When he were just a wee lad, Malrik strutted into t’ nearest recruitment office like he owned place and signed up for queen and country—mostly ’cos he heard they had free brews on't go. Soon as he were old enough to legally neck a pint, they packed him off “t’Afgan.” Four years later, after realising the sun there were personally tryin’ to kill him, he declared “nah, that’s too bloody ’ot” and wandered back to civvy street.

Years later, mid–“gret grumble” about absolutely nowt in particular, he decided streaming might keep him out of trouble (it hasn’t). Now he spends his time bantering wi’ mates, complainin’ about everything from weather to Wi-Fi, and occasionally going misty-eyed before launching into a reet long tale about “back when I were in t’ army,” whether you asked or not.