Go Fudge Yourselves

This is not your grandmother’s blogpost.

So out with a motherfudging bang not a motherfudging whimper. This is me, hanging up my ROTWUING gloves, retiring in my prime, undefeated on a basically world record 76, count them, 76 nation states represented by restaurants in London, within the M25. No one else comes close. No one can come close. I didn’t even do Bangladesh or Ethiopia and I could have done. 80 is easily done so if you’re not already racking up cuisines then you’re the lily-livered disappointment your parents tell your sibling you are.

There have been lows (that time I lost my pen) and highs (that time I found my pen). But all throughout I’ve had my trusty life-partner/spouse/wife/bird Mrs Del Monte by my side. This really couldn’t have happened without her enduring patience, open-mindedness or glamour model figure.

Mrs Del Monte rejoices when Charlie finds his pen.

Also, special mention to Knockers who’s made many contributions to the blog in a half-hearted attempt for me to reach the lady demographic. The ladies, I am like honey to them, but I understand them not.

So why now? What, you ask yourselves through tears and, let’s not sugar-coat this, mucus, has caused this to happen? Well, not that it’s really any of your fudging business, myself, Mrs Del Monte and Vengeance are moving to La Belle France for an as yet to be determined duration. Do forgive me for not sinking every last penny into commuting back to London purely for this blog (in case you didn’t realise I’m being sarcastic).

I wonder what life will be like in France? My old car has cruise control … I wonder if my French car will have cruise control? It’s these little differences that really give life that … I don’t know what.

So I wish you no specific harm; those seeking to challenge me: If you come on the king you better not miss. And to the many restaurants I misrepresented, I’m actually moving to Moldova which I believe has no extradition treaty to the UK. So, go fudge yourselves.

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