Captain's Log: Stardate, 74846.8

We have come through a time gate, and travelled back through time to the year 2006. Our mission is to prevent an interplanetary war between Dubois IV and Senset III. Vulcan scientists have traced a single individual upon Earth at this time, who is the forebear of the man who started the war which will leave billions dead; two planets decimated for centuries to come.

Our arrival on planet Earth will be on a shuttle craft due to the fact that the transponder which will detect the presence of our target, and relay that information to one of our tricorders is too delicate to undergo the process of being beamed down to the planet.

Captain Kirk appeared to be relaxed. He glanced around him at the other crew members in the shuttle craft. Spock, as ever looked unperturbed, sitting beside him to the right. Uhura, 32 and single, dressed attractively in her red, short skirted uniform, was sitting erect in the co-pilot's seat, beside Mister Scott. Scotty was erect too, but was sure that would wear off before he had to stand. Behind all of them was Mister Smith, who didn’t yet know he was going to die. It was inevitable though, because he was only there to provide a dramatic death at the start of an episode. He did wonder, though, why none of his crew mates wanted to sit beside him. It made him nervous. He reached forward, to the pouch at the back of the Captain's chair and pulled out the in-flight magazine, which was tucked behind the sick-bag. It mainly contained adverts for wine, watches, MP97 players and beard hygiene products. Starfleet wasn’t the same since it had been bought up by Virgin. Even his Red Security Top had Virgin on the back of it. It was embarrassing. He sighed. This wasn’t what he thought life in Starfleet would be like. He settled back into his seat, having found an article about a twentieth century writer.

    Scotty flicked a switch. He had no idea what it did but it made a great sort of clicking noise when he did it. He was about to do it again when a message appeared on his console. He read it and turned to the captain.
    ‘Sir, we are on course and above Manchester. Shall I initiate the landing sequence?’ he asked.
    ‘Take us down Mister Scott,’ Kirk replied, ‘what’s our E.T.A at the Star and Garter, Mister Spock?’
    ‘Precisely ten point three minutes, Captain.’

Thirty minutes later, they were still circling Manchester.
    Kirk was impatient.
    ‘Scotty, what’s the delay?’
    ‘I’m sorry Captain. I’m still looking for some place to park.’
    Spock activated his tricorder and made a narrow sweep of the area; high concentrations of pollution; lead, oxygen, nitrogen and large deposits of piss coming from darkened corners and lamp-posts. He adjusted the frequency until… there; a parking space just outside the Star and Garter. Quickly, he fed the coordinates through to Sulu.

Geetan's Log: Fucking marvellous; I was supposed to be in town reviewing bands in The Star and Garter and what was I doing? I was working the night shift in a drycleaners steaming the piss out of old mens' trousers. Having been made redundant from my last job as a tree hugger, I found myself with a bit of a cash flow problem; thus I was working at one job in the day time, and another in the evening. I didn’t mind the extra work; it was preferable to living in a cardboard box, but it took a huge chunk out of the time I could have used to do other things; like eating or going to the loo or sleeping; stuff like that; but most of all it meant I was late for everything and completely knackered. I really didn’t mind the work as I say, though it was quite frightening at times. The sort of stuff you find living in trousers is beyond belief; the sort of things you wouldn’t want to touch with a bargepole, and if you did, then the bargepole would have to be sunk and left for a few decades until the smell wore off.
    But, it helped to pay the bills. I used to work in the same place about ten years ago. At that time there was a shop cat called Moppy; a lovely little black cat which had no teeth due to an unfortunate accident with a door. It used to sit in front of me as I worked, tongue lolling and panting like a dog, the cat that is not me; though now I think of it, that was a good description of me. The cat used to watch the birds landing in the backyard. They used to come from miles around just to eat poor Moppy's food and stick a winged finger up at it. Without any teeth it couldn’t do anything about the birds. It did try once, and actually caught a pigeon. It walked around for a couple of minutes with soft pink gums clamped over the little pigeon head as the pigeon cooed; reminding me of someone walking around with a tin of beans, looking for a can opener. Eventually it had to let it go. There is only so much you can do, as a cat, with no teeth; perhaps just sucking your pigeon head until the flavour wears off, but for a cat that leaves a bitter taste in the mouth. It sat on the wall for a few minutes, watching the pigeon getting the saliva out of its ears.
    I laughed to myself; dumb cat.
    Then it turned to me, and watched as I steamed the piss out of old mens' trousers; dumb human.
    And now, there I was, some ten years later, doing a night shift, doing the same thing, only Moppy was long dead. He died peacefully in his sleep; though lying in the sun in the middle of the road to take a nap was a bit stupid; and maybe I was too. I looked at the huge pile of work ahead of me. I was supposed to finish that before I left, but if I did that, I’d miss the Manchester Versus France Night in the Star and Garter. As it was, I’d be late even if I left now.
    Fuck it, I thought to myself, better late than never.
    I decided to call it a night and head into town. After all, if two of the bands could make it from France, I could make it from the place where I worked which was only ten minutes away. I turned everything off, locked the building up and got in the car. With a bit of luck, I’d get a parking space near to the venue.

    The shuttle touched down beside the Star and Garter. The shuttle door opened and the crew cautiously exited. They had not changed out of their uniforms. The original plan had involved a costume change but Sulu had refused to wear baggies on the grounds that he looked like he’d shatnered in them and Uhura thought her bum looked big in the pair of scruffy jeans she had been given. Kirk agreed to going in uniform only after Spock assured him that, after close study of what people in Manchester were wearing, their uniforms would not be a problem. The red shirts of the security man and Scotty would mark them out as fans of Manchester United; the blue shirt Spock was wearing marked him as a City fan; the red uniform of Uhura, with short skirt, black tights and high boots would mark her out as looking like a bit of a slapper; and the gold command shirt that Captain Kirk wore, with his tight black pants, cut high and flaring above his black boots would just mean people would think he was a bit camp.

