Personal logs, delivery notes, survival warnings, music diaries, cleaning reports and official Eric Strudelhofen regulations from across the Space 2047 universe.
Romance in space requires confidence, oxygen and a reliable escape pod.
Brian attempted charm. Medical bay recommends rest and fewer eyebrows.
Never kiss an alien until you know where its mouth officially begins.
If someone calls themselves irresistible, check for hidden tentacles and unpaid parking fines.
Never trust a package that looks smug.
My moustache was mistaken for a diplomatic flag by a traffic warden moon. Negotiations remain itchy.
Collected vinegar near the event horizon. Lost two chips, one receipt and most of Tuesday.
Delivered three crates of Space Cheese to Nouala. Eric immediately declared cheese a taxable emotion.
I do not chase dirt. Dirt flees me.
Sixteen teacups entered low orbit. Recovery net deployed.
Robot underpants discovered in vent shaft. Sanitisation ongoing.
Dust level reached 0.04%. Emergency mopping protocols activated.
The trick to surviving space is simple: never trust anything smiling with too many teeth.
If the galaxy ends, I would like it recorded that I warned everyone first.
Gerald tried to tune his guitar using the engine. The engine now plays jazz.
Crew evacuated in six seconds. Brian returned for his moustache comb and ruined the average.
Nouala is free, provided everyone does exactly what I say before I say it.
Citizens must salute small sandwiches because greatness often arrives in compact form.
Anyone taller than Eric must crouch during official photographs.
Any suspicious pastry is property of the state until I have finished eating it.
MAAM hospitality includes tea, biscuits and a legally worrying number of teeth.
Space Cheese distracts MAAM aliens for exactly nine seconds. Use those seconds wisely.
Karen has negotiated a treaty based on snacks, distance and shouting.
The MAAM delegation greeted the crew warmly, then tried to season Cedric.
A good cargo officer knows what is in every crate. I have chosen a more mysterious path.
A box marked Fragile bit the forklift. Forklift expected to recover emotionally.
The cheese has started humming. Gertrude says this is unhygienic.
Parcel 9B walked away. It left a forwarding address and a rude drawing.
Music is the language of the universe, except on Tuesday when it is mostly feedback.
My guitar picked up a distress call from a sandwich.
Played one chord so powerful the Communications Hub asked for a lie down.
Misplaced guitar again. Suspect gravity, Brian, or a very ambitious cupboard.
Royal patience is infinite. Mine, sadly, is not.
I have reviewed Gerald’s latest song and declared it almost legal.
Brian means well, which is often how trouble begins.
Never accept a crown from a planet that also offers you a receipt.
