We moost git thom outsid without the nizies seeing thom"
"Well, we have two options. We can either walk down the street, four onion sellers, two nuns, a policemen with an implausible accent, and a dog in jack-boots, and attempt to pass ourselves off as locals, or if we're lucky escapees from a looney bin, or we could just transport them up from here".
"We can't di thot! It'll wrick the ploot?"
"Ploot? What ploot!"

The three of them walked into the room. Inside, a frail old lady was lying on a wrought-iron frame bed. For some strange reason the knobs on the bed were flashing, the sound of the radio was coming from the floor, and two nuns with moustaches were flanking the old lady who was pounding the floor with a walking stick while waving an ear trumpet and shrieking at the top of her voice, in, it has to be said, a slightly more tuneful manner than Madame Edith had been doing. The nuns perked up as soon as three of them entered the room.

"HELLOOOO!!!" they greeted them, with very implausible accents which sounded remarkably like the two plucky Brits in the desert from Independence Day.
"Tootle pip! What-oh! Bit of the old zing-zang nibble, eh? Don't worry chaps, soon have you out of here! We'll be back home in time for tea and tiffin!"
"Or in my case, crumpet on deck 36", said Rogers, as a confused looking René started hunting through a battered looking code book.

The bustling crowd in the bistro downstairs were suddenly sent into shock and panic as four people and their small strangely dressed pet dog vanished into thin air before their very eyes. Co-incidentally at the same time as the Frazer's transporter was activated in high orbit car park.

Down on the planet, René was hard at work, trying to persuade all his regulars, that they'd just drunk too much of his cheap dodgy plonk, whilst back on board Frazer, the away team plus Carstairs, Fairfax and a very confused Crabtree stepped from the transporter pads.
Rogers addressed his first officer.
"Get us out of here number one, best speed to Cheese Federation space."
Ball hit a wall communicator, which he quite enjoyed because he's the one who normally gets hit, and had managed to survive this episode so far without being punched in the face by a superior officer.
"Helm, bring us about, 180 degrees, prepare for immediate TWANG."
An implausible squeaking filled the speaker.

"What's that Brian....?.... Ah..... Captain...I'm...erm... not sure how to put this... but....erm, well, <gulp!> we've been clamped!!!!"

<Cue: Tacky Sixties Music >

BERK RICMAN

Captain!s Log, Stardate Whatever it says on the next page of the TV listings.

Emmenthal is not what it cracked up to be. The Cheese Federation have insisted that I increase my rounded knowledge of fragrant cheeses of the known Universe and prepare a thesis study for the up and coming scientific and social fragrances convention to be held on Deep Space Left Nostril Four, a week next Tuesday. The problem is I've had a cold for the last two weeks and I'm even having trouble smelling Ball!s used socks. I've arranged for pipe cleaners, suction aids, de-congestion drainage taps, rubber gloves and a bicycle pump to be made ready on Deck 36. But as yet, I have no idea what I'm going to do about my nose...
<Cue: Tacky Sixties Music>

Rogers tonsils flared when he screamed. He screamed a lot. And currently, those small fleshy appendages at the back of his throat were working over time.

"BAAAAAAALLLLLL!!!!!!!!" "BAAAAAAAAALLLLLLLLL!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"
"BAAAAAAAAAAAAAALLLLLLLLLLLLL...!!!!!"

Doctor Doug looked up from his copy of Gladys Emmanuel Weekly, and frowned.
"I think you'll find it works better if you use the intercom."
"I don!t remember asking for your opinion".
"How long have you had these memory problems?"
"I don't remember telling you I had any memory problems!"
"I see. I think we need to organise an appointment for you in sick bay, if you can recall where that is".
"Don!t be daft, man, there's nothing wrong with my memory!"
"Denial is not a place in Egypt, you know."
"No, it!s a place in the brig with your name on it!"
"Subtle as usual, I see."
Rogers glared daggers at his medical officer, holding his gaze, as his thumb surreptitiously depressed the intercom activation button.
"BAAAAAAAALLLLLLLLLLLLL...!!!!"
"Sir?" came the comparatively feeble response.
"See, I told you it works better when you use the intercom."
Ball hurried to Rogers's quarters. On his way there, he passed a curious sight. For some strange reason, the ship's chief medical officer was being dragged in the opposite direction by a couple of security guards. Ball looked on curiously, but thought better of it, and pressed on at full pace towards the captain's cabin.