    It was dark outside and rain had recently fallen. Kirk turned to the assembled group.
    ‘Stay on your toes. Keep your phaser on stun, unless you see a traffic warden. Sulu..?’
    ‘Captain?’
    ‘Did you put the shuttle alarm on and hide the CD player?’
    ‘Aye Captain.’
    ‘Good. You and Scotty have a look around. See if you can find any signs of the man we’re looking for. Uhura, you stay here and watch the shuttle. Mister Smith, Spock, you come with me.’ Kirk strode purposefully along the street. Suddenly, Mister Smith cried, ‘Look out!’
    Kirk's finely tuned reflexes kicked in and he drew his phaser, at the same time doing a neat shoulder roll into a pile of dog shit.
    Mister Smith said, ‘I’m sorry Captain. I was trying to warn you not to step in that poo.’ Spock stepped forward with his tricorder and took a reading.
    ‘I detect Pedigree Chum, Captain, and some...’
    ‘Spock! I don’t want to know. Mister Smith, run back to the shuttle and get me another shirt.’
    ‘Aye, Sir.’
    Mister Smith turned and ran straight into a lamppost, giving himself concussion, falling backwards onto his phaser which he had carelessly left on dematerialise.
    Open mouthed with horror, Kirk watched his crewman disappear.

    I got to the Star and Garter after picking up a mate from my day job. He had been waiting for me at a bus stop outside the train station which (a) kept him dry and (b) stopped people from thinking he was a hooker. The area was the cold home of the Red Light district. Prostitutes walked the streets and stood in doorways. Punters drove up and down slowly looking out for the police, rolling down their car windows and asking for a price list and wanting to know if it was organic before driving away for choir practice back at the vicarage.
    I managed to find a parking space outside the venue behind what looked like a shuttle craft from Star Trek. How odd I thought. It was parked on top of a Ford Mondeo which was even odder, but at least it left room for me.
    As Mikey and I got out of the car I caught a glimpse of a black girl in a very short red skirt, black tights and black boots; her tight sweater looked like it was trying to give her the Heimlich manoeuvre and her breasts were jutting out like a stop sign; obviously a prostitute. She was walking in the opposite direction into the dark shadowy maw of a doorway. Poor thing; but what can you do? Prostitution is the world’s oldest business they say. Actually they are wrong. The oldest profession is advertising. That’s how the snake managed to sell the idea of the apple to Eve and get her to take out an instalment plan to cover the cost of a replacement part in case the apple broke down.
    There was no time to dwell on it now, as we could hear music coming from upstairs in the Star and Garter. The first band had already started. Bugger. They were called The Noughties, which is a great name. They sounded good too, even from the bar which was the first place we headed after saying hello to Nik, The Promoter. The music was nice and punchy with good hooks and…
(in the interests of fairness, I’ve cut out three quarters of the review about this particular band as they fucked off and took their audience with them, rather than staying and seeing the other three bands. I really hate it when this happens)
… instead of a fish.
    At the end of their set, a young man joined them on stage as they were packing up their stuff. He was wearing a duffel coat. I wondered if Paddington Bear was in a cloakroom someplace saying, ‘hey! Some bastard nicked my fucking duffel coat.’

    Kirk was in the toilet doing his Captain's Log: Even if you were stuck for time, Starfleet liked you to squeeze one out and so he did.

Captain's Log: Stardate 75638:9
We are in a building called The Star and Garter. At some point, a particular man will turn up tonight. It will be one of his descendants who will start a war in a distant galaxy. When we have located him, Spock will Mind Meld with him to ensure he does not mate with the woman who will one day give birth to his child, in which case, the man who started the war will not, one day, be born.
    It all sounds very complicated and to be honest, I much prefer the missions where I get to sleep with alien women.
    Oh, and before I forget, we lost a security man under tragic circumstances when he accidentally dematerialised himself. We had another security man beam down, Ensign Green. He too was killed when he materialised in front of a number 192 bus. I’ve ordered another man beamed down to us. We expect him in about ten minutes as soon as he has finished his last will and testament. This is now standard procedure with all security men and anybody who wears a red shirt on the Enterprise when they beam down to a planet.

    Kirk finished his log and flushed the toilet so nobody would be suspicious. Leaving the cubicle, he realised he needed to take a leak, so he entered the security code for ‘open’ on his special pants and stepped up to the porcelain. There was a man standing there already, whistling to himself.

    Uhura was alone in a darkened doorway. Scotty had told her to stay put and keep an eye on the shuttle. He was going to walk down the road in a wee while and speak to some of the locals; see if he could pump them for information.
    That had been half an hour ago and Uhura was getting worried. Where had he got to?
    She jumped as the door suddenly opened behind her. Bright light spilled out, framing the hulk of a man in a leather jacket.
    He seemed to be as surprised as she was.
    ‘Hey! Who the fuck is you?’
    Uhura stood yo her full height, breasts heaving beneath the tight top, and said, defiantly, conscious of her proud African ancestry, ‘I’m Uhura.’
    ‘You’re a whore, eh?’ said the man, surprised, ‘who’s your pimp?’

