"You see this hand? I could kill you with this hand! Stop smiling!"



In a perfect world, I’d have a robot butler to make me an Old Fashioned at the end of every day’s work. He’d have a metallic moustache, and a stannic stovepipe hat. Occasionally the hat would emit bursts of steam and toot out the opening motif of Beethoven’s Fifth because if I’m going to have a robot butler I might as well go the whole hog and have an absolutely ridiculous robot butler.

I think the dapper chap would have a single wheel to trundle around on rather than anything resembling legs, because I imagine robotic limbs to be either spindly and kind of terrifying, or chunky enough to crush my throat. It’d be very important to ensure that no aspect of Andre Martin 3000 could be weaponised. Unless he’s preparing drinks, he has no place in the kitchen. He can’t handle a knife and, heck, I might not even give him hands hands because hands can strangle and ‘Throttled by my own robot butler’ is third on my list of debilitating fears.