GO/Bridget Jones crossover part 2
Second Installment of Bridget Jones/GO crossover. Part 1 can be found here
Wednesday 24th June
9st 3 (g), alcohol units 3 (g), cigarettes 17 (v.bad), calories 3300 (v.v.bad), no. of flash bastards encountered 1 (v. annoying).
2:30 p.m. Spent all morning looking for some young tearaways to interview. In the end found some teenagers hanging around what looked like a shopping trolley graveyard. Unlike the bleary eyed glue sniffers I’d been expecting however these four: Adam (something strange about him that I can’t put my finger on), Pepper (point blank refused to tell me her real name, another example of parental sadism, perhaps), Brian (probable soap allergy) and Wensleydale (his surname I hope, surely parental sadism can’t be that rife in this part of the country) seemed to have stepped out of the pages of an Enid Blyton novel. All of them seemed eager to be on TV. So I quizzed them on camera about any antisocial behaviour they’d been involved in.
“Well, Adam stole some apples from the tree in Mr. Tyler’s garden,” said Brian.
“It wasn’t proper stealing,” protested Adam. “The bit of the tree that I took them from was hanging over the fence next to the footpath. You can’t steal anything from a public footpath, can you?”
“Well, you could,” said Wensleydale. “If it was something like a road sign or traffic lights.”
“Yes, but he wasn’t talking about road signs or traffic lights, was he,” said Pepper.
“But he said ‘you can’t steal anything from a public footpath, didn’t he?”
“Er, so apart from stealing apples have any of you four been in trouble with the law?” I asked desperately.
There was a long pause.
“Last week a policeman told me off for running across the road without using the pedestrian crossing,” said Pepper.
After finally ascertaining that all four of them had never been joy riding and/or taken Class A drugs I promised them that I’d mention their ideas for new television programs to the head of Cinnamon Productions if I ever got the opportunity, and asked if they knew of any young local hooligans who might be willing to be interviewed.
“You could try Greasy Johnson,” said Adam, still looking disappointed that we weren’t going to film his dog doing tricks.
I thanked them and said goodbye.
“Bridget,” he called out, as I was getting back into the van. “Be careful around strange men.”
Be careful around strange men? I wonder if there is some kind of deranged prowler on the loose. Will possibly ask somebody at the hotel if they’ve heard anything.
4:50 p.m. Was very relieved to discover that Greasy Johnson not actually named Greasy. Despite having recently been grounded for breaking next door’s window while throwing around a rugby ball in the back garden, he showed little sign of actual teen hooliganism and seemed to be mostly interested in talking about tropical fish and American football.
“It’s tonnes better than English football,” he said, showing me his stack full of magazines on subject. “Do you think that maybe your TV company could do a program on it?”
I promised him that I’d suggest it to somebody.
“Thanks,” he said, beaming, before suddenly staring at my handbag.
“What is it?” I asked.
“Why’ve you got a diet book?” he said, pointing to the copy of Shedding the Pounds the Spiritual Way that was poking out of the top.
“Oh that, I’m trying to lose weight.”
His brow creased. “But you don’t need to lose weight, Miss Jones.”
It took some effort to resist hugging him. Greasy then asked me if he could have my autograph to go with his collection. Think I may have just become object of teenage crush. Not sure whether to be pleased or disturbed.
Am starting to suspect that problem of out of control youth in Lower Tadfield in none existent and purely result of complaining on the part of unpleasant small minded, patriarchal middle Englanders who still think that children should be seen and not heard. However, as Dave the sound technician so bluntly pointed out, if we can’t find any local yobs to interview by tomorrow we’re all bollocksed.
5:45 p.m. The rudeness of some men is unbelievable. Was minding own business and having cigarette in car park when had to dive to my right to avoid being hit by vintage car doing about 50mph. The driver - flash bastard wearing sunglasses and Armani suit - proceeded to get out of and storm over to me. Not as first thought to help me up, but to start hurling abuse.
“What the bloody h…heav… fuck did you think you were doing standing in the middle of bloody road like that.”
Pointed out to him that was in fact standing in car park not road.
“Well, in future look where you’re bloody well going. You could have wrecked the paint job on the Bentley.”
Was so incensed by flash bastard’s behaviour that phoned Shaz to complain.
“Overcompensation,” she said. “Has to be. I mean: big car, expensive suit, pathological hatred of women who stand in his way. What more proof do you need?”
8:25 p.m. Harrumph. Went down to restaurant and bar for dinner, only to find flash bastard surrounded by entire production crew who were slavishly hanging off every word. Turns out that he’s none other than one AJ Crowley, the man who practically invented reality television. He was quizzing them about the filming of Rural England Uncovered.
“Of course the problem is that Bridget can’t seem to find us any delinquents or yobs,” said Dave the sound technician.
The rest of them tittered. Was at once overcome by feelings of intense embarrassment and professional inadequacy. Despite the fact that Jump Starting Your Career says that one should always weather out this kind of situation found self desperately wanting to leave room
“Oh, well, that problem’s easy to solve,” said flash bastard, smiling at me in a sleazy yet horribly attractive way. “You just hire yourselves some yobs and interview them. You could even give them a script.”
I told him firmly that I was completely unprepared to compromise own journalistic integrity.
He rolled his eyes and shrugged. “Your funeral.”
9:15 p.m. Repeat to self: ‘have a loving, stable boyfriend who happens to be brilliant human rights lawyer, having sudden improper fantasies about annoying flash bastard is therefore not healthy’.
9:30 p.m. Will not fantasise about flash bastard.
9:45 p.m. Will definitely not fantasise about flash bastard.
