You poor, poor wretches. You sad, depraved, urban pustules. Feel free to lose your collective sh*t and try to obtain the most illegal narcotics you can get a hold of. No jury in the land (land = Moldova) would convict you for possession or being under the influence. For I, your guide and spiritual leader, am going on holidays for 3, count them, 3 weeks. As is Mrs Del Monte. It’s our honeymoon. And while Mrs Del Monte spends her time applying lotion to my many crevices, you’ll have no one to console you. I had a stand-in lined up but she’s just discovered Baywatch Nights, so she’s binging on that for the time being.

Beach look: Perfected.

So, once the snivelling has ebbed, once the tears have dried, once you’ve trashed the undergarments you have doubtless soiled, take a moment and reflect. This is YOUR time. Be free my adoring readers. Enjoy! Smell a rose. Eat a noodle. Drink a tall, cool beer. For it is not Au Revoir. It’s goodbye. Seriously. Leave me alone.

BOOMSHANKA!