My last blog was over 2,000 words.

Nobody read it.

I’ve learned my lesson…should have got Hilary Benn to narrate.

As a gesture of seasonal good-will I’m making this specially written nativity play licence-free, should any schools wish to stage it as an alternative to the standard mangery affair.

SCENE 1: INTERIOR, PALACE OF CAESAR AUGUSTUS [You can recreate the opulence of classical Rome with a few rolls of gold wrapping paper and some tinsel.  If you’ve got a couple of pasty kids who don’t like acting then make them togas from white sheets and have them in the background as statues]

EMPEROR AUGUSTUS LIES ON HIS CHAISE LONGUE [2 dinner tables pushed together with a rug over them] HIS TRUSTED ADVISOR, GASPAR, ENTERS

NARRATOR 1: Behold the mighty palace of Caesar Augustus, ruler of the Roman <mumble, mumble, cries>

GASPAR: Hail, Caesar!

AUGUSTUS: Hi, Gaspar.  How’s it hanging?

GASPAR: You summoned me oh mighty Augustus, father of the Roman Empire, ruler of the world, god incarnate, champion of the people, bringer of prosperity, hero of the senate and founder of a nice hot month when all the kids are off school.

AUGUSTUS: Did I? <Pause> Ah, yes, I’m going to order a census of all the known world, for the purposes of taxation.  As my wisest advisor could you sort of, you know, make that thing I just said happen?

GASPAR: This will be a mighty task, Caesar.  This is the latest population estimate [Unrolls lengthy parchment with ‘MMMMMMMMMM…’ written on it.  There should be about 56,800 Ms, but the audience probably won’t count, so don’t sweat it] Surely you don’t wish me to divert my efforts from my current task of finding a counting system which isn’t bloody stupid.

AUGUSTUS: With a stronger tax base you will have more funds for your mathematical nonsense, Gaspar, as sure as II + II = IV.  Also this is 1 BC, next year we flip over to 1 AD, unless you come up with a well-defined concept of zero before New Year’s eve, and I think a big census is the sort of thing we should do to mark this historic calendar change.

GASPAR (sighing): Very well, Caesar.  I shall organise census-takers to travel the length and breadth of Europe, North Africa and the Middle-East counting people, assessing the value of their properties, farms and simple iron-age businesses.  You shall have your taxes, mighty Caesar!

AUGUSTUS: Actually, I’ve come up with a rather clever idea that may make this census a lot easier for you, dear Gaspar.  What if we made the people travel?

GASPAR: Well, Caesar, my census takers will really need to see how much land they own, the size of their farms, the…

AUGUSTUS (Interrupting) : I haven’t told you the clever bit yet…what if we make them trace their male ancestry back 1,000 years and travel to the city that their family lived in then?

GASPAR: Wise Caesar, had you perhaps had a few wines when you came up with this plan?  It would cause chaos across the whole Empire; millions of people displaced, a complete cessation of all economic activity, people being forced to travel thousands of miles and almost no records that would allow us or them to check they’d got it right.  It’s possibly the worst way ever to organise a census!

AUGUSTUS: You’re pretty lippy given that I can have you torn apart by wild horses on a whim, and “due process” would just be checking that the ropes were tied tightly enough.  Do you know something I don’t?

GASPAR: Well, sire, I’ve been meaning to bring this up for a while…but you died in 14BC.  I really just keep popping in to humour you.

AUGUSTUS: Died?  Surely not.  King Herod was saying only yesterday how well I looked.

GASPAR: He’s not exactly impartial in this matter, Caesar – he died four years ago.

AUGUSTUS: Herod?  Really? That’s terrible…the kids will be devastated.

GASPAR: Indeed they were.

AUGUSTUS: But my mind is made up.  Organise my census and tell Governor Quirinius to really hammer those, um, “Zionists” in Judaea.  I’m sick of them secretly controlling the world…that’s my job.

GASPAR: Yes, sire, just as soon as we appoint him – in 6 years’ time – I’ll tell him to get on the job.