    I was sitting by the side of the stage with Mikey. I had just been telling him about my brief sojourn to the gents. I mentioned the fact that there had been someone in there, in one of the cubicles, talking to himself. Then, when he came out of the cubicle, he stood beside me having leak, and I had the distinct impression that he was wearing a top like the ones I used to see on Star Trek. Of course I didn’t turn and look at the man because that isn’t the sort of thing one does in the gents, whilst in mid-flow.
    Mikey said, ‘yeah, I saw him earlier. Reminds me of that guy…eh… from that really crap cop show with William Shatner in it.’
    ‘Oh, I know the one. T.J Hooker. The tough cop with a heart and a toupee.’
    ‘Yeah, that’s the one.’

    Scotty heard a man's voice shout out in what sounded like an expression of pain; almost as if the man had been punched in the nuts by a regulation Starfleet boot, size five, female issue, odour eaters optional.
    He contemplated going to investigate but was in the middle of negotiating with what he presumed was one of the locals.
    ‘So,’ he said, ‘back to business. How much for the full...’
    He paused. He could hear running behind him and turned to see what was happening. The man who had been speaking to Uhura was running, doubled over and holding his nuts. Uhura was following him but having trouble keeping up with him because she ran like a girl, arms going sideways instead of forward and backward. She stopped beside Scotty and the lady he had been talking with.
    Scotty asked, ‘are ye okay lass? Ye seem a little oot o’ breath.’
    At that moment, Scotty's communicator trilled. He flipped it open and said, ‘Scott here.’
    ‘Scott. It’s Kirk. I want you and Uhura to come into the Star and Garter.’
    Scotty looked dismayed. ‘Captain. I’m a wee bit busy at the moment. Shall I just send Uhura to ye?’
    Kirk paused. He was surprised that Mister Scott did not comply with his request in his usual prompt manner. ‘Scotty. I need you here now. It will increase our chances of finding the man we want.’
    ‘But I’m talking to a lass out here Captain. We’re just trying to fix a price’.
    ‘Scotty! I don’t care what you’re doing! I want you in here now!’
    Anguished, Scotty cried, ‘I cannae do it, Captain! She’s gonna blow….’
    The voice from the communicator was cut off by a French dude.


The second act was French. Nik had organised this night between the English and the French so that the bands alternated; English, French, English, French. Having missed a lot of the first band, I was looking forward to seeing all of this one. On stage was a guy with long hair much in the manner of Meatloaf, only this guy wasn’t fat and hadn’t fallen out of the ugly tree. He looked relaxed as he settled the strap of his acoustic guitar over his shoulders, making himself comfortable. As he lifted his pint pot to his mouth, he caught sight of me and gave a little wink, and a ‘salute’ with the pint, and beamed a very charming French smile.
    Stepping up to the microphone, he said, ‘’Ow are you Manchestair?’ I don’t know why but English always sounds better when spoken with a French accent. He could have been saying, ‘ello, my name is Pierre Luv’puppy, I ‘ave ‘erpes, and I tink yu’ smell of the cabbage, baybeee. Ah ahm goin’ to mekluv to yu’ aftair ah have ‘ad a good merde.’… and several pairs of knickers would still have dropped there and then.
    He started strumming his guitar robustly and then began to sing; in English. I don’t know why I was expecting him to sing in French. For a moment, when I heard the English singing, I thought, ‘hang on a minute. He’s not French. He’s from Salford.’
    But of course he was French.
    He proved this by automatically introducing sex into his next intro.
    ‘The next song is about ma sexual misery, eh. C'est bien?’
    More robust strumming with a good strong melodic voice, bopping about on stage as if the floor was hot and the guy who had stolen Paddington Bear's duffel coat, had also robbed the French chap's hush puppies.
    ‘Thank you Manchestair, merci beaucoup. The next one is for you muddair.’
    ‘Muddair,’ I thought, ‘that’s not nice. The air in Manchester isn’t great, what with all the pollution but it certainly isn’t like mud. He must be getting us mixed up with London.’ Then I realised he meant ‘mother.’
    My ma would love him for that.
    The next song seemed to have a loud chorus of, ’Fucker!’ screamed in a loud burst of ‘Frenchness.’
    For that, ma would definitely slap him.
    Good song though.
    I think the next song was actually sung in French. It seemed important at the time otherwise I wouldn’t have made a note of it, but what I was thinking was this: where is the rest of the band? So far, all we had heard was this chap with the acoustic. Don’t get me wrong, I wasn’t feeling short changed because he was very good; but this was supposed to be a band night. I half expected a mini storming of the Bastille as the rest of the ensemble stormed the stage and liberated it for the masses; well, at least the rest of the band. They had come all this way only to watch the frontman do a solo gig? It didn’t make sense.

    I went over to Nik Logan, who was watching from the other end of the venue.
    ‘Where’s the rest of band?’ I shouted in his ear.
    ‘They’re still in France!’ he shouted back. ‘Couldn’t get their permits sorted out in time so he came on his own!’
    I was impressed; all the way from France to play at the Star and Garter; wow. I felt sorry for the rest of the band though; stuck on the beaches at Dunkirk. Mind you, at least this time they wouldn’t have to ask around to see if anyone had a German phrasebook on them.

