A/N- erm, well, er this is my third fic and second one shot so I should be getting the hang of this by now but I'm er not. well this big ole monster stems from a prompt a friend gave me (must include the words-dog smoking weed). I got writers block for ages then banged this out overnight. eep. Well with thanks to Megan, my mate, my muse, the person you can blame for this mess. the name "Kingston cougars" for a zero-gee team comes from a university American football team near me- I have no connection to them except liking the name.

by the way- my plot bunnies are mostly old hat, so if you have a prompt you want me to write by all means tell me- unless the prompt is - your own suicide note. my friend was given that as a prompt by a troll and cried over it. if you send things like that you are sick, disturbed "people" who don't deserve computers.

disclaimer- I own nothing. I'm not Doug, Naylor or the beeb so I don't own anything at all, unless someone knows something they aren't telling me. if someone would like to gift me the boys- or just Chris Barrie's cars I would be in hogs heaven. but I'm not- I'm in college in suburban London. All I own is the rubbish story, pale skin, sticky-out ears and unmanageable curly hair (if I was taller, and male, I'd cosplay Rimmer)

24 years old

David Lister was fundamentally happy with his life. He knew he was a bit of a bum, but he couldn't bring himself to care. He was free, he was popular, he was a guitar legend and best of all today was his birthday. He was 24! He was getting old but he didn't care, because he and his mates were celebrating in style. They'd travelled from Bootle to London in matching Everton shirts determined to get blitzed to a degree never before seen. Now they were in the third pub on the monopoly board, the lager with whiskey chasers already increasing the already considerable cheer. None of them could remember what the next square was though, and that was getting on his pecks…

"Oi Dobbin, mate you're supposed to be a copper, you're ssupposed to know where things are, you ssmeghead." Gazza shouted to the former drummer of Lister's band Smeg and the Heads. He'd imbibed even more than the others, and the slurring was noticeable already. Dobbin rolled his eyes, holding his tongue, not even thinking the moaning worthy of a response.

"Oh shut it Gazza you goit, yer givin' me a headache" Les, one of Lister's pool mates from the Aigburth Arms, known for his cool head replied. His accent was so strong it made Lister look positively southern at the best of times, but when he blitzed you could barely understand him.

Lister was fed up, he'd been enjoying himself up to now and he was not going to stop the pub crawl for something as trivial as not knowing to go next. And he was pretty annoyed at the lads for getting into arguments already. They'd all agreed to have a bevvy (or two, or three) on every square of the monopoly board and none of them had been bothered to remember or write down the squares! As usual he was going to have to be the brains of the operation- and that was saying something. Lister was an honest guy- he knew and admitted he had no brains.

"Guys there's an easy way to sort this out ya know" he slurred through the fog of ciggie smoke and sheer drunkenness in the pub, voice barely heard above the din of conversation. "I'm gonna go to Smith's and see if I can get a monopoly board ok" He slurred, he doubted W H Smiths would be open but he had to try and sort this all out. He couldn't give up on such a great night so easily. In fact the whole day had been brilliant so far, he got new strings for his guitar, a few of the best Rasta Billy Skank CDs (Just another skanking day, and House of Skank and Return of the Skanking Seven) and a couple of Jim Bexley Speed photos- what better presents could a guy have.

The next morning he woke up at Mimas shuttle port, with no money, a passport for a bag-lady called Emily Birkenstien and he was wearing a Liverpool shirt. He wasn't sure what part of that he was most disturbed about. As he laid back down, incapacitated by the mother of all hangovers he decided that once he got the Liverpool shirt off, he really didn't care.

25 years old

Dave Lister hated his whole entire life. How did he ever get this low? He was 3rd technician on the oldest, slowest ship in the Jupiter Mining Corps fleet, the lowest smegging rank on the worst smegging ship in the whole space. And his 'superior' was a mad, petty, stupid arsehole. Who even worse was also his roommate, hating everything he did and unfortunately opening his stupid nasal Ionian accented mouth about it. But the worst, absolutely worst part was that he was even further away from Earth, away from his dream farm on Fiji, and it would be five years before they returned to his home planet.