AUGUSTUS: So I’m dead, Herod’s dead, Quirinius isn’t a governor yet and my plan’s crazy?  This nativity thing is harder to organise than it sounds, isn’t it?

GASPAR: Quite so, Caesar, and I also plan to take a few months’ leave.  I’ve been offered the opportunity to appear on “I’m a wise man, get me out of here” and I need to follow my star.

NARRATOR 2: And so it was that the Emperor Augustus ordered a census of all the known world, as told in the Gospel of Luke…other religions are also available.

[Children sing O’Little Town of Bethlehem while Curtis from year 3, who can bench-press 200lbs, but can’t be trusted to speak or sing, moves the scenery]

SCENE 2: INTERIOR OF JOSEPH AND MARY’S HOUSE IN NAZARETH [Wash the blood off year 2’s woodwork projects and sprinkle them round to show that Joseph is a carpenter]

NARRATOR 3: NAZARETH! <Faints>

JOSEPH (checking mail): Bill…bill…Ancient Carpenter Monthly…bill…letter from the Governor of Syria!

[Joseph opens and reads the letter]

JOSEPH: Gosh!  According to this, Mary, the Governor of Syria has ordered us to travel to Bethlehem for a census.  You’d better get your ass moving!

MARY: But Joseph, my sweet husband, we don’t live in Syria.

JOSEPH: Yeah, there’s small-print about this being a census of all the known world by some dead emperor.

MARY: But why must we travel all of the way to Bethlehem when I am so heavy with child?

JOSEPH: Because it is my ancestral city, Mary.  For I am of the lineage of King David, unto whom God himself promised the land of Israel for all eternity.

MARY (crossly): Being of the line of King David doesn’t seem to do us any favours when we’re trying to scratch out a subsistence living as carpenters, does it…but when I need to trek 65 miles on a donkey with swollen ankles and piles like kippahs full of jam it’s a different story!

JOSEPH: I’m sorry, Mary, but even though you are heavily pregnant, and census-taking is against Jewish law and probably nobody would notice or care if we just didn’t bother, we must travel to Bethlehem immediately, for the Governor of a country we don’t live in has decreed it!

MARY (softly): This is about the angel again, isn’t it?

JOSEPH: NOBODY ELSE GETS PREGNANT BY ‘A MIRACLE’, MARY!

MARY: Why won’t you believe me, my beloved husband?

JOSEPH: Gosh, I don’t know.  Why would you, a woman living in a society where the penalty for adultery is public stoning to death, lie to me, your betrothed, about how you’re pregnant without me getting a sniff, eh?

MARY: But, Joseph, did not my cousin, Elizabeth, become pregnant, even though her husband was too old and feeble for the marital act?  Did she not give birth to John the Baptist?

JOSEPH: I think you may have misheard the ‘baptist’ bit, but…um…yeah, fair does; we’re both in the wrong.  You shut up about Liz and I won’t mention the angel again.

MARY: We’ll be loving and trusting parents to our new child, Joseph.  It will be wonderful.

JOSEPH: Right.  Let’s get this Bethlehem thing done, and just hope that this is the last thing anybody ever says about this whole bloody affair.

NARRATOR 4: And so, for reasons best described as ‘wacky’, Joseph and Mary set off for Bethlehem.

[Children sing ‘Away in a manger’ while 4 teachers and a lunch-time supervisor try to get Curtis to stop throwing tables at the audience]

SCENE 3: EXTERIOR, NIGHT-TIME, BETHLEHEM [Which was built almost entirely of badly painted cardboard boxes]

MARY: This is hopeless, Joseph, we’re never going to find anywhere to stay.  The town is flooded with travellers because tracing ancestry back 1,000 years has created an exponential growth in the number of people trying to get into major settlements of that period, and half the inn-keepers have buggered off somewhere else anyway, leaving no-one to run their hostelries.

JOSEPH: What are you talking about, woman?  We could have had a room in that first place we tried.

MARY: Sure, the place with 1-star on Trip Advisor.  Who the hell wants to give birth in a place that only gets one star?

