IT appears the Transylvannia fortune has finally run out. The Prince of Darkness admitted on Friday before his two-week break scouring the countryside for young virgins that he was on his bare bones.
"I have no money and don't get paid for a week. As I've got the week off I am going to stay in bed (for bed, read coffin) until next Friday and survive on the ten cigarettes I've got left."
Once he had survived that ordeal, the Prince revealed he would be going to the Green Man festival and making hay with hippies the following weekend.
"I suppose a Friday night drink is out of the question then?" I asked in tones conveying my deepest sympathy.
"Absolutely. Straight home to bed for me," he said, picking up his cloak and blending into the night.
A couple of hours later I went off to join the Bad Manners leaving do. She and the gang had taken up residence in the new micro-boozer, Zero Degrees. Joining a table containing Smashy, Paps and Danny Boy (the Poipes, the Poipes) I went to sit down on a chair, noticing that the dregs of a pint were left there.
"You can't sit there," Smashy informed me, "that's the Prince's seat."
Turned out the Dark Lord had bumbed £20 from the wannabe DJ so that he could inbibe. I should have guessed.
Later, standing outside having a smoke, I was joined by the Prince. "I'm off home in a minute, I'm skint again," he revealed.
"Well, at least you have your 10 fags for the week," I ventured.
"Um, no. Now I've only got one left."
It's gonna be a pretty rough week of cold turkey for the Dark one. I have visions of him lying in the crypt, sweating, while dead babies walk across his roof. Or, worst still, visions of Withers spinning his head 180 degrees wearing a nappy.
Friday was a pretty good night and though I said I would be home by 11 on the basis of taking charge of WoS on Saturday, by the time Wren and I crawled through the door it was about 1.30am. Oh well.
We moved on from the Manners farewell to the Nickers Birthday Bash in a new club called Calcutta. And it felt like going back to the days of the Raj with Mensahib Shutts holding court like some latter-day Viceroy lording it over his BBC subjects.
Shutts was full of himself (makes a change) having secured himself tickets to see the New York Yankees play one of their last-ever games at Yankee Stadium - some consolation, at least, for the fact he booked his hols in order to see Joe Calzaghe fight in the Big Apple, only for Joe to cancel the bout and put it back to a later date.
Saturday was a big day on WoS - first day of the football season - and I managed to shake off my hangover to get the paper out. Sunday, therefore, turned into a day of rest as I plonked myself in front of the TV to watch England and South Africa battle it out at the Oval.
I was up early in the morning, though, to watch Nicole Cooke's fantastic tactical ride to win Olympic gold - the first Welsh sports person to achieve the feat in 32 years. It was a stunning performance and I couldn't help jumping up and down with joy as she crossed the line.
Later, I watched the offshoot of Spooks, one of my new favourite programmes having secured the first three series on DVD. What a pile of poo! Called Spooks [Code 9], I don't think you could come across worse writing, stilted acting or dire dialogue if you searched for months. Utter tripe, made all the more disappointing because the original is possibly the only drama made in Britain over the last few years to go anywhere near matching what the Americans achieve with The Sopranos, the West Wing, Prison Break, Lost and Dexter.
Monday night I went the whole hog and made myself and Wren a full-on curry. I decided to do a few sample dishes with nan and pilau rice. The fiery lamb did what it said on the tin while the Peppers and Paneer were a little bit hotter than expected and the potato dhal also had a bit of a nip to it. When Wren turned red and started choking, steam coming out of her ears, I realised I might have overdone the chillis slightly but, being the stoic type she is, Wren battled through and finished the lot. I must get her that medal.