    Spock was upstairs in the Star and Garter. To blend in with the patrons he had purchased a half pint of mild and a packet of dry roasted peanuts. He became aware of a young man watching him. Spock was quite intrigued. The clothes the man was wearing were at least one size too big. The top was baggy in the extreme and looked like it was in the process of swallowing him. His pants were so baggy the crotch was hanging down more or less to his knees. This could mean, Spock deduced, that he may have elephantitis of the testicles. He looked directly at the young man, and raised an eyebrow.
    The gesture was taken as an invitation to speak. He approached Spock and said, ‘’iya mate. Fuckin’ wicked ears you got there man.’
    Spock said, ‘I noticed you were looking at them and presumed that you would have a question as to their origin.’
    ‘Nah; your ears; your business,’ the man said, ‘I was just wonderin’ if you were sorted for e’s?’
    ‘Your question is not logical. I am fully equipped with all the letters of the alphabet and proficient in their use. Is there a shortage amongst some sections of the populace?’
    ‘Not really but a lot of people drop their aitches.’
    ‘I see. Would you care to explain what you were referring to?’
    ‘Yeah… you’re not from round 'ere are you?’
    ‘Correct.’
    ‘So, do they know how to party where you come from?’
    ‘To party is illogical. We derive pleasure from the aesthetic of the mind,’ Spock replied.
    ‘Oh, so you’re not a student then. I fuckin ‘ate students. I like you though because you’re an innocent abroad. Tell you what mate, I know just what you need.’
    Spock wondered if the man was referring to the mission, to the man they were looking for.
    ‘I’m all ears,’ Spock said, curious.
    ‘Right; all you have to do is take this,’ he handed over a tab of ecstasy, ‘and you’ll find what you’re looking for.’
    Spock held it in his palm and asked, ‘what is it?’
    ‘You could say, once you have one of this, everybody is your mate, if you know what I mean. You see things nobody else can see.’ The man winked at Spock and said, in a rather conspiratorial tone, ‘you can communicate with people who, normally, you wouldn’t.’
    ‘I see,’ Spock said, ‘it is a form of universal translator.’
    ‘You could say that, yeah.’
    Spock popped it into his mouth.

    Upstairs, the French guy who was doing the solo set, changed over to playing electric guitar. There was some French mumbling from the crowd as the other French band discussed something. A decision was made, and their drummer got on stage and we were treated to a rocking blues number; great stuff! Another French guy got up for the next track and joined the duo. He improvised with a set of maracas, which…eh, isn’t that hard, come to think of it. It’s like saying Beyonce improvised with her breasts. I mean, you can’t really go wrong can you?
    At the end of the song there was an embarrassing moment when, in my enthusiasm for what was happening on stage I yelled out, ‘whahooooo!’
    Whahooooo?
    Where the hell did that come from? That’s the sort of thing retard rednecks shout at a lynching after they’ve finished having unbiblical sex with a hog.

The solo artist, whose name was Aurelien finished up his set with a French folk song called Didier Super. It was sung with gusto, accompanied now by three members of the other French band plus a small horse. Sitting in the audience I became unaccountably paranoid about what they were singing. I wondered if they were singing ‘….and you English are also crap at the football….’ As it happened, my thoughts were groundless. Didier Super was a French anarchist.
    Aurelien of The Meatles left the stage to rapturous applause, having entertained despite the loss of his band, a real Grognard who put on a show full of vigour and panache, the three musketeers rolled into one. He would be a hard act to follow. Could the next band, the English lads from Oldham do the home side justice?

    A very disgruntled Scotty and a rather attractive Uhura, 33, single, breasts heaving invitingly with the exertion of running, entered the Star and Garter to see Ensign Fisher propping up the bar. He greeted them with a wave.He said, quite firmly, ‘before you ask me to do anything, let me tell you, I’m not moving from this spot. We’ve lost two security men so far, and I don’t intent to be the third. This red security vest is a death sentence.’
    Scott said, ‘It’s never been any trouble for me laddee. I’ve worn a red shirt for three series and I’ve not been killed yet.’
    ‘Well, it’s different for you. You’re an engineer, I’m a security man aboard the USS Enterprise and if present form is anything to go by, I’ll be written out of the script in the next ten minutes. If I can get past that, I’ll be okay.’
    Uhura asked, ‘Ensign Fisher, where is Mister Spock?’
    ‘Oh, he was feeling a little nauseous. He’s gone outside for some air. He asked me to watch his drink for him and keep an eye on his packet of dry roasted peanuts.’
    ‘That’s not like Spock. You should have gone with him mister!,’ Uhura snapped, concerned for the Vulcan.         ‘Scotty, you check in with the Captain, I’ll go and check on Mister Spock.’
    Scott and Uhura left Ensign Fisher at the bar.
    That was fine with him. He looked at his chronometer; nine more minutes to go before he was no longer a minor character and so harder to kill off. He needed to last long enough to become integral to the plot.
    He flipped a peanut into the air and opened his mouth as it descended.

    On stage was a long, mop haired streak of pure Manchester, fronting a band called The Next Phase and even though the first words out of his mouth as a baby may have been, ‘fuck this, I’m starving! Pass me one of those big wobbly things with the nipple on!’ he was an absolute gent. He welcomed the French contingent with style.
    ‘We’d just like to say hello to the French, right! Welcome to Manchester. This first song is a bit of a fuckin’ jam. See what y’think.’
    It kicked off with some solid bass, the strings pulled, if I’m not mistaken so they had a sharp funky twang. The rest of the band piled in with a relaxed, guitar heavy, rumble in the concrete jungle…

    Scotty said, ‘hey! I like these lads. It’s loud and its got some power with it but, I think it needs a bit more volume on the bass. It’s getting lost in the mix Captain.’
    Kirk looked at the Engineer, surprised.
    ‘Scotty, I didn’t know you liked early twentieth century music.’
    ‘Aye, Captain, I studied it at Starfleet Academy. Did you know the frequency of the bass, coupled with the bass pedal, is the basis of the technology behind a photon torpedo?’
    ‘I didn’t.’ Kirk listened closer and couldn’t quite see the relationship between the two, ‘but you’re right, the bass needs to be louder. Do you think that man back there would let you use his control console… musical… desk…thing?’
    Scotty looked sceptical as he peered over at the sound engineer.
    ‘I’ll see what I can do, as one engineer to the other.’
    Just at that moment, as Scotty approached, the man on the mixing desk suddenly walked off. Scott took his chance to nip behind the console and have a look. Turning up the bass should be easy enough. It wasn’t rocket science after all. After a quick look, his engineer intuition had him reaching for one of the buttons.

