Andy Capper, our editor, can take a lot of shit. Liberia, pah. But there’s one thing that he just won’t stand for. My face.

The particular (but not exclusive) part of my head he aims his virulent sideswipes and general abhorrent hollering at are my ears. Having had these tribal cats’ buttplugs in my ears for about 7 years I had actually gone past the point of realising that they were even there. Just me it seems.

This all literally reached a head when I got an AIM from Andy which read something along the lines of “Rhys, this will sound like your dad, but lose the fucking earrings.” -sheepish response- “Ha, OK Andy”-Instant reply- “I’m serious.”

So today I am reborn as your every day flesh-flapping lobe apologist. And I have the whole day to wave a pair of ferrets’ arseholes at the editorial staff. Cue Knight disgust.

In a kind of Stockholm Syndrome way I think Andy tough loved me for my own good. Look at how happy I am dangling my out of date pretzels at you. Look at it.

At least this is less likely to happen now.

And at least I stopped the outward spiral before I ended up like this guy.

This guy, you could alley-oop toddlers through his head and look at him, still grinning like he can retain liquids. Yeah he looks happy now, but the only person who will go anywhere near him is Masuimi Max. Thanks to Andy I really dodged that bullet. Maybe under Andy’s tutelage maybe this guy could have been saved from the leper colony of Don’ts.