It's open season on us ex-townies in the country. But I'm ready...

Something's going on in the village. You develop a sixth sense down here. There's some sort of survival gene buried deep in us all, and mine's currently on status red. I suppose it's one of the reasons that I like the country: you're forced to rely on your survival instincts. The problem might have something to do with hunting being banned - but that's carrying on anyway.

Something's going on in the village. You develop a sixth sense down here. There's some sort of survival gene buried deep in us all, and mine's currently on status red. I suppose it's one of the reasons that I like the country: you're forced to rely on your survival instincts. The problem might have something to do with hunting being banned - but that's carrying on anyway.

It must be a bit depressing to have your sport made illegal unless you have fox relatives, but to insist on carrying on "sort of" hunting must be really weird. It would be like someone making tennis a crime and die-hards still getting dressed up, fine-tuning their rackets and meeting for Pimms and a knock-about at old Carruthers' grass court. The only difference would be the fact that they wouldn't use a ball. Just wave their rackets around in an elaborate Lindsay Kempish mime representation of what a good game would have been like had it been legal and they were using a ball.

Whatever the reason, the natives are restless and it is all too apparent. It always starts with the foreigners, easy targets for mindless thuggery. Apparently some poor guy from Dorset was wandering around Bibury, his ironed jeans advertising his roots. They found him buried up to his neck in the lower field. Someone had drawn a Hitler moustache on his face, and he was smeared in Marmite.

Like the first distant rumblings of the Mau Mau drummers, we ex-townies are feeling that we might be next on the list. Liz Hurley's got her boyfriend to erect a large watch-tower in her garden and he takes the night shift sweeping the spotlight over the roofs of their slumbering village. Some think that they're being a bit paranoid but I think they're spot-on. There are rumours that Billy Connolly is moving in nearby. This is good news. I don't have time for the purple beard, but he's clearly a man who understands the finer points of home defence.

I've slipped his builder a calling card and a bloody reasonable offer to go halves on a couple of car-mounted flamethrowers that I've had imported from South Africa, where they've been very effective in reducing car-jackers to a burnt crisp. I'm longing to get into Burford and try them out on the squeegee merchant who hangs around the bridge traffic lights.

Ever since my shotgun trap winged the man who's been crapping in my garden I haven't smelt the merest whiff of poo in my begonias. It's the only language they understand. I have a couple of planning applications in with the Cotswolds council that should allay any local misconceptions that I'm an easy target. Unbelievably, I had to actually go in and explain to the ignorant panel what a "barraka" was. Their knowledge of early Crusader history was shocking, but I enjoyed explaining the effect of hot oil poured through ready-made stone holes on to the invading hordes below. I could see that they were impressed just by the stunned silence in the room. When I moved on to the underground cable laying that I needed to complete the "killfence" I could see that they realised they were dealing with a pro. That's the problem with technology. Even if you're ahead of the game you always end up having to wait for the catch-up merchants.

I was in the gun shop yesterday holding court about stuff I'd bagged when some guy suggested I do a reality TV show like Ted Nugent did. I missed his show but it apparently involved Ted slaughtering various wild animals in front of shocked Los Angelinos. I don't think that the animal angle would work here but if we could nick the idea and kick-start that minor celebrity Forest-Hunt Relief thing I was thinking about, we might have a green light. Got to go, Channel Five on the phone.