Goodbyeee Goodbyeee, wipe that tear, baby dear from your eye,eee

My last cup of cillit bang before I go

Who was it who sez you can’t please all the people all the time, The Girl? No, I think it was someone a little less famous, but they were right, apparently I displeased 19% of the readers or in real terms 56 people. How? I’m not really sure, answers on the back of a postcard addressed to Mother Theresa, Bombay, please. How Mr. Hair accrued 17% of the votes is beyond me and probably will be the subject of a Horizon programme later this year!

Anyway my time is up and no longer will that 20% (percentages rounded up for ease of typing) have to suffer the slings and arrows of my outrageous discontent. Neither will the 80% of cats who preferred my type of blog to other more famous brands.

It is always a sad time when one leaves, heart strings are stretched, good pals are hugged, hands are shaken, and maybe a few tears are shed. But this is the Big Blogger house and who gives a fuck? The loser becomes once more a loner, stumbling through the wreckage of his psyche left with nothing but his slightly shaken but not stirred belief in his talent as a writer. He faces the future and his current blog, neglected ere these past few weeks, with a forlorn hope that some, just a few of his loyal readers, will keep him company on that long long lonely journey into the blogiverse. (is this getting maudlin and self pitying enough yet?)

The Big Blogger house was fun while it lasted and Dr Rob, raises a limp hand in acknowledgement to the brains behind the idea, BB and LB. Yea, they could not be bought off with generous offers of money, personal ‘services’ or plain large hints that he shouldn’t go. They are clearly men of honour and he salutes them in that traditional way that British long bowmen once saluted their French brothers across the battle fields of France. Cest la guerre, mon amies. Cest la guerre.

Of his fellow blogmates? Of course Dr. Rob has his opinions, after all he is a Dr and his opinions are often sought after. Obviously he will only divulge such opinions for large wedges of cash, thai ‘massages’ and/or threats made by large men with Moscovite accents. He is a man of integrity and honour after all, the last thing he would want to do is leave the house spitting and snarling like some low life, trailer trash from Essex. His warts and all, kiss and tell book should be available in all good newsagents, ‘private’ shops and branches of Boots by the end of the month.

So this is it. Dr Rob grins ruefully. He sits there like a rueful pilot in a burning aeroplane crashing into a volcano waiting to be ejected into the diary room. If only he had a parachute he thinks ruefully (or even a handy shower, where he could be discovered like that puppet Domestos was and be told, don't worry Dr. Rob, it was just a dream, just a dream...dream). He sniffs, the virus, he caught in the house starts to take hold, 'I’ll have to get to the clinic' he ruefully thinks, to himself, 'to get things checked out', he shakes his head ruefully, 'one doesn't know what one might have caught!'

He’s finally had enough: ‘GET ME OUTTA HERE’ he screams, with not a rueful bone in his body left!