And so gentle readers, those of you who have survived the hormone-ridden, paranoia-driven, sex-starved ramblings of the tale of French bread, and those few, even sadder individuals, who persisted well into, maybe even to the bitter end, of an even more deranged creation of the hormone-ridden, paranoia-driven, sex-starved group of writers.  What can I say?  Is this the end of an era?  Should my eyes grow misty with fond remembrances of many a cheerful afternoon of alcohol and lost plot lines?  Should I raise a glass to those happy times?  Should I set up a standing scholarship for the most deranged young writer to prosper under an umbrella of drink?  Or should I simply remove the anchor from my arse?

I think that's the best idea, and I'll just get on with it.  We might have all grown up since then. Christ, I don't even know where most of the other writers and general production assistants (those what gave us all them bad ideas) are any more.  Guess there'll always be a space in my heart for a little cum-encrusted vest.  But hey, if there's anyone out there who wants to carry on this fine, far from upstanding tradition, then just look out for me.  Send me a bat signal or something.  I'll tear myself away from university, work, diving, teaching, surfing, time wasting, something called Mississippi Moonshine and rampant sex (well, maybe not the last two...) and we'll see what we can do...  There must be at least one mind left unwarped...