Bombing down the M4 towards Heathrow to pick up some Germans for a day of freestyle shooting around London. The motor today is a Toyota Previa people carrier, hired for me by the production company who are facilitating this minor invasion. Pummelling down the road and a militaristic fanfare accompanies every overtaking manoeuvre and accelerator blast, whilst in the backseat of my noggin McMental is being given strict instructions by Basil Fawlty that I 'DON'T MENTION THE WAR.'

Fat fucking chance. The krauts will rue the day.

I love a good foreign shoot. Xenophobia kicks arse, especially when handled by seasoned British crew members who have learnt to delight in the ridicule and patronisation of extra-territorials.

The English P.A is the first, no sooner have I pulled the Previa into the waiting bay at Terminal 3 than he bounds up to the window, a huge grin wedged across his face as he shakes my hand and welcomes me to the shoot.

I steam into Camden Town station, my elbows primed for mortal combat, my chakra's set for maximum bodily carnage. In this state of mind, small men with strange grooming practices have theorized about tribal eradication.

My tribe are tube travelers.....

Grrr. Ducking and diving, bobbing and weaving. Get the .... out of my way fish face. What sort of world is this?

Archive footage of ants marching plays through my mind, the screeching of the train's brakes, the blue uniforms of the euro-disney station gimps, rats dancing upon the rail tracks, posters screaming for my wallets attention, hairy men, butch women, newspapers the size of small tents, sweat and more sweat, don't look at me I won't look at you don't make a sound don't antagonize the tramp near the door don't acknowledge his life don't wonder about the rectum of the little old guy on the seat as the smell of his fart infiltrates your nostrils don't even breathe.

2nd day of 2 day shoot

Director's a tosser, struts around the set like a mid-pubescent striker for a local town's high school, mouth and trousers, mouthandtrousers. Spent the entirety of yesterday wanting to drop-kick the bastard but social etiquette limited me to gobbing in his tea. Opinionated fucker too, forever banging on about this-that-he-did and he-who-he-knows. Seeing him this morning and I surprise myself by emitting a deep guttural snarl.

'You're time will come Jimmy.'

Rest of the crew however have shaped up reasonably, the camera team are helmed by a Guy Ritchie clone thus propelling them to the fore of my ongoing celebrity lookalike contest. Location department is at the mercy of a sardonic manager given to chuckling at personal misfortune, whilst the producer is a babe. Best find however is a wee lass called Catherine fresh evacuated from school, as chirpy as a vicar on a scout outing. As proud owner of the most delightful recurring breasts on set, she's a bit of a spectacle and I told he as much.

Oh boy.

The actress isn't feeling well. Few words can conjure greater fear in a producer than this simple sentence uttered first thing on a three day £100,000 commercial. Of course few things can conjure greater fear in a runner than being the one who has to deliver the news to the producer, but it's runner-boy that the chauffeur has just delivered the news to and consequently it is I who has been forced to explain the situation to Andrew, the producer.

'What the hell do you mean not feeling well? We're setting up the shot, we've got the supporting artistes in makeup and the DOP is just tweaking the lights.

Originally written at the turn of the millenium and swiftly developing a cult following, the  diaries formed the original basis for the Rogue Runner website. A scathing, irreverent glance at the underbelly of the film industry and 'a must for anyone who's been near a film set' Time Out.

To take a peek at the diaries Click Here