  On stage, the bass cut out all together. I didn’t notice it myself. It just sounded like a variation in the song which was somewhat reminiscent of The Happy Mondays without the illegal substances. I interviewed John Pennington, who amongst other things, is Moby’s live engineer and he gave me some idea of the difficulty of working with The Happy Mondays. Sure, they had a touch of genius and it took a genius to capture it, as well as a succession of top class engineers, including John Pennington. The Next Phase were rough, raw, young and more Chuffed Tuesday than Happy Mondays but had the nucleus of something that given time could be polished into a rough diamond. The music had a rough groove to it but a lot of space between the four of them musically speaking, for some good things to happen. The frontman was very endearing, and I know that makes me sound like his dad or a vicar, but he had something about him that was visually interesting, swaying between comfortable confidence on stage and an awkwardness reminiscent of dancing whilst sober.
    At the end of the song, he apologised for the bass cutting out, not that it was his fault or anything.
    Some kind of Catholic guilt complex going on there.

    Scotty came away from the mixing desk just as the sound guy came back and The Next Phase got ready to give us the next song.
    ‘This song is about drugs!’

    Uhura couldn’t believe her eyes. She had found Mister Spock outside the Star and Garter. He was doing something she thought she would never, ever, see a Vulcan do. She took out her communicator and called Kirk.
    ‘Captain, you’ve got to see this. You won’t believe what Mister Spock is doing.’
    ‘What is it?’ Kirk asked.
    ‘You better just come down.
    ‘I’m on my way. Kirk out.’

    ‘Hey Mister Spaceman!’ sang the frontman for The Next Phase. His voice was loud and raucous, and he banged a tambourine and did the lazy, no bone Manc’ dance. The song was good; still a touch of The Happy Mondays in there but what the hell. Oasis had a touch of The Beatles, The Beatles had a touch of a lot of stuff; bands evolve and The Next Phase were grooving on the evolutionary ladder, banging two rhythmic rocks together to see if they could make fire and I liked them; if I hadn’t have been taught to dance by Douglas Bader I would have got up to groove myself.
    ‘Yeahhh! Mister Spaceman…’

    Spock was outside dancing with a tree. His arms were pumping back and forward and he was turning his head rapidly from side to side whilst he bobbed up and down.
Kirk and Uhura stood watching him, open mouthed. They looked at each other then back at Spock. Even the tree was embarrassed.
    ‘How long has he been like this?’ Kirk asked.
    ‘He’s been dancing with the tree for about three minutes, Captain,’ Uhura replied. ‘When I first found him he was dancing around his tri-corder. I asked him what he was doing and he just giggled and said he was dancing around his handbag.’
    ‘His handbag?’
    ‘Yes Captain. I believe the women of this time period had to resort to dancing around them as a display of fertility. That and most men refused to dance unless they had consumed enough alcohol to knock out a small horse. In fact, by that time they actually started to piss like them. They also needed to take up enough drugs to stock a small dispensary in Botswana.’
    ‘Really?’
    ‘Aye, Captain. It was a well known fact of the twentieth century that only homosexuals, South Americans and Michael Flaherty danced while sober.’
    ‘I find that hard to believe, Uhura.’
    ‘What, about the South Americans?’
    ‘No. That Michael Flaherty wasn’t homosexual.’
    ‘It’s true. He was heterosexual but he was ruined in the end when the public found out that Riverdance consisted of a lot of people standing on a stage that has been heated to gas mark twelve for two hours before they got on it.’
    ‘How did it come to light?’
    ‘Someone saw his gas bill. But Captain, what are we going to do about Spock? I took his tricorder up off the ground and that’s when he started dancing with the tree.’
    ‘Have you taken a reading with it?’
    ‘Yes. He appears to have taken a drug commonly known as Ecstasy.’
    ‘That can’t be right. Spock would never take a recreational drug. He doesn’t do drugs. In fact he doesn’t even do recreation. Here, let me try.’ Kirk took the tricorder and tested it on Uhura.’
    He pointed it at her pert, proud, African bosoms. The reading showed 9.7 out of 10; nothing wrong with the tricorder then. He took out his communicator and hailed the USS Enterprise.
    A voice came over the nanospeaker.
    ‘’Hello. This is the USS Enterprise. All our operators are currently engaged. Please be patient and we will answer your call. You are number 52 in our queue. All your calls are important to us…’
    Kirk hung up.
    He sighed and looked at Spock who had somehow produced a whistle from somewhere and was blowing it as sweat rolled prodigiously down his face.
    ‘What’s he dancing to?’
    Kirk listened. Faintly, he heard the singer from The Next Phase singing…
    ‘Hey! Mister Spaceman!’
    Kirk cocked his head to listen better, then said, ‘it might just be my limited knowledge of this century's music but they remind me of The Happy Mondays.’

