A grizzled, unshaven bear of a man, Phil is former-infantryman who was thrown out of his regiment after getting roaringly drunk and insulting his commanding officer's wife. He has only a sketchy recollection of the event, but the words 'wart-riddled arse-end of a mangy swamp-donkey' were almost certainly involved. This, on top of his record of drunken violence, led to an immediate dishonourable discharge, and he was sentenced to three months as a galley slave on a trading ship. He was thrown off the ship when his sentence was up, and found himself in York.

When sober, Phil is a genial companion, and an excellent soldier. He has a soldier's broad repetoire of crude jokes and bawdy ballads, and whilst any money he possesses quickly vanishes into the pockets of innkeepers and prostitutes, he is always willing to share what little he has with his comrades. However, Phil has a violent temper when drunk, which he frequently is, which has led to killing in the past. He possesses a keen - if self-centred - sense of justice, and is quick to dispense it when he feels cheated.

After spending some time wandering York and the Durham peninsula, drinking, arguing and hunting, Phil grew bored, and headed inland in search of adventure and more drink. Being short of cash, he hired himself out to the Royal Court of Greater Raktam, in the 1st Raktam Mercenary Corps. Despite not speaking a word of the native language, Phil got by BY SPEAKING SLOWLY AND EXTREMELY LOUDLY. However, there was some confusion regarding who exactly was paying his wages, and after trekking halfway across the island and back, getting lost several times, mauled by a tiger and killed by a Derbyman, Phil became somewhat disillusioned with his employers. The final straw came when SofaKing returned from his extended travels, and promptly dispanded Raktam's three mercenary corps.

He then whored out himself and his rifle with the newly-reformed Mercenary's Guild, and found causing mayhem for fun and profit to be a job he was particularly well-suited to. Following a slight ruckus with the leaders of the 1st Colonial Militia and the Defender Corps of York whilst on a contract - which left both Serious Sam and Mr Bungle slightly dead - Phil decided it would be prudent to leave York for a while and let the dust settle. When the Mercenary's Guild went ass-end-up again, Phil did wonder if perhaps there was something about him that caused any organisation he was associated with to fall apart, but quickly came to the conclusion that that was ridiculous, and that it was quite obviously a problem with everybody else.

However, he must have been doing something right, because he was soon contacted by the legitimate businessman Marco Machetti, and offered a legitimate job as a legitimate errand runner. He has great hopes for this current employment, particularly since his new boss uses a bar as his headquarters, the now-famous Club Palermo in Durham. As usual, trouble seems to have followed Phil like the stale smell of yesterday's beer on his breath, and he is currently involved in, or has outlived feuds with: a persistent native headhunter called Diamond Joe Quimby; a would-be assassin by the misleading name of Warzone; the entire La Famiglia di Machitty; the Fropsite religion; a soldier by the name of Lt. Clarence with a vastly overblown opinion of his own reputation and abilities; an idiot called Gazmeister who doesn't know when to quit; and several members and ex-members of a number of past Durham Governments. However, Phil is certain it's nothing a box of bullets and a few savage beatings won't sort out, an opinion which is borne out by reason of his still being around, and their not...

Despite the near-constant stabbings and shootings, Phil had so much fun in Durham that he decided to leave York behind forever, and make Durham his home. As a citizen of Durham, he takes his civic duties extremely seriously, and approaches them with his usual blunt pragmatism - and trusty rifle, obviously.

Even when a small investment paid an unexpected dividend, Phil continued to work for his bread. After breaking heads and taking names for some time, he took a sabbatical and left the peninsula to enact Tom Failur's Revenge, a contest organised by Phil's fellow mercenary to extract vengeance upon his murderers. With an impressive nine names scratched off the list by the end of the competition, Phil won first prize, along with the self-awarded title of 'The Revenginator.' Following Failur's Revenge, Phil remembered just how much fun it was being a mercenary, and decided to extend his career break with a bit of private work as an independant contractor. His affinity for troublemaking is such that he has since found himself a wanted man in both Derby and Raktam, with a decent price on his head in both towns. He's really quite flattered.

Back in Durham, he resumed his duties as full-time security, part-time surly drunkard at the Club Palermo. He works for Marco's younger brother Giovanni Machetti in the elder's absence, making his problems go away. Phil is a simple man, lacking his boss's subtlety and sophistication, so his problem-solving often incorporates a foot in someone's ass. Phil keeps a list of the boss's problems, and is willing to pay good hard cash for information leading to the afore-mentioned foot in the ass.

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Phil also appears to have inadvertently started the First Great Durham Grass Fire of 2010, whilst trying to set up a makeshift still over a poorly-controlled campfire. He nearly spilled his beer in all the excitement, and has since decided to leave the provisioning of alchoholic beverages to his new favourite bartender, Algy Templeton. Even if he is a bit fruity, like.

