I’m convinced that time travel is impossible, which is a fairly stupid thing for someone who has written a time travel novel to say; however, being even more stupid, I shall shortly contradict myself as I describe the delights of travelling through time.

The evidence is this: since my friends and I did not literally keep tripping over time travellers while we were at college, they did not exist, ergo time travel was impossible.

After several pints of lager, my old college chums even agreed with me, but whether that was them or the lager talking, I leave that up to you. Over more than a couple of beers in the J. D. Witherspoon (I will never call it spoons) at Waterloo station, a strange place that seemed to defy the laws of logic, as time seemed to stand still, I explained my theory thus.

My argument is this: when we were at college, and I mean art college in the 1980s, given it was quite simply the best time to be alive ever, why on earth did we not encounter travellers from another time to enjoy the craic and the music? To this point, my drinking buddies heartily agreed by lifting their glasses, adding, “Get the beers in, Biggles, it’s your round”.

To understand what I’m going on about and what is intoxicating me more than the booze, you need some context about my dear, dear friends and me. My tribe.

We met in the 1980’s, it’s probably the best time to be in higher education, ever, we have no ties, no commitments and absolutely no responsibilities. Yet to develop any sense of our own mortality, we are, like youth itself, immortal. Nor do we have any idea of how blessed we are.

We are simply free. Free to invent ourselves as we wish. Indeed free to be ourselves. Optimism abounds; we’ve got grants, but no tuition fees. Free education coupled with free love. And the drugs, oh the drugs. Lots and lots of them.

Colleges are hotbeds of liberal, libertarian, humanist, and humorist thought. Art colleges are the hottest hotbed of them all. So hot, they are cool. It’s a place full of misfits, and so for the first time in life, we feel like we fit in. We are the winning ticket holders in life’s lottery. What’s more, for its soundtrack, we have the best fucking music in history. 

Perhaps I’ve overdone that motif a bit. And I’m a bit worried that now it makes me and the rest of my alumni seem too much like hippies.

Admittedly, some were, thus, I can assure you that the phrase “Never Trust a Hippie” is total bullshit (unless the hippie in question IS Sir Richard Branson). Nevertheless, we were a mixed bunch.

Just your normal Posh Kids, Left wingers, Right wingers, Apathetic Slackers, Apathetic Oiks, Oiks, Numanoids, Blitz Kids, Duranees, Surf Dudes, Cool Kids, Mods, Rockers, Psychobillys, Goths, Vampires, Hippies, Punks, New Romantics, and Post-Punks.

What I’m trying to say is this. What a time to be alive. Perhaps, more importantly, to be young. Sex, drugs, and Duran Duran. Though I do feel compelled, for the sake of accuracy, and to avoid jealousy, to say, sadly, not in that order.

Whilst youth may indeed be wasted upon the young. Its resilience and stamina are not. I needed both. It helped with the hangovers for a start, and I don’t need to be a time traveller to tell you how ill I will be tomorrow. So given all that, given that it’s the best time in history to be alive, why are there no time travellers?

It’s at this point that I spot a vital flaw in my plan: what if Duran Duran were visitors from the future hiding in plain sight? Let’s face the facts, being a member of that band in the 80s must probably sit at the centre of desirability in the entire fucking universe, but I digress.

So there you have it, conclusive proof that time travel does not exist. I rest my case, M’lud. So this is probably the best place to shoot myself in the foot.

For as my pals and I chatted and became lost in conversation, something magical began to happen. Something that defied logic, the laws of physics and as I write this, makes me cry, the deeper we dived into our memories, the younger we got. The spoon’s faded into the future as we glided back into the past, and as we did, the masks of age slid from our faces.

There was no BBC radiophonic soundtrack, no wavy lines, no Dr Who theme, but sat at that pub table, I watched my friends transform in front of my very eyes.

The air buzzed and flared as if full of static electricity, for milliseconds at a time, we were no longer sixty-year-old men but young again; it’s not that we felt young, but ever so briefly we were. The elixir of youth sold on draft at The Lion & The Unicorn. Daft.

So there you have it, conclusive proof that time travel does and does not exist. By the way, did I mention the drugs?

In loving memory of Simon, Dave, Dave, Mark, and of course that legend, that man, that friend, that larger than life, that raconteur, that bonny bon vivant, Mr Andrew Charles Norman Taylor, AKA Charlie Aardvark, AKA Charlie. Gone but not forgotten. Who could never be forgotten. You burned the brightest. You were with us today.