Officially I joined AP as "Reviews Editor," although this bit mean nothing.
(Reviews Eds are the luckless folk who have to deal with software companies to ensure games turn up; after unwittingly being YS's for the first year, I vowed publicly I would never call a PR department again.)
In fact, I literally edited reviews, though this didn't last long as I spent all my time at it, being unable to leave something alone that I didn't consider totally excellent and worthy of appearing in AP.* I was, it seems, not called a Staff Writer because I was paid slightly more than a staff writer and therefore ineligible.
(Ludicrously, Future had - has? - no career structure for writers. If you're still a Staff Writer after a year, you're considered a failure. Writers who want to get on have to become Deputy Editors or Production Editors (no, really) and take on responsibilities for running the magazine. If you don't want ultimately to be Editor, you're some kind of commie pinko subversive.)
Protestingly, therefore, I appeared in the flannel panel as (among dozens) Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Clifford Irving and Eddie Nashton, the common thread twixt whom is easy to deduce.