Thursday 25th June

9st 4 (slipping), alcohol units 16 (bad), cigarettes 25 (v.bad), calories 1766 (g), no. of immortal souls sold to hell 1 (v.v.v.v.v.v.v.v.v.v.v.v.v.v.v.v.v.v.v bad).

9:30 a.m. Spent all morning so far trying to locate juvenile delinquents and local yobs that had been told prowled the streets of Lower Tadfield. Could however only find naughty children, accident prone teens and loveable rogues. Am starting to suspect that there is something very odd about this village.

10:45 a.m. Still cannot find any yobs. Am starting to panic. What if there are none to be found. But point blank refuse to compromise journalistic integrity and personal ethics by faking it.

10:50 a.m. Will not under any circumstances compromise journalistic integrity.

10:55 a.m. Will not compromise journalistic integrity, will not compromise journalistic integrity.

11:00 a.m. On the other hand will probably never work again if documentary not filmed by end of week.

11:03 a.m. Will compromise journalistic integrity this once. But only so that will continue to be employed and therefore able to use journalistic integrity in the future.

4:50 p.m. Eventually found two suitable yobs in pub in town ten miles north of Tadfield. When we entered the Dog and Rattlesnake there appeared to be a full scale skirmish going on between five different factions and pretty soon found self diving into alcove to avoid table flying through the air. Unfortunately, while ducking out of way of what looked like a battle crazed sixty-five year old crashed right into red-haired woman in a dress (also red) far too skimpy for the weather, who had the most worrying smile I've ever seen on something that wasn't member of reptile kingdom.
"I'm terribly sorry," I blabbered, unable to shake sense of being completely flustered. "I'm just looking for a few yobs to interview."
"You're a reporter, huh?" she said in an American accent.
I nodded. "Sort of. I'm more of a researcher cum interviewer."
"I used to be a reporter myself. Wars mostly, although I did do the odd peace keeping mission gone wrong. You ever covered a War?" she asked.
"No, I mainly do human interest," I said, feelings of professional inadequacy blossoming.
Her smile widened. "You really don't know what you're missing."
Was v. glad when one of the production assistants indicated that she'd found two yobs going by the names of Pigbog and Skuzz willing to be obnoxious in front of camera. Were a little older than target age group, but as Dave the sound technician pointed out in rather more vulgar fashion beggars can't be choosers.

We then took Pigbog and Skuzz to Lower Tadfield where we filmed them swearing, shouting and noisily messing about on motorbikes in the middle of village green. Unfortunately had to do two takes of motorbiking due to fact that copy of Sense and Sensibility fell out of brown paper bag Pigbog was carrying about with him. When questioned by Skuzz as to why he was carrying book around in first place he went bright red, muttered something about it being a present for his mum and demanded v. aggressively that we re-shoot entire scene, which we did.
"Jane Austen's one of my favourite authors," I said to him while Skuzz was gulping from bottle of Jack Daniels and yelling abuse at passers by (well members of production crew) in front of camera.
He looked around furtively and whispered. "Yeah, but I reckon that them Bronte women were better."

Mr. RP Tyler walked passed with his horrible yappy dog whilst Skuzz and Pigbog were pretending to fight in middle of road. Thought for a second that he was about to have seizure. Am certain that it was v. bad and unspiritual of me to feel a stab of glee at idea of this. Suspect that he will be penning letter to The Mail on Sunday, local MP and perhaps even United Nations some time very soon.

6:15 p.m. Sigh. Just tried to get through to Mark in Bolivia, but he was apparently in v. important meeting with lawyers representing the people trying to sue the Newtrition corporation. Miss Mark. Then tried to phone friends; but Shaz watching football, Jude at opera with vile Richard and Tom asleep and annoyed at being woken up. Miss friends.

6:30 p.m. One of the production assistants just asked me if I was going down for dinner. Do not fancy spending another night watching crew faun over Mr. Flash Bastard and his ideas for tacky and ethically challenged reality shows, but wanted even less to spend evening alone in room mooning over fact that have nobody to talk to.

10:40 p.m. Blurry brill night. Flash bastard actually complete sweetheart. Has promised me will be rich and thin and all enemies struck down. Hurrah. Am cmpleetly pished.

12:55 a.m. Ugh. Feeling v.v sick. Maybe should have not joined in that drinking game. Am bit worried that seems to be paper scrawled on in rust coloured ink next to bed. Wonder what it is?

12:57 a.m. IMMORTAL SOUL CONTRACT. Has to be some kind of joke, doesn't it? Doesn't it?

12:58 a.m. Ohshitohshitohshit. Have cut across palm. Have memories of giggling and signing bits of old paper with blood from hand. What the hell have I done?

12:59 a.m. Oh bugger, cannot cope with this just now. Will deal with it in morning. Probably just silly game.