Igor Clark

One of the things that annoys me about the fact that in all probability I won't live for ever is that it means I won't get to see all the crazy shit those space-age futuristas will come up with. Mostly the time machines. Example: only yesterday, a moment of genuine sadness overcame me when, while warming up some nice thick pea and ham soup, I glanced at my cooker and felt a real pang of regret that I might never be able to pop back to a carefully-tended Palæolithic fireside, wrest a caveman's attention from the dancing shadows cast by its oh-so-hard-won flames, zap him back to my futuristic lair and show him a god-damned GAS HOB. I mean, imagine the look on his face while I'm just standing there, switching it on, and off, and on, and off. Maybe casually scorching some paper, a candle, a sabre-tooth steak; you know, just making the point. On, again; once more, off. And hey! Look! I switched it on again! Yeah! How'd you like them apples, Cavey? He'd go batshit, I'm telling you.