Dimitar Berbatov is…The Continental

Well hello there.

I see you've caught me flying to Germany amidst rumors that I will sign with Bayern Munich or my old club Bayer Leverkusen. But before you start crying and clawing at my highly erotic imitation Burberry scarf and begging me not to leave you, first allow me to finish checking my phone for any texts from other Berba-beauties in desperate need of my fleeting affections. ... Nope. I got nothing. They're probably all waiting to surprise me in the terminal, wearing only graduation gowns with a smart pants suit and conservative underwear beneath it. Ha-HA!

I'm assuming the only reason you're not passionately kissing me for the first and last time right now is that you're still in a considerable amount of shock. So I'll tell you to just breathe slowly. And gaze upon my widow's peak as it hypnotizes you into undressing right here on this airplane. ... Please stop laughing.

Though it seems I may soon be leaving all of the devoted Berba-babes in Manchester, there is no reason to fret. Once The Berba has established himself in a given city as its greatest ever goal scorer and seen approximately 95 percent of its women in various states of undress with the help of my cousin Timitar Berbatov's hidden VHS cameras, it is time to move on. Even after I leave, I will still make myself available for cyber sessions via Skype or fax, however. ... Actually, some people do still have fax machines. And they're all very arousing. Ha-HA!

Oh-OHHH! Angela Merkel just texted me to demand that I stop sending her explicit love poems and charcoal draws of myself in the shower. And I just realized that I forgot to pack my fax machine. Oh, this is both terrible and a welcomed invitation to a titillating new challenge. Between this and the potential for a vigorous pat down from airport security, I am full of hope and excitement!

Join us again next time for another chapter in the life of...The Continental...