One particular assignment given to him by Giovanni led to Phil returning to the ramshackle hovel that is Raktam. Whilst cooling his heels after the trail he was following went cold, some uppity wench wearing a crown was foolish enough to take a heavy sword to the innocent mercenary she found resting peacefully in a dishevelled hut. Phil was less than impressed, and after getting in touch with a few old friends, descended upon Raktam and its people like a self-righteous, booze-soaked avalanche, destroying all in its bad-tempered path. Regardless of what those elephant-buggering Raktami bastards might say, Phil and the New Age Mercenary's Guild handed the town its ass on a daily basis. It might have cost him a pretty penny, but Phil's always felt that you can't put a price on pride, or vengeance.

Following that little lesson in manners, Phil stuck around to try and make a little money back, by hunting down Raktam's notorious shargle-murderer and giving him an education in animal rights. Namely, that he had the right to die several times for hurting said animal.

Seven object lessons and twelve-hundred gold coins later, Phil emerged from the Raktam jungle dirty, dishevelled, and smelling only marginally worse than he did before. Making his weary way back to the Palermo, he passed the time losing a lot of money to unscrupulous hustlers with shaved dice, and showing a thick-headed upstart just why no-one with any sense fucks with Phil or the management.

Evidently the boss got tired of watching Phil lounge around the Palermo, making the place look untidy and insulting the patrons, so he dragged him along on a trading run to a couple of other taverns in Raktam and Derby. Both of which, when they got there, had neither bartender nor beer. Phil was less than happy with this, but did manage to amuse himself in Derby by showing a half-assed assassin the difference between a wannabe and a real killer, and stopping off in Raktam again on the way back to help his little people-eating sister snico show people why it pays to be polite to someone who has hormones and a tendency to eat people's faces. In this case, the paranoid 'King' of Wiksik was sticking his nose in where it wasn't welcome, so snico, Phil and a few friends cut it off at the shoulders. The corpse-molesting old bone-pickers of The Necromancer's Guild started running their mouths too, and whilst nothing came of it at the time, Phil didn't take kindly to being told what to do when there's no money involved, and made a note on his personal list to teach the mouldy spirit-botherers a lesson when time allowed.

Once again, Phil rocked up at Club Palermo with an empty rifle and a rucksack full of bloody clothes and knives. Once again, Giovanni couldn't stand him trekking mud all over the expensive rugs and carving obscene pictures on the bathroom walls, so he concocted a feeble excuse to send Phil to York. The wayward mercenary grew bored almost before he got there, however, so wandered over to Raktam again to tie up an outstanding personal contract. Five times, not that he's bragging. His professional competence combined with a flair for comedy must have caught someone's attention, because right after that little job was through, the New Age Mercenary's Guild were right back in Raktam, chopping up Story-Time and his so-called anarchist buddies, and making bad writing-related puns in the process.

Then, who should bloody turn up again like the bad smell that pervades his stinking little village, but the 'King' of Wiksik. Saying farewell to the last vestiges of his honour and principles, Anthor threw his runesticks in with The Narrator and his sorry band, and earned himself the undying enmity of Phil and the NAMG. When it's convenient for them, anyway. Business comes first.

Unfortunately for Big Chief Crazy Horse and his muck-grubbing Wiksikis, business was a little slow after Raktam. The mercenaries headed to nearby Derby for a bit of R'n'R, but both rest or relaxation were difficult to come by, thanks to: an old friend who made no better a fencing instructor than he did an assassin, and an even better practice dummy; a treacherous dandy with a penchant for silk shirts, who kills his own kind, if only just; and last, and definitely least, Crazy Horse, again. This was too much even for Phil's easy-going nature, so his long-awaited and well-earned beer would have to wait for a little while longer. After shouldering his rifle, collecting three of the four fingers owed him by Half-Ass, and spending a few days getting reaquainted with an old and much-admired friend on a sunny beach, Phil was running a little late for the party, but eventually he hauled his surly behind to Wiksik. All the yomping through the jungle hadn't improved his temper much, and when some mouldering bag of bones made an ill-advised remark, Phil welcomed the opportunity to let off a little steam. That barely began to make him feel better though, so he spent the next couple of weeks tearing up Wiksik, most specifically the part located between Anthor's legs and his guts.

When his righteous fury had finally burned itself out, and he really, really wanted that beer, Phil decided the Wikiski has had enough. Plus, the boss was yammering and nagging at him to get back and sort out some Machetti business, and Phil just couldn't take the chance that Gio'd get annoyed enough to call in Phil's prodigious bar tab. Seems that yet another self-declared Governor of Durham is getting a bit above himself and forgetting just who really runs the town. He's about to find out.

They wear a much-used but lovingly-maintained bolt action rifle slung over one shoulder. Engraved in the glossy mahogany stock, and inlaid with polished silver, is the name 'Respect'. Strapped across their back is a massive tooled-leather scabbard, in which is sheathed a huge, ugly sword. Worked into the hilt in filigreed steel is the name 'Manners'.