JOSEPH (sighing): Right, I’ll ask someone…Excuse me, sir, do you know where we can find an inn with a room?

PASSER-BY: Sorry, mate, no good asking me.  I’m a Gaul.  I’m looking for a place myself.

JOSEPH: It’s a nightmare, isn’t it?  The road from Nazareth was nose-to-tail; solid donkey as far as the eye could see.

PASSER-BY: You don’t have to tell me, pal – I came in on the Jerusalem road.  Bloody dreadful it was.  They’re only digging up half of it.  Mile after mile with a 3mph speed limit.

JOSEPH: You used the Jerusalem road from Gaul? You must be crazy!  What you should have done is follow the coast road down to Ashdod, then take a left and…

MARY: No hurry, Joe, but I am minutes away from delivering the son of God while sitting on a sodding donkey!

JOSEPH (to passer-by): Sorry, mate, better get going, but believe me, I’m as sick of this mass exodus of people from Syria as you are.  It’s caused nothing but trouble for everybody.

PASSER-BY: Yeah.  Still, at least they’re not bombing us, eh?

MARY: Look, Joseph!  I think that inn up there is open!

JOSEPH: Right, come on, then.

NARRATOR 5: And so Joseph and Mary presented themselves at the ‘Britain First Western Hotel’ and knocked on the door.

[SFX: KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK]

[Door opens]

INN KEEPER: Whu?

JOSEPH: My wife and I have travelled many miles, she is heavy with child and we need rest and food.

INN KEEPER: You Muslins?

JOSEPH: Sorry?

INN KEEPER: You look a bit Muslinish, what with the head-dresses and everything.

JOSEPH: We are simple travellers, looking for shelter.  Can you find it in your heart to help us?

INN KEEPER: Travellers? You look more like economic migrants to me.  <Looks at Mary> Here for a spot of free healthcare are you?

JOSEPH: We just need a room, please.

INN KEEPER: And you think it’s OK to get a room ahead of the hundreds of Bethlehemish who need somewhere to stay, do you?  We send millions of whatever currency we use to your country and you still come over here, demanding that we all become Muslins and trying to impose Syria law!  It’s because of people like you that we’re not allowed to celebrate Christmas yet!

MARY: Please, kind skinhead, we’re only here for the census and I am desperately in need of somewhere to deliver my child.  We shall be on our way by the morning, which is already nearly upon us.

INN KEEPER: You married?  Proper married, not some civil partnership crap?

JOSEPH: Of course!

INN KEEP: OK then, but just because I’m a bit tanked up on sherry.  You can have the manger round the back, but leave it tidy!

JOSEPH: Thank you, sir.  A blessing upon your house and your poorly spelled tattoos.

INN KEEP: Make the most of it, mate.  I’m voting for Pontius Pilate’s UKIP lot next year and they’re going to close the borders, I can tell you.

MARY (sotto voce): I’m only giving this place one star as well.  Nobody’s ever going to come here again, I tell you!

NARRATOR 6: And so it was that Mary’s child was born in a lowly-rated cattle-shed.

MARY (holding baby Jesus): I shall call him Jesus!

JOSEPH: Whatever.

NARRATOR 7: Three shepherds came to visit

SHEPHERD 1: We followed a star to find this manger.

SHEPHERD 2: It was a nice break from our ‘Which mushroom tastes nicest’ test.

SHEPHERD 3: I can see the river of time carrying us all to the devouring frog at the end of eternity!

NARRATOR 7: And three wise men.

BALTHAZAR : I bring gold!

MELCHIOR: I bring frankincense!

GASPAR: I bring a growing dread this this is all somehow my fault.

NARRATOR 8: Christianity was born!

HIS HOLINESS POPE FRANCIS, BISHOP OF THE HOLY SEE, VICAR OF CHRIST, HOLDER OF THE APOSTOLIC SUCCESSION, HEIR TO SAINT PETER’S THRONE, PRIMATE OF ROME, GOD’S REPRESENTATIVE ON EARTH AND LAIRD OF GLENCOE: You know this deal’s real ‘cos it has the Pope’s seal!

