ONCE, during a proper, old fashioned newspaper bollocking, an editor hit me with the twin takedowns of, “this is bizarre, even for you” and “who do you think you are, Salvador f****** Dali?”

If I hadn’t been so timid, and abashed, I might have pointed out that Dali was a painter.

As it was, I said nothing, but those lines have stayed with me as a response that pops into my head every time someone takes something too far.

I suppose it’s my own personal version of “jumping the shark”, the phrase coined after the scriptwriters on Happy Days saw fit to have Fonzie hop over a shark while on water-skis.

The scriptwriters of Neighbours channel Salvador F****** Dali on the regular but the most bizarre plotline, and there are so many to choose from, that haunts the nether regions of my brain involves dear old Harold Bishop.

In my memory, and that is really the only place that counts, Harold was washed from a rock and, many years later, and after many tears from his darling wife Madge, turned up in New Zealand, having forgotten everything about his former life other than the ability to play the tuba.

While Madge believed her beloved to be drowned, he was, in fact, part of a Salvation Army band further down the Antipodes. According to my memory of the situation - and we're going back to 1996 here, so don't quote me - Harold was picked up at sea by a Vietnamese fishing trawler.

It's quite likely I have entirely misremembered it, but I refuse to Google the plotline in case it turns out to be far blander than my affections give it credit for.

At the time, I think, it seemed quite plausible. As someone just on the cusp of their teenage years, with no body of water vaster than Coatbridge Municipal Baths to test the theory, who was I to dispute the notion that an un-athletic, middle aged man caught unexpectedly by a tremendous wave might recover himself enough to bob at sea until such times as a rescue boat happened by.

New Zealand couldn't be far, I'd thought. Now, with the wisdom of adulthood, I know it's four hours by plane and, in reality, when Harold Bishop went into the ocean, my aforementioned editor would have had one word, and one word only, for him.

Energising stuff, though, all the same.

It was always astonishing that the writers could come up with such elaborate japes yet the coffee shop was called Coffee Shop.

I'm going to miss Neighbours, and I say that as someone who, as I imagine many of you similarly have not, has not watched the show in years. It wasn't actually necessary to engage with it, it was just nice to know it was still out there somewhere, trying to be "spunky" (don't ask) and "fresh".

It has been around for as long as I have and I remember it fondly as being one of very, very few television programmes I was allowed to watch. In Australia that was emphatically due to lack of choice. The television stations only ran for a limited number of hours a day so you had to grab what you could.

In Scotland, I was allowed Neighbours and Blue Peter. Home and Away was too racy for my young eyes, I imagine because they spent a significant time in their bathers. No such luck in landlocked suburban Erinsborough.

Even the wildest plotlines were so gentle and comforting. Dramatic tension always resolved and even when Madge died in Harold's arms (spoilers, sorry) you knew he'd recover.

As vividly as Harold being swept away, I remember Guy Pierce dramatically shaving his head. No wonder, his character's girlfriend was killed in a car crash and his mother survived a plane crash. It all takes a toll. It's mind-boggling that he's become a serious actor. Guy Pierce, and Jesse Spencer, will always be "from Neighbours" no matter how stellar their careers.

About 10 years ago my flatmates and I, after an ill-fated road trip from Sydney to Melbourne, went to visit the set. What a wheez. There, you were able to wander into Coffee Shop, roll a tyre around Grease Monkeys, and wait at the Erinsborough bus stop, though whether you were waiting for a bus into town or making an escape was not clear.

We were desperate to see one of the cast members, but no such luck. I did see Karl Kennedy in Walkabout in Glasgow once, when he toured with his band. But that was nowhere near as exciting as the possibility of seeing a character in their natural environment.

I'm ashamed to say how recently I gave up on Neighbours. It's not long enough ago to be intellectually excusable but not so recent that I would sign a petition to keep it.

It's ironic, after Boris Johnson holding up a packet of TimTams and declaring a special relationship with Australia, that the loss of British money is what has finally done for the show. No dramatic plotlines here, just a plain and brutal lack of funds.

What will we lose by the demise of Neighbours? Another heft of childhood nostalgia. That's the really tough bit. Real life is so unpredictable that having life-long constants is a true salve.

Still, if we've learned anything from soap opera, it's that a return is always possible, even from the dead. In my heart, Neighbours will be living the fine life in Bali, waiting for a twist of fate to lead it back to the dry land of solvency and our TVs.