Was it any wonder then that to escape he got drunk? Each and every night, getting paralytic with Petersen, who was last sober when he was twelve, Chen and Selby in various dive bars both on and off ship. Their previous shore leave in Titan had resulted in Petersen going teetotal for a week on Doctor' orders- he got terrible shakes, Selby having a six day hangover and double black eyes, and Selby going missing for a while. He had eventually found in the panda enclosure on Titan zoo, and when they had picked him up, Lister had taken the opportunity to buy an alarm clock, since it was only a couple of dollarpounds and went off with loud monkey noises that drove Rimmer nuts.

But Lister for the most part still hated his life. This time last year he was living the free and easy life of a young man who was confident in his own skin and knew he had lots of friends who cared about him. This year he still had friends, a few of them, who were too drunk to care about him and didn't even remember his Birthday in the first place. He liked Petersen, Chen, Selby and most of the crew, excluding Rimmer who could go and die for all he cared, but he could help feeling undeniably alone. That was why he'd bought the cat. Frankenstein was the only one who really cared about him, who he really cared about and who he could share his dreams with. And sharing your dreams was a sign of true friendship. The black cat never showed any signs that she was listening, but at least she didn't scoff at him like some people so he assumed she liked them.

Holly, the ship's computer, and his only other true friend was currently distracting him talking about the zero-gee football results he'd heard from the computer of the demi-light speed zipper that had passed them a short time ago The Virgil. Holly's unmistakable east London twang was going on about the results of the game between the Manchester Flyers and the relatively unknown Kingston Cougars in the Zero-gee Football Association Cup. Lister was interested to note David had beat Goliath, the Cougars were playing the Jets next. So he couldn't help it that he didn't notice putting that particular roll of film in with all the others to be developed in the ship's lab. He genuinely thought they were just his snaps from the Cococobana Bar with the guys and sent it down with Bob, the scutter who owed him a favour, the next time he saw him pass by his quarters.

And when he woke up the next morning with a stonking hangover having spent the night getting absolutely blottoed with the lads, he still regretted his life and he was still fed up of his entire existence.

30 years old

Three million and five years later, long after the rest of humanity had returned to dust like the crew of the Red Dwarf, Lister celebrated his thirtieth birthday. Funnily enough he didn't feel ancient like he had on his twenty-fourth birthday, but then again there was nothing like three million years in stasis to put time into real perspective. Even more strangely he didn't feel lonely any more either, even in deep space with only a burnt out mechanoid, the last member of Felis Sapiens, the neurotic hologram of his dead roommate and a computer senile transgender computer for company. He'd even started to make friends with Rimmer- maybe he was going space crazy after all. The Hologram still didn't like it when Lister shortened his name to Dick, given that his name was Arnold, but he was getting better at putting up with it.

This was the first birthday he'd actually celebrated with guys. Usually, he'd grab a few six packs of wicked strength Leopard Lager from one of the dispensers, strap on his Holly wristwatch so he could be reached in an emergency and hid in Toddhunter's quarters for the day. The officers' quarters were far enough away that if they couldn't find him, that is, if they ever even actually looked for him. He could get drunk, get melancholy and play his guitar and none of them would ever be the wiser.

But this morning Rimmer had been up and waiting for him, telling him this was too big a milestone to miss and they were all going to celebrate. Lister didn't know how Rimmer knew his birthday in the first place and was frankly surprised the man seemed to give a smeg, but meh. Stranger things had happened. True, only three springed to mind, Raining fish, combusting mayors, and tangible hallucinations but still. Lister could have easily walked straight through Rimmer but for some reason he didn't want to. True the static electricity feel was nasty for the first few times, but Lister was used to it enough now that it ought not to have bothered him at all. Except it did.