     The Next Phase finished their set but not before they had belted out seven songs that pleased the crowd. My favourite had been the third one in; a great song with lots of toms accentuated by the bass, the thick, shiny strings being pulled by the diminutive bass player, locking in with the drummer to make for a great back line. The guitarist did a great job of switching between rhythm and lead like some musical Tommy Cooper; rhythm, lead; lead, rhythm. Rocking. And the frontman had turned into Jesus with the long hair and the way he held his arms out on occasion, peering out into the crowd, wondering if Judas Iscariot had some cash on him so the lads could have a drink after the gig. His distinctive vocal, very low key, doing a high wire act with the note he was singing struck a chord with me.
    I really enjoyed The Next Phase; raw and unpolished, but gutsy and honest and to top it all they played my favorite track of the evening; Contraband monkey

    Mikey, my mate, went to the bar and got us a pint each. It may have been the beer I had already consumed, but I noticed for the first time how, when he walks, he seems to take a while to catch up with himself. He’s laid back in a sleepy eyed, floppy haired kind of way but has a great memory. I could probably have dispensed with my notebook, and just given him my observations. However, it was important that I had my notebook, because it meant people felt obliged to give me free copies of their CD’s.
    He gave me my pint and told me that,’ the French guy who was on earlier did an Iggy Pop cover. I’ve been trying to remember what it was, and it’s ‘I Want To Be Your Dog.’
    ‘Oh, right. I’ll put that down,’ I said. ‘It’ll make me appear as if I know what I’m talking about.’
    ‘Yeah, it was used in the film, ‘City of Angels.’
    ‘Oh yeah, with Al Pacino,’ I enthused.
    ‘No. Brandon Lee.’
    I wrote it down thinking, this is great. I’ll sound like a sort of Barry Norman, John Peel hybrid. At that point I noticed the French chap was sitting beside me. I took the opportunity to speak to him.
    ‘Hi mate, I enjoyed your set; very entertaining.’
    We shook hands as he said, ‘thank you. I enjoyed it very much myself. Manchestair is very good for music, no?’
    ‘Yeah, it’s good to see people coming all the way from France to play. It’s a pity about your band though.’
    ‘Pardon moi?’ he said.
    I offered him a cigarette, saying, ‘your band, it’s a shame they couldn’t come with you.’
    ‘I play wiz just myself,’ he said, then put the cigarette in his mouth, patting his pockets for a lighter. I offered mine, which he took and lit up. The tip caught fire, as sometimes happens. He gave it a brisk wave, to extinguish it.
    ‘Yes, I know, you played tonight on your own. But it’s a shame that you had to come all the way from France without your band.’
     ‘No, I come from Sheffield.'
    I don’t know why but he seemed somewhat less suave and sophisticated, especially when he went to take a pull on his cigarette and it was still on fire.
    ‘Merde!’ he said, very Frenchly, blowing it out. He lit it again and continued talking. The cigarette continued to burn like a little, ironic, Olympic torch; lit for the 3 metre emphysema sprint. He had inadvertently set fire to the filter. I watched it burn as he spoke, gesticulating, drawing little arcs of light in the darkness.
    ‘I am from France,’ the French chap said, ‘but I come to England for the music.’
    I realised I didn’t have his name and so asked, ‘what is your name?’
    ‘Aurelien, but my friends call me ‘Orrie’… ohh shit!’ he said, realising his cigarette was still burning, blowing the little inferno out. ‘What the fuck is wrong with this?’
    ‘You lit the wrong end,’ I said, offering him another one. ‘Do you know the other French people? The ones who got in stage with you when you did your set?’
    ‘Ahhh... no; I only met them these few days, but I know of them. They are very well known in France. Many people know Sarasvati.’ He gave me a Sarasvati sticker. You know a band is doing well when it has its own sticker. I was impressed.
    Mikey tapped me on the shoulder and asked, ‘did you know that one of the members of this band is a little hoarse.’
    I turned to Mikey and was about to say, ‘don’t you mean the singer is a little hoarse?’
    Then I noticed, the Sarasvati had gotten on stage, and one of them was, in fact, as Mikey said, a little horse....

    Scotty found the security man who had been minding Mister Spock’s half pint of mild, lying on the ground. He knelt beside him, but knew from years of experience in Starfleet, that he was dead. Fortunately everybody was upstairs, watching the bands, so he was able to drag him out of sight. A quick tri-corder reading confirmed his diagnosis; definitely dead.
    Kirk and Uhura entered at that point, with Spock boogieing behind them. Uhura gasped, and put a perfectly manicured hand between her heaving, breasts, both of which incidentally were descended from proud African bosoms.
    ‘Scotty! Is he...?’
    ‘I’m afraid so, lass,’ Scotty said,’ by the looks of it he choked on a peanut.’
    Kirk slammed his fist into the palm of his hand, ‘Dammit! We’ve got to find the man we’re looking for on this planet before we run out of security men.’

CAPTAIN'S LOG: STARDATE 85749.9
We are still in the Star and Garter waiting on the ancestor of the man, who is the forbear of a man who will start a war in the distant future. Vulcan scientists have identified this as the time and the place when this man will appear. We have been given the genetic code of this man, but regular scans of the crowd show he is not here yet. However, we have only one more hour for him to make his appearance, as the Star and Garter will close. The last band, Sarasvati, is about to begin playing.

Oh, and we’ve also lost another security man who choked on a peanut. In the interests of ship morale, I’ve decided not to follow Starfleet procedure on this occasion, and so will not be beaming down another security man.