[The children, except for Curtis who is being tempted out the back-door by the caretaker armed with a protein shake on a stick, sing Ave Maria while parents check their phones and wonder if their ‘dentist appointment’ excuse is going to hold or if they’re going to have to stuff their cheeks with tissue to pull it off]

ALL CHILDREN: MERRY CHRISTMAS EVERYONE! DON’T FORGET TO BUY OUR LOVE BY GIVING US STUFF!

—- THE END —-

Have you ever worked at a company that needs to make redundancies?  I’d imagine that most people have, but just in case you haven’t here’s what happens.

An e-mail goes out to all of the staff. Obviously it varies from company to company, but all of the key phrases are in there…’wider economic problems’, ‘reduce costs to be more effective’, ‘poorer than expected Q4 performance’, etc.  What’s always the same is the bit at the end of the e-mail, “Please reply to this mail letting us know your thoughts on who should be made redundant”.  That’s your cue to give some serious consideration to the company structure; Dave in accounts seems like a fucking waste of space, whose main value is a sure win if you pick him in the Friday sickie sweepstake, but he also seems to be the only person you know who can make VLOOKUP work properly.  These are weighty matters.

If you work in management things are even worse.  This is a bit of a secret, so don’t tell anyone, but those at the very top of the company send a second e-mail to the management, telling them who they’re expected to vote for.  These are always crouched in terms such as ‘suggestions’, ‘in no way mandatory’ and ‘absolutely not putting your dick on the chopping-block by naming anyone different’, but a good manager can read right between those lines.  Not that knowing what’s expected lifts you off the horns of a dilemma.  Susan from personnel is on the list, but if you vote for her she may well find out and un-friend you on Facebook, and that means no more bikini pictures of her in Magaluf every July.  If you believe that you’re unlikely to get another promotion, or that the redundancies are to slim down the company to make it more attractive for a take-over then you might think it’s worth the risk of defying the boss and keeping your summer spot-the-nip-slip permissions safe.

Ultimately all of the votes from all of the staff who Susan remembered to include in the original e-mail and who could be bothered to fight their way through the crippling fear of job loss to actually reply are totted up and the list of those to go is published, accompanied by a vote tally, and the unlucky ‘winners’ get a short presentation, a cardboard box and 10 minutes to get the fuck out.

Just in case you’re believing all of this (in which case you’re either new here -and by ‘here’ I mean ‘on this planet’- or very, very drunk) it’s all gibberish.  Redundancy is unpleasant for all concerned, the short- and long-term effects on the business must be considered, the whole issue is far too complicated and difficult to be thrown open to a public vote and left to come down to who can drive Excel formula or who posts hot Facebook pics.

And so it is with military action in Syria.  For the people who’ve had security briefings, detailed analysis of the situation and projections of likely outcomes to e-mail 107,000 people and ask them to choose between #SoundsLikeAThingThatMightWork and #BombsAreNasty isn’t just pointless, it’s craven.  It is the antithesis of proper leadership.  Leaders are elected to lead, to make unpopular decisions when they have to, to weigh the options and arrive at a considered opinion.

I don’t mind that Corbyn is against bombing, I certainly don’t claim to have enough information to say that’s the wrong position.  I doubt I could even spell the names of most of the groups fighting in the region.  I do mind that Corbyn is using poorly informed public opinion both as a shield to avoid changing his own views and as a lever to crowbar other MPs into supporting him.  He’s the company boss who can tell Dave from accounts that he always liked him and doesn’t want to see him leave, but that the staff have spoken rather than having to have the difficult ‘bad news about Christmas, Dave’ conversation.

Perhaps Jeremy needs to consider that if he wants to run a party or a country this way then it is the politicians themselves who are redundant.

There’s a kick-starter project that’s gaining some attention at the moment that plans to make a 14 hour long film of paint drying.

It’s here, if you really want to see.