Tonight they were all very drunk, and Lister wasn't so bored. Rimmer had had five hologrammatic whiskeys and so was very drunk having been mostly teetotal for his afterlife, Cat was alternating between Tequila Sunrises and Bloody Marys because he couldn't decide whether he wanted his cocktails to match or contrast his extremely loud latest suit. Even Kryten and Holly were in on the act, the computer having made her liquid nitrogen/vimto special android home brew. Kryten was currently singing in what sounded like binary, but still somehow sounded like a classic drunken song. Lister himself was so drunk he was hallucinating things on the painting in front of him. "Rimmer" He groaned "is that dog smoking weed?" That comment got him a confused look from one very green looking hologram but he did eventually respond to him. "What?" he slurred out slowly "no Lister for the last time they are four dogs playing poker, it's a classic work and I paid a fortune for it the antique shop so hands off OK?" before he fell off of his chair and fell asleep.

They had sung Happy Birthday to him several hours ago whilst still sober, but now they were drunk they were singing it almost continuously, in between rounds of Ganymede and Titan and the classic, Baby I Want Your Love Thing the classic one-hit wonder by The Fifth Dimension. Both songs they hated when not kershnickered but they were, so it was a bit of academic point really. Kryten walked in with the Birthday cake, the only thing keeping him upright his internal gyroscopes and Lister's smile beamed. It was a beer flavoured cake, with curry flavoured buttercream and cut into the shape of a guitar. His guitar. It must have taken Kryten ages and he'd even put royal icing over the top in Everton colours. The whole thing was made even better by the fact there was not a single solitary space weevil in sight, or vegetables, or anything else he really hated. This had to be one of his absolute best birthdays ever!

For his Birthday he had received a 20 gallon keg of Tabasco sauce from Kryten, a leather jacket from Rimmer that was surprisingly the right size, and as for the Cat, well the less said the better. The Cat had got him some chicken bones and a cravat that 'was no longer stylish enough for him'. This time he came down from the drunkenness still happy but with no hangover. He'd learnt to wean himself off of the booze slowly after his benders. seeing as this was a super bender he was going to have to get sober e-x-t-r-a s-l-o-w-l-y.

35 years old

The morning of Lister's 35th Birthday was spent like any other morning, afternoon or other time of day in the tank. Floor 13 prisoners were not entitled to special days, Birthdays or otherwise and they were expected to work, to act like it was just another day in their sentence. He was just three months into his two year sentence, and he could not deal with another birthday just like this one. He thought he felt loneliness before but he knew better now.

He still bunked with a Rimmer but it wasn't his Rimmer. This was a different one, with none of the personal growth the hologram had achieved in his years of existence. This Rimmer seemed even pettier than the other had ever been, refusing to speak or even acknowledging his existence most of the time. Sure they had some laughs but he missed his version, the one who had finally grown up and left to become Ace, facing his destiny.

He didn't see the others as much either. Cat bunked with a Jehovah's-witness killer who insisted on greeting them by nutting them in the face. Lister had thought often back on Earth of killing Jehovah's Witnesses but he had never actually done it. Kristine Kochanski, who wasn't even his version but one from another dimension, avoided him, didn't have a crush on him and only saw him on CANARY missions and at mealtimes. Lister felt sorry for Kryten though. The mechanoid had always been treated as one of the lads, and it was awful for him to have to bunk with the women just because he had a trademark instead of a joy department.

If his thirtieth birthday was the best he'd ever had, then this was the rock-bottom of birthdays. He had no party. He had no presents, not even a token, crappy gift like the ones The Cat gave him every year. But worst of all, he had a CANARY mission tonight and he was fed up it. Fed up of time, fed up of space, fed up of it all. He wanted to go back to Starbug with his Rimmer, his curry, his dangerous lonely life and all that. It sounded just as sad as it was. He was bored here and he felt like a true alien aboard his own smegging ship. Why wouldn't they let him go home?

And as he sat on his bunk, being ignored by his roommate, thinking to better times he got drunk. Not on the good stuff, no good booze for floor 13 prisoners, but contraband was rife. He'd stolen this lot of strong homebrew, almost the strength of pure ethanol, from Baxter. He was risking death but he really needed a drink to forget what day it was. He figured with the strength of this stuff he would probably die or go blind rather than have a headache but no such luck and the next day he wished he was dead even more than he had.

