And wouldn't you know it, the trail of the 50ft chickens led to Liz Hurley

I'm back in the UK after my marathon filming expedition round the United States. I'd forgotten how lush the Coln Valley gets in spring.

I'm back in the UK after my marathon filming expedition round the United States. I'd forgotten how lush the Coln Valley gets in spring. It almost makes me forget the beauty of places like the Mojave Desert and the Grand Canyon. Almost, but not really. While unpacking my bag I noticed a branch of cactus that I had picked up in the Joshua Tree area of California. A horticulturally minded neighbour came round for a drink and noticed the branch. Apparently you can boil it down and make peyote from it, a powerful hallucinogenic - but that's not really my bag.

Meanwhile the 50ft-chicken breeders have been hard at it. My dog Huxley got a suspicious cut on his tail that turned him into a canine Jackson Pollock, spraying blood like a fountain over the walls. Unable to stem the flow my wife, Stacey, took him to a vet who proceeded to cut half his tail off. Now he looks unbalanced - half the dog he used to be.

I know what's going on. It's a plot to stop Huxley winning the village dog show for the second year running. Word must have got round that I'd come down here, taking their rosettes, and they decided to make sure that it didn't happen again.

I decided to get my own back by finding out where they keep the 50ft chickens and then shopping them to the police. There's a weird van that drives past my manor every evening at about seven and an enormous feather fell out of the back once, so I know that it's linked in some way. Three nights ago, donning some night-vision goggles that I bought from a man in Swindon (no questions asked) I attempted to follow the van on my Vespa. I have to admit that this wasn't a great idea. I was trying to be subtle and keep a safe distance, but unfortunately after about five minutes of blind steering I smashed into a road sign and wrote off my Vespa.

By this time I was really angry as they'd now mutilated my dog and ruined my scooter. The next night I followed the van in my car with the headlights on and that was a lot easier. I had been trailing it for about 10 minutes when, lo and behold, it drove into Liz Hurley's village. Somehow I knew that she'd be involved but I never dreamt that she would actually get her hands dirty, so to speak.

I parked a way off and snuck up to the back wall to peer over. It was a shocking scene. The driver of the van, whom I recognised as a local farmer, was pointing to various sections of a 50ft chicken that was strapped to the ground with what looked like tent pegs. Hurley was asking the farmer questions but I couldn't hear what it was about. When they'd finished, the farmer dragged the clearly drugged chicken back into the van and, after laughing and shaking hands with Hurley, drove off. I hurried back to my car and followed him but he spotted my lights and, after a mile or so, disappeared into thin air.

This much I know: Hurley is clearly involved in the trafficking of 50ft chickens, and the vet is clearly in cahoots with the 50ft-chicken people to prevent Huxley winning this year's dog show. But why? I have no idea. Last night there was no sign of the van and that means that they must know that I'm on to them. It was confirmed this morning; someone had daubed "Don't clucking mess with us townie, we know where you live", on my gates. It seems a little pointless to tell me that they know where I live since they've written it on my gates. They could have just said "Don't clucking mess with us townie", and it would have meant the same thing.

But I'm being pedantic. I've just erected a huge banner on the village green telling them that I want to meet a representative of their organisation on neutral ground tonight. I don't know how they'll get in touch but they've got their ways and I'm ready for them. Next one to come through the arch gets one in the chest from my trip-wire shotgun. You don't mess with me. Good shit this stuff.