Its purpose is to submit the film to the British Board of Film Classification (BBFC), pay their fee and make them watch all 14 hours of it.  Naturally it’s a protest against state censorship.

The problem is that the BBFC itself is a protest against state censorship.

When cinemas appeared as a form of entertainment they came into a legal vacuum.  Local authorities had no control over them and no legislation existed to govern them.  The law that prevented them from showing graphic sex and violence was, and remains, the Obscene Publications Act (OPA); cases around which tend to be long, expensive, and necessarily subjective.

Faced with the possibility of the UK government becoming directly involved in film censorship the industry itself created the BBFC, agreed to fund it through fees for having their films classified and charged it with ensuring that films shown in Britain remained on the right side of the OPA.

The BBFC has diligently maintained this duty for 103 years.  Local authorities were given the power to licence cinemas and it is they, not the government, who insist that a condition of that licence is that films shown are BBFC certified.  In practice the BBFC have done so well that local authorities rarely feel the need to do more than trust their judgement.  It’s a big step forward from the early days of cinema, when police used fire safety laws to close them down by setting fire to their celluloid to see if was flammable.  Until the Video Recordings Act of 1984, which stated that all video cassettes supplied in the UK must carry a BBFC rating, the BBFC had no legal authority at all.  They still have no power to ban or censor films shown in private, members-only, cinemas.

Throughout its history the BBFC has sought to reflect public opinion and to change with the times.  It has always followed the majority, progressive views of the population and not caved in to puritanical minority voices, no matter how loudly they’ve shouted.

If you want to pay them to watch a 14-hour long film of paint then that’s fine, but don’t think you’re making a point about the tyranny of a politician wielding scissors in the cutting room; they’ve been protecting us from that for more than a century.

Because I ride a motorbike to work every day and it blows off.

“Hey, George, me and Bri and Steve are starting a gang, do you want to join?”

“Brill, I hope we get to eat sweets, talk about bikes and agree that girls are ikky.  Man, it sure is sweet being 10!”

“Welcome aboard.  I’ve made this secret code so that we can send messages to each other and nobody else will be able to read them!”

“Uh-oh, we’ll have to give a copy of this to Mrs May at number 10.”

“Why?  Who’s Mrs May?”

“Well, Harry, she’s the person that makes sure all of the kids in the street are safe from naughty children by reading all of their secret messages.  Every gang that develops a code has to give her a copy of it.  That way she can be sure that if she suspects somebody of planning to egg houses, or ring doorbells and run away, or even steal dust caps from cars she can set her dog, Bobby, on them.”

“I’m not sure I want Mrs May reading all of my messages, George.  She’s an old busy-body with 8 cats!”

“This isn’t the time for ad hominem attacks, Harry. Mrs May has already prevented dozens of bad-boy attacks on this street, and this simple measure will allow her to prevent many more. What if Bad Ali’s gang were planning to look up girls’ skirts – you wouldn’t want that to happen, would you?”

“No…that does sound bad.  Will she be spying on us all of the time?”

“She’s not spying, Harry, she’s keeping us safe and she’ll only read the messages if one of the judges from the flower and vegetable show says it’s OK.  They’ve got our best interests at heart.”

“Doesn’t her friend Michael from the village council choose who’s going to judge the flower and vegetable show?”

“The important point is that she’s keeping us all safe.  Don’t forget that.  If we don’t let her have our secret code then somebody might even steal our bikes or discover our jazz mag stash in the woods.”

“Hang about, though – my code is based on a public-private key encryption method.  If we hand it over to Mrs May then I can no longer use it to securely transfer passwords or financial information.  I can’t even trust public-key encryption signatures.  Our gang’s entire e-commerce model will be compromised and gangs from other streets will know that.”

“You’re being overly paranoid.  Mrs May has no intention of damaging our on-line security and she’d never abuse this power in that way.”

“But what if some really bad boys broke into her house and wrote down all of the codes?  They could intercept communications for years invisibly, harvesting a bank account and credit card information for everybody in the street and then clean out the lot, netting themselves billions…of, um, sweets.  Cripes!”