    Okay.
     So it wasn’t an actual horse; just a guy with a horse's head. The last band Sarasvati was nothing if not visually interesting; they oozed confidence. If this band was a book it would be one of those self help books called, ‘I’m Ok, You’re Ok... But You Would Be Even Better If You Could Be Me Too.’ They all wore shades which looked as if they had the mirror on the inside. And the bass player had his chest exposed. You could tell he wasn’t English just through this alone. English bass players only show that much chest during open heart surgery.

    The frontman, who had been one of the chaps who had been good enough to get on stage with ‘Orrie’ was tall and swarthy; slender enough to wedge into an enormous baguette and a little cheeky too.
    He said, in heavily accented English, ‘Thank you for staying Manchestair. We are Sarasvati. This is our first geeg in Manchestair. The ferst song is weird!'
    And off they went. It was cracking; smooth funky euro-pop quirkiness tightly bound together, thumping away in the heart of Manchester with a disco beat. And they all danced and got right on it, there and then on the stage. I was amazed. I’ve never seen a band in Manchester where the whole band moves around the stage like that. And all the time they were note perfect; musically tighter than a small beret on the elephant man.
    The lead singer was perfection as a frontman; pulling poses and dancing as if he had been possessed by Marcel Marceau, Michael Jackson and a small interior decorator called Reginald who suffers from epilepsy; fantastic stuff.
    When the song finished, with the sweat rolling down his face, he called out, ‘Manchestair! Ah don’t know why but ah tink we lurve you, Sacre Bleu!’
    Then another song, tuneful and dynamic and melodic whipped along by the band with some great playing and fancy footwork worthy of Zidane two hours after mainlining a full jar of coffee. Sarasvati did it again; an energetic visual and audio tremor on the Richter scale of musical entertainment. It came to a sudden stop, leaving your ears to reverberate in the moment of silence before the applause.

    Spock had stopped dancing because, (a) the drug was wearing off, (b) his Vulcan self control was re-establishing itself (c) Scotty had pointed out what a complete and utter twat he looked and (d) Kirk had whipped out his phaser and stunned him; he had racked the setting on it up to twelve pints of Stella which had done the trick. Spock was slumped, unconscious on the toilet while Scotty and Kirk looked on.
    Scotty voiced Kirk's concern.
    ‘Captain, do you think poor Mister Spock can Mind Meld with our laddie when we find him?’
    Kirk grimaced. ‘We’ll soon find out. I just picked up a trace of the man we’re looking for on my tricorder.’
    ‘Can we not just go and get him?’
    ‘If only it were that easy. No; the reading gives us proximity but not direction. Better to stay here where we know he’ll definitely be.’ Kirk sighed. ‘You better stay with him, Scotty. I’ll go back out and circulate.’
    ‘Aye, Captain.’

     I was intent on taking photographs of Sarasvati so I didn’t see the guy walking behind me. I backed into him.
    ‘Sorry, mate,’ I said, turning around.
    ‘That’s okay,’ he called over his shoulder as he disappeared into the crowd.
    Funny, for a second there I could have sworn it was T.J Hooker. Luckily it wasn’t because our collision would have knocked off his toupee.
     Sarasvati were still playing, crackling with energy, propelled on by the crack of a crisp snare. The frontman was still giving it plenty, at one moment earnest, and the next manic and then tender. Sarasvati’s frontman was a nice bunch of blokes, and at least one of them was the ghost of dear Freddy Mercury after a six months sojourn on a weight loss farm; a man whose scrotum walked on stage at least three minutes before him.
    Now, I’ve spent a lot of time bigging up the singer, but the rest of the band were just as entertaining. The keyboard player, for example, wasn’t content to just stand there, but played leaning backwards at a crazy angle, as if someone had smeared some pungent cheese on the keys. The bass player was up and down the neck of his instrument in a manner that was familiar to customers at IVF clinics all over the country.
    And then suddenly it was all over and the guy on stage was saying, ‘we are a bit, how you say, sad. This is the end of our first English tour. We ‘ave come long way from Poland to play wiz you, and I wondair, if you would lack anozair one?’
    We certainly did
    Un, deux, trois...

    Kirk knew the man as soon as he walked through the door of the Star and Garter. He had seen pictures of him, the dark hair, the odd, bandy walk, arms swinging behind him. The tri-corder reading was going off the scale.

Liam Gallagher needed to take a dump and this was just the place. He’d been in the Star and Garter before his fame as the frontman for the band Oasis made having only one eyebrow, de rigeour, so he knew where the downstairs loo was. It was locked, because it was so close to closing time, so he headed upstairs to go into the one there. Kirk followed him, whispering into his communicator.
    ‘Okay, Scotty, he’s heading your way; phaser on stun.’
    ‘Aye Captain,’ Scott replied, watching the door.
    Liam opened the door, and was surprised to see what looked like Mister Scott off Star Trek, pointing a phaser at him; but not as surprised as he was a split second later when a beam shot out from it and paralysed him. Kirk hustled the human statue through the door and propped him up in a corner, while Scott locked the door.
    Spock staggered out of one of the cubicles.
    ‘I presume this is the man designated by the Vulcan scientists, Captain?’
    ‘It is,’ Kirk said, ‘are you in a fit state to Mind Meld with him?’
    Spock looked at Liam, and evaluated him for a few moments. He took a deep breath, and got a lungful of lemon scented Toilet Duck, as he readied himself for the attempt. The drug he had taken earlier made this a risky proposition but there was no other choice. He had to Mind Meld with the human and plant the command not to mate with a certain human female. In this way she would not give birth to the child who would be the great, great, great, great grandfather of the man who would start a devastating war in the future. The greatest philosophers in the future universe had wrestled with the implication of this action and deduced that the soul of the child would then be born to someone else but that single action would be enough to avert disaster.
    Spock, moved close to Liam, and reached out toward his face; fingertips feeling the subtle emanation of the aura, the heat from the skin...

