With apologies to the BBC Light Programme. I proudly present USS Tuttenbeck, the pride of Starfleet and the antithesis of boringly efficient Federation Starships.

The Startrek Universe is the property of Paramount, though they might not want this bit of it.

The stories are my own and any other sad but kind person that wishes to join in the fun.

Some where in the darkness there was a groan from the floor and a mumbling, “..puter ... on!”

The owner of the groan obviously expected something to happen and was disappointed by the result. It tried again.

The room was bathed in brilliant white light. That wasn’t what was wanted either.

The offended computer did so and descended into a sulk, from which it would not be encouraged.

Instead an arm groped around for a battery lantern. Finding it, it banged it on the ground several times before turning it on. Dim shadows now revealed the owner of the arm as it crawled slowly out of its layers of blankets.

After three weeks and thirty bottles of brandy, Parbold was starting to find the Tuttenbeck easier to live with, thanks largely to the almost permanent stupor. He now felt like a regular. Even the crew had accepted him.

Captain Geroff had introduced him to his first glass of the local beer. It worked exactly like a bottle of brandy, but quicker and seemingly consisted of an equal mix of meths, turpentine, carbon dioxide and curry powder. If ever there was a product that met all the Description Acts in one easy to understand word, Parbold decided, ‘Blower’ certainly achieved it.

The glass had gone down surprisingly smoothly and he had swallowed the half litre in one manful session. He then wondered why his fellow officers were watching him curiously and edging quietly away from the door.

It started mildly enough, a thin layer of sweat shrouding his brow. Then he had been drenched in it, followed instantaneously by a desperate urge as his stomach managed to do repeated triple back flips and spins in one smooth and simultaneous action. He missed the head by a full fifteen metres as both ends exploded.

“You’ve got to admit. He’s quick on his feet,” Geroff observed quietly to the others. “I don’t think anybody has got that close before.”

But that was the night before, his mouth was now as sour as curdled milk and as furry as an Angoran goat. “Computer, a glass of water, please?” he whispered.

He sighed and reached into one of the few draws that still opened and pulled out a bottle full of green fluid. He took a swig from it, swilled it around his mouth and swallowed.

Creme-de-Menthe is not a recommended cure for a hangover, reducing thirst, or for clearing the mouth. But today it tasted as fresh as mountain spring water.

Suitably refreshed he reached for his stained uniform and shrugged it on and staggered towards the door. Geroff had promised to give him a tour of the Bridge, just in case they had to use it.

“Morning, Sir!” Chief Catchen greeted him cheerfully as he staggered off the lift.

Parbold considered him queasily. Wherever he went aboard the ship the Chief Bosun always seemed to be there. He recalled him seeing behind the servery in the Wardroom, doling out something called food and in Sickbay, issuing remedies with the same reckless abandon. It could even have been at the same time.

“Cap’n will be up in a moment, Sir,” the Chief continued happily, oblivious to the green tinged officer as he collapsed uncomfortably into a chair.

Finally Parbold found his voice. “Is there anywhere or thing you don’t do?” He asked.

Another vague memory of two tins of paint appearing in his quarters, flickered across Parbold’s mind. He had watched them intently for a full week, wondering if something would happen. But as the day-glow salmon pink was worse than the current daubing he had not taken the obvious solution of doing it himself.

Rather than say anything he settled to examine the Bridge. Like the rest of the ship, ‘Non Regulation’ appeared to be the theme.

Most of the bridge stations appeared to be in the usual place. The pilot sat at the front. The navigator probably sat beside him, but he could not see the chair as the Captain’s Wilton covered high-winged armchair was in the way. That failed to match the ‘G-Plan’ dining chair he was sat in perfectly.

“Ah, there you are lieutenant,” Geroff observed casually, entering the bridge. “Settling in I see. Any problems?”

Geroff examined the floral walls as if for the first time. “Quite attractive don’t you think?” He asked. “Put it up myself. Besides you’ve seen the paint the Chief supplies.”

“Some of them don’t belong on a Starship, let alone a Miranda,” Geroff admitted. “But yours came of a Klingon Bird of Prey. Bright chap like you should have no problem deciphering them.”

T’Riz and Corbett slinked quietly onto the Bridge and took their stations. T’Riz almost disappeared when she took hers.

“I thought we ought to give you a tour of the home patch,” Geroff commented in explanation. “Then you will know where the sights are. Take her out Mr Corbett.”

Parbold watched as Lieutenant Corbett cracked his fingers like a concert piano player then laid them dramatically on what ought to have been his touch screen control panel. This one looked as if it was actually a large canteen tray with various switches haphazardly punched into it.

His attention was then redirected to the viewscreen as a screeching sound filtered through to the bridge. It clearly showed the pylon that Tuttenbeck had been safely attached to by Hammit and his workers while he was off on holiday, start to twist. Obviously Corbett had engaged forward thrust and not a gentle push to the side.

Contact was lost with a loud screech and a ‘Twang’ and Parbold omitting to take the Captains advice was propelled heavily to the floor.

“Not bad,” Geroff suggested. “Another few breakaways like that and pier 9 will match ours. I think Maggies first Mr Corbett.”