“Aren’t you more worried that she might find out you’ve been looking at the underwear section of the Marks & Spencer web-site and tell your mum?”

“Well I certainly am now, George.”

“Best focus on that then, Harry.  Now pop round to Mrs May’s house and leave these codes on her hall table – she usually leaves the door open.  Just make sure no immigrants see you do it.”

[Author’s note: I’ve watched Star Trek, in all its various incarnations, since I was a kid.  Over the years a few things have bothered me about the series.  I imagine there was one meeting that explained everything…]

[SCENE: INTERIOR, STARFLEET MEETING ROOM, ARTIFICIALLY LIT AND CLINICALLY CLEAN.  PRESENT IS DAVE OF AAA AARDVARK ACME STARSHIP DESIGN CONTRACTORS, DAVE HAS A THICK FOLDER OF PAPERS IN FRONT OF HIM]

[LT. COMMANDER ROBERT PRICE ENTERS AND SITS]

PRICE: Thank you for coming in, Dave.

DAVE: Aye, no bother, mate.

PRICE (Slightly uncomfortable): I wanted to talk about you some issues with the design for Enterprise D, but I want to stress that we’re generally very happy with it.  These are just niggles, really.

DAVE: Whatever.

PRICE: The artificial gravity system, for example.  Absolutely brilliant.

DAVE: Yeah, well that’s state of the art, mate.  Dual units, each with its own primary, secondary and emergency power supplies.  Lovely bit kit, but you don’t want to fuck around with your artificial gravity – ‘scuse my Klingon – causes bloody ‘avoc if it goes, that does.

PRICE: Yes, but…

DAVE: But then you sent that sarky memo, is what, mate.

PRICE: And that excuses the anti-matter containment unit, does it?

DAVE: Nowt wrong with that containment unit, pal.  It’s built to Star Fleet rules and regs.  You’ve got anti-matter you want containing, that’s the baby for you.

PRICE: Oh, I agree, the unit’s fine.  Absolutely as it should be, but…well, some of the captains with space-experience are a little worried that it’s being run from a single domestic 13-amp plug.

DAVE: Nothing to worry about – as long as nobody unplugs it you’ll be sweet.  Even if they do they’ll have 10 or 15 seconds to plug it back in.  Totally idiot-proof.

PRICE: You don’t feel that failure of the anti-matter containment might also “cause havoc”.

DAVE: Well, yeah, but much more briefly and with less complaints afterwards.  If you get my drift.

PRICE (Slightly angry): And is complaint avoidance why you’ve planned to have the warp-core ejector system wired into the same plug?

DAVE: No choice, mate. The unit has to be next to the warp core in order to eject it and what-not, and ‘ealth and safety won’t let us run an extension cable to another socket.

PRICE: There’s a feeling that you’ve designed a ship where the artificial gravity is bullet-proof and key engineering systems have massive single-points of failure to….well, to make a point.

DAVE (Pulling paper from his pile): If you send me a memo asking for “…immediate and detailed explanation of how costs have deviated so far from the initial budget” then you can only expect me to a cut a few corners to get it back under control, mate.

PRICE (irritated): Don’t you understand how annoying this is for us.  How can costs even be a problem?  We’re a post-money society.

DAVE: You and your poncy Starfleet pals might be post-money and happy to gad about the galaxy for the thrill of it, but the guy I’ve got coming in from Sector 731 to fit [Checks notes] 862 toilets…well, he’s not so keen on working for free for the greater good of society.  You know what he’s chargin’ me for ’em?  Only a night with my bloody wife, that’s what!

PRICE (incredulous): You bartered your wife to get the plumbing done?!

DAVE: And he was the lowest bidder!  He was the only one prepared to do it for straight sex, no kissing.

PRICE: But…but…we use gold-pressed latinum for financial trades with developing worlds.

DAVE (sarcastic): Well blow me, I never thought of that.  Jumped straight in with my wife’s honour as an opening bid I did.  Whatever was I thinking of?

