Class Traitor

I'll show him, Lister thought. Saying you can't just make wine on a random fertile planetoid. Wine was grapes, wasn't it? Or apples, whatever; Petersen bough a bottle of something made of rice once, on shore leave on Miranda.

Using chillies might be pushing it though.

Grunting, his face a mask of determination, Lister secured the last vine to the wooden supports he'd set down, and took a step back.

"Take that, Rimmer!" He folded his arms, grinning. "You need a varrrriety of grraapes; you need brains and skill," he whined in Rimmer's voice.

The chilli ranks did not respond.