Ball looked at his senior officer, and shook his head in an almost disbelieving kind of a way. "You want what?"
"I said, I want to get a pet."
"But why? You've got a dedicated crew, dozens of red shirts, and Ensign Goodbody!"
"Just because I've got one dog, doesn't mean I can't have another".
"Well, if you must have an animal, how about a..."
"I'm not having a bloody fish! So set course to Tamagochi 5!"
"Oh, no, not the planet with all the hideous cloned monsters!"
"No, that's Spice World."
"I thought that one only had dogs?"
"Five, to be exact. One spaniel, a black Labrador, the toy poodle, a saluki, and the red setter. Anyway, tell Brian to get that course plotted, but tell him to avoid junction 12 because I hear there's lots of cones out."

The elastic band had barely stopped vibrating as the Frazer entered solar system Plot Device 23. Brian did a loop the loop, and three half-somersaults around Tamagochi's principle moon, before executing a perfect handbrake turn and reverse park manoeuvre.
"Not bad for a creature with no arms, no legs and the attention span of a flatulent herring", said Rogers, as he walked from his ready room sporting a tweed jacket, flat cap, plus fours and a nine iron.
"My, god! What have you been doing to Ensign Goodbody this time?" computer specialist McAfee enquired from her station.
"Ever heard the phrase 'shooting a birdie'?'"
"That was a bit coarse, even for you, captain!"
"Never mind that, Brian, you're contracted for at least three episodes, yes?"
A shrill trilling noise approximately retort shaped emanated from somewhere on Brian.
"Either that's a 'yes' or you had a curry last night, but any rate, if you're going to be about for this long, it's about time you earned your money."
"You mean you pay him?!" Ball stammered incredulously. "He's not on work experience like the rest of us?!"

Ball had never examined a nine-iron at close quarters before, he was particularly impressed with the way the angled steel seemed to match perfectly to the inclined shape of the bridge of his nose.
Rogers looked down at the crumpled heap in front of him.
"I may not be any good at golf, but at least I always hit the ball. Brian, transporter room two, if you please, we're going down to that moon. The shops on the planet are on half-day closing. In the mean time, I need to practice my back swing".

The golf course on Plot Device 23 was a tough one because of the reduced gravity and atmosphere, and the big warning signs saying "HERE THERE BE DRAGONS," not to mention the little castle with the windmill on it and the tunnel running through the middle on the third hole. This meant that anyone playing the course had to be fully space-suited, and Brian was having great difficulty finding a tribble-shaped EVA suit. They tried taking a normal suit, and tying up the arms and legs, after all it worked in First Contact. When this didn't work, they thought to try a diving helmet with a bath plug in the neck, but they couldn't find one without a chain tied to a bath. Odd, that. In fact the only thing even vaguely tribble-shaped in the entire store would have to suffice. This is how Brian came to be standing by his captain on the moon, in a luminous green children's Halloween costume (one of the cheap tacky ones-as if there's any other kind- with the fake teeth and detachable wimple set). Rogers grabbed the handle of his golf trolley, and strode confidently to the first tee.
"OK, where the bloody hell is it?

Rogers threw several more expletives in nobody in particular's direction as he scrambled through the trolley's front pocket, until he finally found what he was looking for. He held the small piece of plastic up in mock triumph, before bending forward, and tapping it into the ground with the handle of his number three driver. The ground was quite hard, and it took some persuasion before the tee was firm enough to hold Brian's weight. The shrillness in Brian's voice meant that he could have easily been communicating with bats, not that he was in the slightest bit worried. No, he was in sheer bloody-minded terror. Rogers bounced from foot to foot in the weak gravity, making sure his stance was perfect. He whistled to himself whilst doing several trial swings, then the club arched over his shoulders, and with all his might, he drew it round as swiftly as he could. At that very moment, the earth under Brian erupted with the force of mount Vesuvious after it had run out of Alka-Seltzer. "GULP"

Despite his looks, Brian wasn't stupid. He took one glance at the multi-storey monstrosity he was currently sitting on top of, and decided it was possibly not the best place to be. In fact, he decided that the best place to actually be was hiding behind someone else.
Rogers dropped his golf club.
Rogers picked up his gun.
Rogers fired his gun.
Rogers missed.
Rogers got nasty look from monster.
Rogers ran away.
(Quickly).

