It's Friday night, Robot Wars is on the telly shortly, I've spent all week editing, designing, illustrating and generally farting around with the soon-to-be-finished first issue of SKUNK Magazine (you people have no idea how lucky you are) and, quite frankly, I can't be arsed writing something to post on this board. Which is why you're getting a...

CLASSIC SCRAG END OF THE WEEK

...instead.

If you don't like it, go and complain to your local MP. I'm off to crack open a bottle of whisky, put on my slippers, send a threatening letter to my publisher for no other reason than it seems like an entertaining thing to do, and then collapse in my rocking chair with the remote control ergonomically positioned by my elbow so that I can throw it at the telly if Razor doesn't win, along with a cigarette in my mouth and a chip butty at the ready for when I get the munchies during the Phillipa Forester sections. Hey! I suffered at the hands of a surgeon a couple of weeks ago for this! Now I'm going to take advantage of it and put an additional strain on my liver above and beyond the call of Banoch Brae 40 per cent proof!
This is the ROTW editor signing out of reality. See you all on the other side of consciousness.