2005-06-03 - 11:37 a.m.

Salou, nr Barcelona

I'm in a charming Anglo colony, er, I mean resort, full of Chamring Brits who have only seen fit to threaten me with physical violence just the twice in two days, which is refreshing.

I arrived late Wednesday night, and was under instructions to get some vox pops, so headed down to the bar to see what people made of the place. This mostly involved sitting by myself at the bar for 2 hours, drinking watery Spanish beer and praying for sweet, sweet death.

A drunken Irish woman started to talk to me, by which I mean started to whine about her lost camera. i advised her on making a false insurance claim and she invited me to join her group. Here's my chance, I thought!

First, I met her bald, burley friend, who told me to "Fuck right off" and that he would "knock me out", the reasons for which remain unclear to this day. Then I met her sweet husband, who immediately won my affections with the snappy greeting of "Who's THIS fucker?"

I told him I was a journalist from a paper I assumed he would read. This didn't go down well. He then drunkenly put me to the test, going into intricate detail about my job and questioning my identity. "You are definitely not a journalist," he said, in a way that came across as "You are definitely a paedophile posing as a journalist." I was taken aback. I've been told I'm not a real journalist before, but usually by people who have at least read my work.

He then changed his line of enquiry to whether or not I had a camera. I thought this could go either way, but I went with yes. he asked about the detailed specifications, mulling over in his mind the camera a professional journalist would be likely to have, or perhaps just concentrating on coherent speech. it was hard to tell. I told him as much as i could about my camera. He thought for a bit, and then gave me his considered verdict: "If I ever see you with that camera near my kids, I will ram it up your arse." Ram! Not even gently place! Ram!

At this point your reporter made his excuses and left. I was horrified to be walking out next to the original guy who was going to knock me out - I tried to sneak past him but there was no way round his massive girth and fat wife and hundred kids and five buggies. This time, he's all friendly, though, and his wife is trying to give me quotes for my piece, albeit by frothing at the mouth and slurring a lot. I smile and nod.

As we prepare to part, he nonchalantly asks me if I have any coke, as if journalists carry it around as part of their equipment. Still, at least he was reaching out. I apologise and say 'no'. "Do you want some?" he asks, motioning for me to join him and his uncountable brood in their tiny chalet. Nice to see a guy who loves his family so much that he will smuggle class A drugs through customs for a week in Spain.

So I went with him. hahahaha, just kidding. I ran for the hills. And thought about how on Earth I was going to get my story. Even worse, you have to admit that the Spanish word for journalist, 'periodista', is dangerously close to 'pederast'. It could get ugly.

Coming next: I get my story, and ride the world's most terrifying ride.