45 years old

There wasn't, in Lister's opinion much to say about his forty-fifth birthday, apart from the fact that it was the start of the year when his mid-life crisis finally hit him. Part of this silence about the event could be attributed to the fact he'd gotten so drunk he couldn't actually remember it, so fair dues.

His mid-life crisis hit and it hit him really hard. It didn't manifest itself as lusting after some attractive woman, because Kristine Zoe Kochanski had already gone back to her own dimension and there weren't any other women on board. As for going the other way, Lister flatly refused to give up a lifetime as a happily straight male (besides one rather embarrassing dream) just to fulfil one inexplicably popular cliché life event. Instead, on his birthday he went full in on the deep end, raiding the shops in the mall for things he didn't need, becoming a shopaholic. He also started riding his godforsaken space bike and wearing his day glow orange moon boots- things he'd stopped doing long ago. The others secretly mourned this, even the scutters who had no sense of smell could sense the highly dangerous toxic fumes coming off of them that made even Kryten's eyes water (oil? Whatever)

His Rimmer was just back a few short weeks ago, retired after a very long and successful career as Ace, replaced by his nanobot clone. Though he wasn't the same pile of human wreckage who left. He had changed ever so slightly personality wise, was nicer and had aged like the rest of them. Cat was still as superficial but wasn't such a loner anymore since they were back on the Dwarf where there were Krispies and real booze. Kryten was also much happier now he was with the Boys from the Dwarf, The Posse again.

They'd been partying on a small yellow S3 planetoid for the last few days having decided to make up all the parties they were unable to have before. 10 birthdays for Lister, 10 death days for Rimmer even though he hadn't celebrated that or his birthday in years and 10 birthdays for the Cat even though no-one knew how old he actually was. He certainly was aging better than the rest of them. Even Kryten who had nothing specific to celebrate was joining in the Red Dwarf Posse's equivalent of an open air concert. Unlike their last party, Holly wasn't there but although they missed her? Him? It? They had to keep on living their existences. Instead they were joined by Bob and Madge the scutters, who were currently doing a line dance duet on the AR dance square, and by Hoagie, a random and obviously insane android of some description. They hadn't known him all that long, only since the second day of their mega-party when he had materialised and challenged them to a duel across time and space. He looked as bored as they were, so Lister had politely declined on the behalf of the group and then got an impressionable drunk Kryten to play a drinking game with him and some and android home brew. Hoagie seemed nice, if a little bit insane, but he'd spent over 3 million years active and watching his compatriots die. On second thoughts, Lister though it was very familiar but he couldn't remember from where and he simply could not be bothered to think about it. Parties were for drunken fun not philosophy for smegs sake!

The last few days they'd spent having an epic round of Never Have I Ever, leading to so many hilarious insights about Rimmer's time as Ace. They had only really stopped because the Cat had starting sulking. He should have known the virginity question was going to come up at some point. And they couldn't do anything about the fact he'd never got his end away. It wasn't even if he was the only one, Kryten having only ever had Archie in terms of a joy department hadn't either. The absolute best bit in Lister's opinion was Kryten's reaction to Hoagie's confession that he had done things of that nature. Lister hadn't known that Kryten could get truly pissy, but he did when he found out subsequent models of Divadroid mechanoids were equipped and so could perform with other androids. Kryten, to put it simply was suffering from alcohol induce penis envy, one of the world's oldest psychological disorders, and it was funny. Oh to have a truly first class Psychologist to analyse it. Or even just a camcorder to video it for comedic posterity.

And as Rimmer got so drunk off of India pale ale with scotch whiskey chasers he started to fight with a small angular rock, thinking it was a simulant warrior, Cat threw up his Tia Maria yet again (when would he learn liquors were not for him), and Kryten fussed around trying to help them get through it when he was in reality just as bad, Lister smiled. He was truly happy for once in his pointless space bum existence. He wouldn't have life any other way.

a/n- there that wasn't so bad now was it? please review this, because it took me many hours to write and I would love to know what you honestly think of it. push the button. push it. (sounds like a cue for a song) it will make me soooooooo happy. I have more ideas- should I write a second chapter?