Personal logs, delivery notes, survival warnings, music diaries, cleaning reports and official Eric Strudelhofen regulations from across the Space 2047 universe.
Every galaxy has a key. Unfortunately, mine is slightly out of tune.
Recorded a song with the engine room. The chorus exploded beautifully.
Misplaced guitar again. Suspect gravity, Brian, or a very ambitious cupboard.
Played one chord so powerful the Communications Hub asked for a lie down.
They are friendly, affectionate and catastrophically bitey.
The MAAM delegation greeted the crew warmly, then tried to season Cedric.
Brian survived MAAM territory by pretending his moustache was an endangered species.
Space Cheese distracts MAAM aliens for exactly nine seconds. Use those seconds wisely.
Romance in space requires confidence, oxygen and a reliable escape pod.
If someone calls themselves irresistible, check for hidden tentacles and unpaid parking fines.
Three planets have requested diplomatic training after Susan winked at their ambassadors.
Never kiss an alien until you know where its mouth officially begins.
If Brian says it is probably fine, put your helmet on.
Crew evacuated in six seconds. Brian returned for his moustache comb and ruined the average.
Cedric opened a crate labelled Definitely Not Dangerous. It was dangerous.
If the galaxy ends, I would like it recorded that I warned everyone first.
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.
Citizens of space, please stop naming moons after lunch items.
A regulation a day keeps democracy confused.
Any suspicious pastry is property of the state until I have finished eating it.
All spoons must be admired for at least three seconds before use.
Citizens must salute small sandwiches because greatness often arrives in compact form.
A good cargo officer knows what is in every crate. I have chosen a more mysterious path.
Found one moon, two spoons and a small legal department behind the emergency biscuits.
Parcel 9B walked away. It left a forwarding address and a rude drawing.
One crate of socks became three crates of suspiciously organised underpants.
A successful delivery is one where nobody sues the moustache.
Parcel asked to speak to my manager. I promoted Cedric temporarily and hid behind the cargo bay.
Collected vinegar near the event horizon. Lost two chips, one receipt and most of Tuesday.
Took a shortcut through a wormhole and arrived before I had left. I still billed overtime.
Dust is not inevitable. Dust is a declaration of war.
Dust level reached 0.04%. Emergency mopping protocols activated.
Space Cheese residue resisted standard mop. Upgraded to heroic mop.
Robot underpants discovered in vent shaft. Sanitisation ongoing.