PRICE: …

DAVE: I offered ‘im gold-pressed latinum and he said (quotes from notes) “The value of latinum it is based entirely upon replicators being unable to produce it, which is clearly a ridiculous proposition when one is engineering at a molecular level.  Nobody is trying to replicate it because doing so would render it worthless.  It is, in effect, a position of artificial scarcity supporting an economy which only exists because of a technical oversight, and I find that a poor foundation on which to build my business.”

PRICE: I though you said he was a plumber from sector 700-and-something.

DAVE: ‘Ere, just because he doesn’t have a plummy sector-001 accent and does a job which you clearly think is beneath you doesn’t mean he’s not an educated bloke!  Starship plumbing’s a highly specialised skill, mate.  If you’re installing what is, ‘sentially, a very long tube with the infinite freezing vacuum of space at one end and your arse at the other you don’t it wired in by a bloke who signs ‘is name with an ‘X’.

PRICE: But, your wife…

DAVE: The deal’s done, pal, just let it drop, eh?  One thing I will say is that this bloke’s work is fine, up to code and whatnot, but he’s not one for aesthetics, if you follow me.  You don’t want to be showing them dunnies off to anyone.  Strictly functional, like.

PRICE: The toilets won’t look nice?

DAVE: Hell, no.  We’ll pick the best one and call that the Captain’s quarters, but he’ll want to keep that quiet or he’ll ‘ave an ‘ell of a wait every morning to make his log, if you know what I mean.

PRICE; Er…well, moving on.

DAVE: All I’m saying, pal, is that if you spent a little less time ravin’ about yer Engineering corp and a bit more time recruiting for the Star Fleet Plumbing corp you wouldn’t have these kind of issues.

PRICE:  Yes.  Now…

DAVE: Or perhaps you can find yer crew from a species what doesn’t have any arseholes.  There must be some of them.

PRICE (firmly): Moving on…The captains are very happy with the ship’s defensive capabilities; virtually impenetrable shields, 400 photon torpedoes, 8 independently targeting banks of phasers, detachable saucer section with its own battle bridge.  Impressive stuff.

DAVE: Oh yeah, mate, that’s all top-notch latest military stuff.  Very nice it is.

PRICE: And, just to be clear, you did read the part of the project brief about this being a mission of peaceful exploration and discovery, didn’t you?

DAVE: Was that the bit about seeking out strange new worlds and civilisations?

PRICE: Yes.

DAVE: Oh yeah, I read that.  Then I thought to myself, “You wouldn’t go to a strangers house without packing a few guns, would you?”, so I stuck on all them things you just said.

PRICE: It never occurred to you that turning up heavily armed at a new planet might not convince the inhabitants of our peaceful intentions?

DAVE: Nah, the way I see it sooner or later you’re going to fly up to some world where the Norvern ’emisphere ‘as been at war with the Souvern one for millennia, millions dead on both sides, a hundred generations of tit-fer-tat retaliations and what-not and if you turn up in star-ship with “Jesus wants me for a sunbeam” painted down the side they’re not going to pay much attention for you.  But if ol’ Captain Trigger-Happy turns up and tells them they’ve got 45 minutes to bury the hatchet and get properly into the spirit of universal love or he’s going to start shooting at continents wot are looking at him funny they’re going to be the best of friends before you can say “orbital war-head dispenser”.

PRICE (shocked): That’s monstrous! Star Fleet doesn’t work like that!

DAVE: Whatever, mate, but you just look at ‘istory.  The Middle East was trouble for years, then Professor Photon, or whoever, invented his torpedo and suddenly we had near-East, mysterious crater, far-East and a lot of people being very polite.

PRICE (even more shocked): That was a terrible act of terrorism!  Star Fleet has a strict policy of non-intervention!  It’s our Prime Directive.

DAVE (laughing): Yeah, right. Ooo, look, a new and unexplored world…let’s all beam down and ‘ave a look shall we?  But, captain, what about the risk of contamination?  Contami-what, science officer?  Less chat, more beaming me down!

