Andy is irreplaceable, as a publisher and as a friend. His unique combination of a wickedly funny cynicism about academia and a deep and lasting value for scholarship informed almost everything I learned about publishing in my early days at the Press, from 1988. Who else could have been at home discussing the minutiae of textual bibliography alongside the Carry On films? Or maintained such an outrageous degree of maverick irreverence in positions of great responsibility, and in contexts which appeared to demand a degree of solemnity? Andy’s death has unleashed so many fond and funny memories that he now seems more present than ever, and I can hear his voice at every turn. To lose one who appeared – in the words of a colleague – so indestructible has been a mortality check indeed. His resilience in the last months was amazing, and it was entirely characteristic of Andy to have maintained complete sang froid (‘dinna fash my dear, there’s nothing you can do’) while allowing glimpses of great tenderness for the family he has left behind. His influence has been profound, and I will miss him terribly.