9:50 p.m. Oh alright then. But only for a few minutes.
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.
Wednesday 24th June
9st 3 (g), alcohol units 3 (g), cigarettes 17 (v.bad), calories 3300 (v.v.bad), no. of flash bastards encountered 1 (v. annoying).
2:30 p.m. Spent all morning looking for some young tearaways to interview. In the end found some teenagers hanging around what looked like a shopping trolley graveyard. Unlike the bleary eyed glue sniffers I’d been expecting however these four: Adam (something strange about him that I can’t put my finger on), Pepper (point blank refused to tell me her real name, another example of parental sadism, perhaps), Brian (probable soap allergy) and Wensleydale (his surname I hope, surely parental sadism can’t be that rife in this part of the country) seemed to have stepped out of the pages of an Enid Blyton novel. All of them seemed eager to be on TV. So I quizzed them on camera about any antisocial behaviour they’d been involved in.
“Well, Adam stole some apples from the tree in Mr. Tyler’s garden,” said Brian.
“It wasn’t proper stealing,” protested Adam. “The bit of the tree that I took them from was hanging over the fence next to the footpath. You can’t steal anything from a public footpath, can you?”
“Well, you could,” said Wensleydale. “If it was something like a road sign or traffic lights.”
“Yes, but he wasn’t talking about road signs or traffic lights, was he,” said Pepper.
“But he said ‘you can’t steal anything from a public footpath, didn’t he?”
“Er, so apart from stealing apples have any of you four been in trouble with the law?” I asked desperately.
There was a long pause.
“Last week a policeman told me off for running across the road without using the pedestrian crossing,” said Pepper.
After finally ascertaining that all four of them had never been joy riding and/or taken Class A drugs I promised them that I’d mention their ideas for new television programs to the head of Cinnamon Productions if I ever got the opportunity, and asked if they knew of any young local hooligans who might be willing to be interviewed.
“You could try Greasy Johnson,” said Adam, still looking disappointed that we weren’t going to film his dog doing tricks.
I thanked them and said goodbye.
“Bridget,” he called out, as I was getting back into the van. “Be careful around strange men.”
Be careful around strange men? I wonder if there is some kind of deranged prowler on the loose. Will possibly ask somebody at the hotel if they’ve heard anything.
4:50 p.m. Was very relieved to discover that Greasy Johnson not actually named Greasy. Despite having recently been grounded for breaking next door’s window while throwing around a rugby ball in the back garden, he showed little sign of actual teen hooliganism and seemed to be mostly interested in talking about tropical fish and American football.
“It’s tonnes better than English football,” he said, showing me his stack full of magazines on subject. “Do you think that maybe your TV company could do a program on it?”
I promised him that I’d suggest it to somebody.
“Thanks,” he said, beaming, before suddenly staring at my handbag.
“What is it?” I asked.
“Why’ve you got a diet book?” he said, pointing to the copy of Shedding the Pounds the Spiritual Way that was poking out of the top.
“Oh that, I’m trying to lose weight.”
His brow creased. “But you don’t need to lose weight, Miss Jones.”
It took some effort to resist hugging him. Greasy then asked me if he could have my autograph to go with his collection. Think I may have just become object of teenage crush. Not sure whether to be pleased or disturbed.
Am starting to suspect that problem of out of control youth in Lower Tadfield in none existent and purely result of complaining on the part of unpleasant small minded, patriarchal middle Englanders who still think that children should be seen and not heard. However, as Dave the sound technician so bluntly pointed out, if we can’t find any local yobs to interview by tomorrow we’re all bollocksed.
5:45 p.m. The rudeness of some men is unbelievable. Was minding own business and having cigarette in car park when had to dive to my right to avoid being hit by vintage car doing about 50mph. The driver - flash bastard wearing sunglasses and Armani suit - proceeded to get out of and storm over to me. Not as first thought to help me up, but to start hurling abuse.
“What the bloody h…heav… fuck did you think you were doing standing in the middle of bloody road like that.”
Pointed out to him that was in fact standing in car park not road.
“Well, in future look where you’re bloody well going. You could have wrecked the paint job on the Bentley.”
Was so incensed by flash bastard’s behaviour that phoned Shaz to complain.
“Overcompensation,” she said. “Has to be. I mean: big car, expensive suit, pathological hatred of women who stand in his way. What more proof do you need?”
8:25 p.m. Harrumph. Went down to restaurant and bar for dinner, only to find flash bastard surrounded by entire production crew who were slavishly hanging off every word. Turns out that he’s none other than one AJ Crowley, the man who practically invented reality television. He was quizzing them about the filming of Rural England Uncovered.
“Of course the problem is that Bridget can’t seem to find us any delinquents or yobs,” said Dave the sound technician.
The rest of them tittered. Was at once overcome by feelings of intense embarrassment and professional inadequacy. Despite the fact that Jump Starting Your Career says that one should always weather out this kind of situation found self desperately wanting to leave room
“Oh, well, that problem’s easy to solve,” said flash bastard, smiling at me in a sleazy yet horribly attractive way. “You just hire yourselves some yobs and interview them. You could even give them a script.”
I told him firmly that I was completely unprepared to compromise own journalistic integrity.
He rolled his eyes and shrugged. “Your funeral.”
9:15 p.m. Repeat to self: ‘have a loving, stable boyfriend who happens to be brilliant human rights lawyer, having sudden improper fantasies about annoying flash bastard is therefore not healthy’.
9:30 p.m. Will not fantasise about flash bastard.
9:45 p.m. Will definitely not fantasise about flash bastard.
9:50 p.m. Oh alright then. But only for a few minutes.
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.