PRICE: Our transporter system removes alien organisms.  That’s basic star-ship design, Dave.  We expect you to know this sort of thing!

DAVE: Alien organisms aren’t your problem, pal.  Basic biology is…every ‘uman is ‘ome to billions of micro-organisms and the transporter doesn’t remove them…I’m knowing this because transported people arrive alive and stay that way…unless they’re wearing a red jersey.  So if you send them down to an alien world every time they breathe, sneeze, cough, blink, shake their head, fart or scratch their arse they’re showering the landscape with alien microbes.  You might as well give them all smallpox-infected blankets and be done with it.

PRICE (uncertain): I’m…I’m sure it’s all taken care of.

DAVE (incredulous): Taken care of?  You never wonder why the entire galaxy is basically populated by oxygen-breathing ‘umanoids roughly the same as us?  It’s because ‘alf an hour after you lot have “discovered” a strange new world that’s all that can still survive there.  Your ‘ole operation is shonky as ‘ell…new recruit, teach them navigation, tactics, engineering and orf they go.  You lot just don’t see the detail.  It’s the toilet thing all over again.

PRICE: We train our people to the highest standard!

DAVE; Yeah, right.  [Mocking voice] “Are the inertial dampers on-line?”, “Yes, Captain”, “Excellent – accelerate us forward at 400,000,000g!”…”Captain, we’re going to crash into a planet at a few thousand miles an hour!”, “Oh no, the sudden massive deceleration will kill us!  If only there were some way to dampen our inertia.  Abandon ship!”

PRICE: We can crash ships into planets?

DAVE: Well it won’t do ’em much good, but we put the inertial dampers at the bum end for a reason, you know.

PRICE: Look..how about we just pretend this meeting never happened, eh?

DAVE: So the design’s signed off then?

PRICE: Well,,,unless there’s something you can do about the toilets.

DAVE: Are you married?

PRICE: No.

DAVE: Well, yer probably stuck with ’em, then.  Just find someone expendable to boldly go where no man has gone before.

PRICE: Hey, that’s got a nice ring to it.

DAVE: Yeah, let’s ‘ope he still ‘as afterwards.  See ya, mate.  Cheers.

[DAVE RISES AND EXISTS ROOM.  PRICE PUTS HIS HEAD IN HIS HANDS.  SCENE ENDS]

Dear Car,

Recently you’ve started squeaking at me in a most unpleasant manner and I want to explain why this is unacceptable.

I want to make it clear I chose to have you.  I live half a mile from a train station, or a gentle 10 mile cycle to work.  If I’d chosen to walk or cycle every day then I’d look great in a bikini, and not like International Lard Ltd tried to hide a years’ worth of produce under three handkerchiefs.

In the time I’ve owned you I’ve met your demands; a new MOT here, a set of tyres there, insurance, your constant demand for petrol.  Without all of these I’d be considerably financially better off.  I’ve purchased the latest ‘must-have’ battery for you, spent hours unscrewing your oil warning light when it glows and topping you up with Lidl own brand oil…because I want the best for you.

What do I get in return?  When I put dogs in the boot you don’t stop their hair getting everywhere.  Both times I’ve hoovered you you’ve got covered in mud and Mars bar wrappers within weeks.  I’ve nagged and nagged about the receding paint-line on your wheel arches, but if anything they’re rustier than ever.  Why do you do this to me, you ungrateful piece of shit?

You don’t even have an iPhone connector!  Tomorrow morning I’m going to have to manually set your clock to GMT!  All the hours we’ve spent together on the road between home and work, home and dog-walking park, home and the supermarket that’s half a mile away and you can’t even learn when the bastard clocks go back!

Well, we’re done.  I’m going to get a 4th-hand Porsche with an overly powerful engine and alloy wheels that haven’t been twatted off the sides of the single-track bridge in Prudhoe 500 times!

I know you can’t understand this, your early 21st Century engine-management computer is far too primitive, but I hope one day you get an AI upgrade that allows you to feel the shame a guilt that’s coming to you.

Love,

Your driver