Startrek... the Ultimate S T O R Y ! Good Morning. My name is Mister Spock, Science officer of the USS Enterprise, collector of rare Antarean tentacle flutes, lead singer with the Sex Phasers, promulgator of interspecies harmony and holder of the Vulcan boy scout in logic, second class. This is my day: I am woken up by the Captain reading his log over the P.A. at stardate 6:30 am. We're supposed to get a lie-in on Sundays, but as there's a pre-credits crisis going on we'll be racking up some overtime this month. The Enterprise is stranded in the hole in the middle of a giant space doughnut that needs our dilithium crystals for sugar frosting. By five to seven, the Captain has confused it with a speech about the essential good nature of humanity, complete with extensive footnotes from the American constitution. It goes away in disgust and I go back to bed. Get up at 11:30am, dial a breakfast of coffee, croissants and a bowl of martian slime-warts washed down with a quart of exotic Klingon Panther-Piss. I decide not to bother shaving my eyebrows. I put on the stupid plastic ears that Starfleet forces all its Science officers to wear & crawl down to the bridge for another fun filled exciting day. It's quiet. We're only on Yellow alert. Which is just as well, I couldn't handle that stupid siren going Whoop-Whoop this early in the morning. It seems we've come across a planet that shouldn't be there, so all the important members of the crew, plus three security officers from the Disposable Dork section, beam down. The ship if left under the sterling command of Tibbles, the ship's cat. Since all the Captain does all day is play with his swivel chair and sing 'The Star-Spangled banner', the cat makes an ideal substitute. On the planet's rocky surface, which my highly sensitive instruments tell me is 20 yards square and made of plastic (though I don't tell the Captain this), Kirk realises that he's forgotten to put his ridiculous track-suit bottoms on and goes back to the ship to get them. By the time he returns, the three disposable dorks have died mysteriously, and bloody McCoy has had the chance to say "He's dead, Jim!" three times. I'm always offended by the way people call ME Jim. Of course, my Vulcan first name is unpronounceable, but does anybody call me up and say: "Hey, Unpronounceable, how about we cruise the space port, have a few Rigellian beers and get laid?" No, its always: "Mr Spock, why don't you let your ears down for a while ?" The Captain gets back. The planet is inhabited by a vicious man eating-monster, a beautiful girl in glitter make- up and an alien who dresses up in historical costumes left over from some other series. This week, it's the Sheriff of Nottingham, a primitive Earthling who liked to rob the poor to feed the rich - so I understand. The Captain quotes more of the constitution, gets off with the girl and kills the monster while the rest of us sit around looking worried and putting on our toenail polish. We beam back to the ship, have a little joke and all fall about the place as we are zapped by Klingons. The little console in the corner that's supposed to shoot out sparks when we're attacked shoots out sparks. (I've been trying to get Starfleet to put in seatbelts for years). There's an entire Klingon battle fleet out there determined to cream us because Captain Kirk got Klingon Imperial High War-Bastard Krudd's daughter pregnant. "The dilithium crystals wonny take any more of this Cap'n," says Mr Scott over the intercom. "The hamster that works the little wheel that runs the impulse engines has died of a heart attack, och aye, the noo, hoots mon." I don't know why he pretends to be Scottish (as the Scots became extinct seven centuries ago), but I expect it's go something to do with the fact that he's an ex-Nazi interplanetary arms dealer from Tau Ceti We asked the ship's computer what to do and it replies: "You're such a smart-ass, pointy-ears, you figure it out." Death is inevitable. However, I figure it out and we escape. I go down to the gym and practise my Vulcan combat moves. I have just perfected the most deadly fighting move in the universe - the dreaded Vulcan nose-pinch - guaranteed to get you out of tight situations without having to use any expensive special effects. Time for lunch in the Enterprise canteen - fish and chips, apple pie and custard. And more bloody slim-warts. Everybody laughs and tells dirty jokes I don't understand. So I raise one eyebrow and slope off for a sulk. From 2 to 2.30 pm is my Vulcan rutting season, so watch out. Yesterday I impregnated a stand-up ashtray. I have this terrible urge to have sex with anything. The Captain calls by for a friendly game of three dimensional chess...... After we've finished our cigarettes, the Captain's mind is taken over by an evil force-beam coming from a planet that was colonised 300 years ago by unwanted TV gameshow hosts. He forces Mr Sulu to dress up as a pink furry rabbit and tap dance. Mr Chekov has to guess the price of the Enterprise in roubles. He loses and is dropped in a vat of foam. I guess it correctly down to the kopeck but am disqualified because I refuse to sing "Nellie the Elephant" in Swahili backwards. I suggest that as a solution, we kill the captain. I realise there will be side-effects but I reckon I can live with them. However, Murder proves unnecessary. After we blow up the planet with a few photon torpedoes, the Captain returns to "Normal". On the sub-space radio, we get a distress call from the Federation colony on Planet Porn. The Captain paces up and down a while, looks worried and asks Lieutenant Uhuru three times to verify this. He has to repeat himself because every time she turns to him in her swivel chair he gets a chance to look up her skirt. Eventually, the Captain orders us to proceed to the planet at Warp Factor 1. I'm constantly amazed by the miracle of science that allows us to travel at such frightening speeds. On a good day, Mr Scott can get as much as 25 mph out of those engines! As we approach the planet, Kirk orders Mr Chekov to put it up on the screen. "Aye Aye Keptin" say Chekov and the same old football with blotchy bits painted on it flashes up in front of us. Planet Porn is inhabited by men's magazine editors, millions of attractive young women and a bunch of dribbling photographers. Two thirds of its surface area is covered by a massive ocean of beer. For reasons that are not entirely clear to me, it is a popular tourist resort with male humans. We make audio contact with the planet's chief administrator, commander Randy Mackintosh, who explains the problem. They have been invaded by a sinister race of intelligent marital aids - vibrators are molesting the girls, the blow-up dolls are blowing up beneath their owners and a huge amorphous mass of strawberry flavoured joy-jelly is drinking all the beer. I calculate that they will have taken over the planet completely in 3.37485 hours precisely and everyone on the bridge throws things at me for being a smart-ass. I further go on to suggest that the logical way of dealing with this major threat to the galaxy is to blow the planet to bits. But will they listen to me? Oh no. I turn around to find that they've already beamed down and that the Captain has left me a note saying that I'm to get the Enterprise out of there and leave him behind if he's not back by tea-time. Too bad. hey all get back in time having successfully dealt with this threat to civilization as we know it. I imagine that the Captain must have confused the sex aids with dirty jokes from the American Constitution. In the evening, I go out and have fun, fun, fun at the staff recreation room. We sink a few jars, do a little differential calculus and all try to get off with Lieutenant Uhuru. I get drunk and sing old Vulcan songs, such as "The Pink Hills of Squidlblxx", "Four and Twenty Virgins Came Down from Zuxccrnch", "My Baby was Partially Eaten by Romulans" and "I Lost my Heart to an Organ-Bank Manageress". Everybody gets fed up with this and Joe, the bartender, throws me out at stardate five past three. I go back to my room, put on my E.T. pyjamas, drop my ears into a glass of water and cry myself to sleep.