My head hurts. I have a crease in my face that makes me look like Ernst Blofeld.

I went to a christmas party last night on Picards ship. It must have been fantastic, because I woke up this morning in a cell.

That's always the sign of a good party.

At first I thought I had been slashed, but it seems I acquired the marking from sleeping face down on the floor.

Some vaguelly familiar bearded hot shot came down to see me and outlined my 'unacceptable behaviour' from the previous evening.

His face was bright red.

He yelled something about my terrible singing and his indifference to my stage dive. He seemed to expect an apology or an admission of shame or something. I wearily told him that he should have read up on his starfleet history before inviting me. Some of my more public misdemeanors were well documented in the starfleet logs. God knows enough of them were published in 'Self Diagnostic' magazine.

His face turned purple.

He exploded with rage, yelling obscenities and pointing to the dishevelled figure slumped on the floor across the cell from me, her pretty uniform torn in all the right places.

A memory picked itself up from the dark corner of my mind, dropped it's bottle and danced wildly before my eyes.

It's all coming back to me now...

Fly boy over there and the tasty young morsel in my cell had been slow dancing to 10cc's 'I'm not in love'. I recall that she was quite wobbly, singing loudly and pointing to Beard Master in an overly emphatic manner. He looked rather awkward, and his face was red. Must be his favourite colour.

Anyway, to save him any more embarassment I asked the band to play something a little more upbeat, and I cut in on him. She seemed to like the insistant funk of 'Stayin Alive' and we got down to it big style.

Man, she moved like a Nebula class starship at maximum warp.

I remember that I had my hand on her perfect little buns and I was just about to reach round to stroke her Tribble, but then everything went black. I was nowhere near my limit so my away mission must have been cancelled without my say so by the hairy cornflake here, probably with a well placed phaser blast.

Number 1 my ass. He's more like a number 2.