    Mikey and I left the Star and Garter feeling it had been a good night. I was slightly pissed off to find that both of the toilets were locked, but what the hell. I could take a leak outside. However, before I could attend to my call of nature, we turned the corner to where the car was parked and saw that someone had been busy while we had been inside. The vehicle that looked remarkably like one of those shuttle craft off the USS Enterprise had been vandalised.
    We walked on either side of it, peering in the windows and I have to say, for a mock up, it looked remarkably like the real thing.
    Mikey thought so too. He called out from the other side of it, ‘look at this!’
    I went round.
    ‘Someone has stolen the CD player,’ he said, ‘and it’s got a parking ticket.’
    I noticed that someone had written ‘CLEAN ME,’ in the dust on the back of it; and there was a mark right along the side of it where some bastard had gone along with a key.
Mikey climbed up onto one of the engine nacelles and peered in the window. He whistled low, and said, ‘this is amazing! This is just like the real thing. Whoever made this must be a real Star Trek nut...’
    We heard voices. Mikey jumped down and we got into my car. We didn’t want to be accused of the vandalism ourselves.
    ‘What the... look at that!’ Mikey whispered urgently.
    I looked in the rear view mirror, and I know this sounds crazy, but I could see what looked like, Kirk, Spock, Uhura and Scotty of Star Trek. They stopped dead when they saw the state of the shuttle.
    Scotty was the first to speak.
    ‘I cannae believe it, Captain. We only left it for a wee while!’
    Kirk was open mouthed at the damage. He walked around to the front of it and took the parking ticket off the front. He screwed it up and tossed it over his shoulder.
    Uhura, proud breasts which had descended from a couple of African bosoms, was the first to enter. I heard her mutter something about ‘no wonder traffic wardens are known as the scum of the cosmos.’ Then she exclaimed, ‘oh no! They’ve taken the CD player and it had my copy of Geetan's Greatest Hits in it!’ (okay, so I made that bit up).
    Kirk and Scotty joined her in the shuttle. We could hear Scotty going through the pre-flight checks. At that point, Spock noticed us watching him, parked as we were, behind the shuttle, sitting in darkness. Much to our surprise, he winked at us and then sauntered off, walking, oddly enough as if his knees were attached to the sides of his legs. He was swinging his arms behind him, vaguely reminiscent of...

    Liam Gallagher was feeling quite peculiar. He was standing outside the Star and Garter, vaguely aware of a commotion around the corner. He was looking up at the night sky, with all the stars twinkling. His heart skipped a beat and he felt a tremendous longing to be... out there. His thoughts crashed down to earth when he realised he had no memory of using the loo in The Star and Garter, and yet he no longer felt like having a dump. How very, very, very odd, he thought to himself.

    I sat open mouthed as the shuttle craft ascended smoothly, making a deep humming noise. Mikey asked me to stop humming so I did; a very annoying habit that... We got out of the car and peered after the shuttle. As you can imagine, we were speechless and completely, utterly gobsmacked, which is why we didn’t notice Liam Gallagher walk up behind us. He stood beside us, and looked up into the sky the way people do when they notice a couple of people looking up into the sky the way we were.
    Liam spoke first.
    ‘Beautiful sky,’ he said.
    Still looking up at the receding point of light, I said, ‘we’re not looking at the sky, mate. We’re looking at a shuttle off the Enterprise.’
    Liam raised his eyebrow, and said,’ how very... illogical.’

Captain's Log: Stardate, 74846.8
Our mission was successful. We have returned to the Enterprise having prevented a devastating war. Spock seems to have suffered one or two interesting side effects from his Mind Meld with Liam Gallagher. Doctor McCoy assures me it will wear off in a few weeks. Spock has exiled himself to his quarters to recover from his ordeal.
Tragically, we lost three security men through accidents. I wish I had not followed Starfleet procedure in having a security man accompany us to the surface of a hostile planet. Still, I derive some comfort from the fact that they gave their lives in the performance of their duty, and billions of lives have been saved. Also, Starfleet have come up with the revolutionary idea of making all the security men wear a gold shirt like me, and are giving them space in the final credits at the end of the show. This is expected to prolong their lives for at least three series, while I shag my way around the universe. It has been.... interesting to visit the past, but I must admit, I think I can speak for us all when I say, we were glad to leave.

  A few weeks later, Kirk was on the bridge of the USS Enterprise. He leaned back in his command chair, enjoying the ebb and flow around him. He found the subtle, regular noises of the bridge comforting; like the captain of an eighteenth century frigate, hearing the sound of the wind in the sails, and the creaking of the decks; knowing all was as it should be.

    Hearing the soft pneumatic hiss of the door behind him, he swivelled his chair round to see Spock enter. It was the first time he had seen him since the return from planet Earth.
    Kirk hadn’t been aware of the extent of the mental trauma Spock had undergone during the Mind Meld. The Vulcan had hidden it well, using his incredible Vulcan power of self control to mask the little tell tale signs. Spock had locked himself away in his quarters until this point.
    He stood beside Captain Kirk and said, 'First officer Spock, reporting for duty, sir.’
    Kirk was relieved. It was good to have him back on the bridge.
    ‘Mister Spock. I take it you are feeling better after your Mind Meld with Mister Gallagher?’
    Spock replied, after a