Parbold picked himself gingerly off the floor and resumed his seat. The excursion had given him the opportunity to observe why T’Rizz had disappeared. Her seat was a large garden mushroom, complete with red domed top and white spots. It left her head less than 500 mm above the console that she was clinging to.

"Can I use Warp, Sir?" Corbett demanded hopefully from his seat. "I can go the long way round it won't take any longer."

"Mr Corbett. Maggies is less than thirty minutes at full impulse," Geroff put the eager Lieutenant down firmly. "We are not wasting precious time on your boy racer tendencies or T'Riz's dubious navigation."

If Parbold had expected 'Maggies' to be anything other than a bar he would have been sadly disappointed. As it was cyncisim and a certain amount of common sense led him to suspect one. It meant he was at least partly right: It was a bar, but a huge one; a Nebula Starship could comfortably fit in the hall.

Parbold had never seen anything with two legs that big. At 6 metres tall and at least that across, she probably made up a sizeable proportion of the mass of the small asteroid they were on herself.

"A small genetic accident," Geroff explained as she spyed the arriving contingent and made her way between the widely spaced tables with a sort of toppling rolling motion, each forward fall caught by a leg the diameter of a mature redwood. "She was born here. Crushed her parents to death at the age of four and they sort of built this place around her. Really lovely girl."

"Ah Capitan. You come see me so little!" At 100 metres Maggie's voice rolled like thunder. At fifty Parbold was grabbing for the nearest table. "You want usual table and food?"

"Can't stop Maggie," Geroff apologised. "We're just here to show Lieutenant Parbold the sights."

"And you brought him to see Maggie! The Capitan is clever, No? He knows the best sights," The thunderous voice now took on the ominous tone of a gurgle

From somewhere above a hand the size of a Chesterfield sofa appeared, grabbed Parbold by the waist and whisked him off the floor before he had the chance to run for safety.

After a few moments he risked opening his eyes again and found himself gazing into a huge, round and friendly face. The face winked at him, then a cavern opened as it blew the terrified Lieutenant a kiss.

"He's cute," Maggie announced dropping Parbold gently to the floor. "But too much like a Vulcan twig. Why your Starfleet no send real men?"

"You leave him to Maggie. Maggie make him a real man in a week or two?" She nudged Geroff with a huge finger, sending him reeling towards a table.

"Now you sit at table. Maggie say you all need feeding proper," she chortled on happily, ushering them to a table with the threat of an open hand.

"Think you're made," Geroff remarked happily. "Maggie's taken a liking for you."

"Of course under Federation law, at fourteen she is still too young to marry, or run a bar," he added, climbing onto a chair. "But if she decides to make something of it, I certainly won't try to stop it. Besides this place is so peaceful it would be ruined if we let the law get in the way."

Parbold, still winded by the crushing hand said little as he gingerly felt his chest for the bones he knew must have been crushed. He had once seen the historic film King Kong and had come out thinking Fay-Rae had made too much of the experience. Now he had some sympathy for the woman.

Maggie approached the table again. Advancing with the inexorable progress of a planet in orbit, she approached bearing two trays. In her hands they looked like ordinary tea trays, each bearing a soup bowl.

Arriving at the table Parbold realised it was an illusion. They were actually the size of wardrobe doors, the bowls the size of small lakes. They also contained what could only be described as a gigantic loaf of bread. His stomach quavered at the thought of the thick brown ooze the bowls contained. You could swim in it, probably drown in it. Eating the entire contents seemed unlikely.

"You in hurry, Capitan," Maggie complained. "Maggie un'erstand. Just bring gumbo as snack, yes?"

"All a matter of scale," Geroff observed. "Maggie hasn't got one. She will be tremendously upset if you don't eat it. You really don't want to upset her."

"Besides it is very good stuff. Just avoid the green bits and don't ask what is in it," he added as he selected his first spoonful with care.

Parbold with the care of a man in a minefield sipped at the ladle that formed his first spoonful. Geroff's opinion of good often had his tastebuds curling up his tongue and try to burry it in the back of his throat. To his surprise the gumbo was actually edible, a sense of chocolate and honey oiled itself across his tongue, counterpointing the sharp bite of chili in perfect harmony.

"Why on Earth should she want to go anywhere else?" Geroff demanded. "She has friends here. Why go and be anonymous on Earth. It would be cruel!"

Parbold doubted something the size of Maggie would be anonymous anywhere, but sensibly refrained from saying anything.

"Besides," Corbetts voice called from the other side of the table. "We would have to tow her! Starships aren't designed to carry anything that big, at least not one that moves on its own."

After an hour and barely a dent upon the lake in front of him, Parbold was starting to feel quite ill. His stomach yearning for the release offered by a litre of blower, but it was not a beverage offered in Maggies and her Rum simply did not have the instant power.

"Chief," Geroff said seeing the Lieutenant roll off his chair with a glooping noise. "I think Mr Parbold has had enough. You know what to do with the remains?"

Parbold did not remember most of the rest of the tour. Except that it included visits to at least another nine bars. All served their own variety of high octane alcohol and they took their inevitable effect. Consequently he missed Tuttenbecks return to her dock by virtue of being in the toilet.

The crash as she mated with the pylon threw him hard against the door. He sank slowly to the floor. He lay there, his stomach too full to move and him too inebriated to want to. A night in the loo seemed like a safe bet.

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