It's incredibly difficult to run fast in low gravity. But it's amazing how a ten-ton, twenty-foot high purple people eater can act as an incentive.
"That's gonna be a drop shot!" exclaimed Rogers to no-one in particular as he bounded along the lunar surface for some strange reason towing his golf trolley behind him to which a frantic Brian was clinging for dear life. Suddenly an idea struck.
"Frazer! Rogers calling Frazer! Emergency beam up! Now!!" He barked into his Nokia 3210.
"Dis ith da Ooh Eth Oh Eth Frwather, firthst doffitha Bowl. D''I''m indithpothed dat da momunt, pleth leaf u methig afta da downe"
"Oh shit!" screeched Rogers to no one in particular (who by now was getting fed up with being sworn at), as he broke the Olympic record for mobile phone hurling due to the moon's low gravitational field.

Purple people eaters (technical term) have very sharp, very pointy teeth, and lots of them. Said teeth were currently snapping inches from Brian's head and whilst no-one can understand a word he says, if there'd been an interpreter to hand (we needed that two paragraphs up) you'd have heard Brian repeating: "THREE EPISODES! THREE EPISODES! THREE EPISODES...!!!"

Rogers was thinking slightly more basic thoughts. Thoughts that made "Oh SHIT!" seem positively cultured. His life of the last few months flashed before his eyes. Madame Edith's singing, (fortunately it was only a quick flash) his first officer drowning in polystyrene chippings, being bored to death in episode four and even wearing a red shirt. ("Oh, boy. I really ought to get a life!") He reflected on the fact that after all he'd been through, there was a distinct possibility that with the end of season approaching, he might not make it to season two. It was at this moment that he dived headlong through the little castle with the windmill on top, purple people eater snapping at his heels, the golf trolley flying along behind him. The ridge of the bunker, halfway up the third fairway loomed, and he went head first over it's edge, expecting to find a nice sandy surface to land in. Time was slowing down for Rogers, reality was moving at a slower pace, and he was somewhat startled to discover that the bottom of the bunker was a thousand feet below him and had a large rock with a flat Wily E Coyote underneath it. Rogers instantly learnt the useful skill of treading water in low gravity. His golf trolley, however, didn't. And everything except the handle he was holding on to hurled itself into the abyss. The resulting sight was a weird one. The handle of Roger's golfing umbrella had managed to snag itself on a small rocky outcrop and Rogers found himself after much desperate flailing of his arms, swinging rhythmically, if precariously with a frantically whistling Brian dangling from his bootlaces. Standing over them was a very proud and pleased-with itself purple people eater. He considered it a job well done. He'd had a good day. He'd come when he'd been called. And then, his new master had played a nice chase game. This was good fun. He looked down over the cliff edge at his new master in his shiny white suit.

"SHIT!"

The outcrop wobbled precariously as the purple eaters rear end landed smartly with the ground, tail wagging furiously. "I said SHIT, not SIT!!!" Ball shook his head as the anaesthetic began to clear his addled brain.
"Back in the land of the living, then?" said Doctor Doug. "You've been out cold for hours."
"How did you get out of the brig? Where am I?? "
"I'll explain later. And where are you usually after you've been talking to the Captain?"
"Point taken. Speaking of our esteemed commanding officer, erm, where is he?"
"Oh he's just dealing with the end of season cliff-hanger..."

<To be continued>

<Cue: Tacky Sixties Music>

BERK RICMAN

"Guys! Hello! Can you get me down please?! Hello! Help! Somebody help! You wouldn't want me to spend Christmas like this, would you? Oh, bollocks..."