07.00 AM: My alarm wakes me. I'm a bit droozy from the mogadon, which helps to quell my nerves slightly. I'm not hungry but I force down two poached eggs on toast.

08.00 AM: Geordie turns up, beeping outside. I carry my Huey down the stairs and bundle it into the back of his grass clad Astra. We're off. The mogadon's effects are wearing off, and my stomach is tensing.

08.10 AM: Geordie, Brendan and Tony are in high spirits. There's plenty of light hearted banter, a lot of it centring on my inability to get the Huey off the ground. Geordie suggests I enter it into the radio control car race if there is one. I just grunt a lot, my mind on heavier matters.

08.50 AM: We all get in free (thanks to me being on the list). Geordie parks up and I ask someone the way to the radio control area. She tells me it's the large grassy expanse in the centre of the racetrack and points the way, which involves walking under a tiny bridge.

09.05 AM: My stomach feels like somebody's pogo-ing on it from inside as we enter the arena. There are already about 30 groups of people here, all with their radio control craft. Most seem to be planes: I only spot three other helicopters. I don't see Tim-tom anywhere.

09.10 AM: I ask - as Big Jim had instructed - for Dave. He's pointed out to me. He's on the other side of the arena. I approach him on my own, leaving Geordie, Tony and Brendan with the Huey.

09.15 AM: As I reach him it strikes me that Dave is the spitting image of Sean Bean. My landlady told me that Dave Bahan - whose credit card I sold - was also the spitting image of Sean Bean. So I am about to engage in conversation then, a pound to a penny, with Dave Bahan himself. This new conundrum does at least take my mind off Tim-tom momentarily.

09.20 AM: Dave Bahan escorts me to the area from which I'm meant to operate the Huey. There's a small strip of freshly mown grass in front for the aircraft to take off and land from, and some badly whitewashed circles down the side of it for the helicopters. Dave shows me which circle is mine, but tells me it doesn't really matter where I take off from because, and I quote: "Nobody really gives a fuck, mate."

09.30 AM: The long wait as the spectators begin to turn up. The scheduled start is 11 o'clock. Geordie is studying the advertising flyer and gets to the Celebrity Guest line. "Who tha fook is Nicholas Van Hoodenstraagen?" he asks. Nobody knows.

10.00 AM: The raised spectator pens surrounding the racetrack are filling up. I spot Tim-tom in the distance on our central grass arena. Angela's with him, wearing her sunglasses and struggling to hold his shiny red Hughes 500 helicopter. They're talking to Dave Bahan.

10.15 AM: Dave has positioned Tim-tom at the other end of the entrants line. Right on the end. It's perfect positioning as far as I'm concerned. The angles are just right. I can take my Huey up to about 200 feet above the hot dog stand, bring it down in a dive over the banked hairpin part of the track, then straighten out at six feet for a final bit of tweaking before ploughing it straight into Tim-toms ghostly face.

10.30 AM: I'm continuously going through my intended flightplan. Geordie and the others are milling about elsewhere, having a laugh. Good. I don't want any distractions. My only concern now is with trying not to cause any collateral damage: Tim-tom's got to take the full impact. I'm toying with the idea of getting Geordie to somehow whisk Angela out of the danger area when the time comes, but don't know how I'm going to do that without raising his suspicions.

10.45 AM: I've been through my attack route a hundred times in my head now. I know I can pull it off. Tim-tom looks over and stares at me as I'm working out exactly where to place the leading edge of the rotorblade. I nod at him, then look away. When I look back he's still staring at me, so I look away again.

10:50 AM: The tannoy system announces the arrival of the two celebrities. You can tell by the applause that although everybody has heard of Enya, no-one has heard of Nicholas Van Hoodenstraagen. Tim-tom is still staring at me, but I noticed that Angela is sitting down on a stool. She's below and to the left hand side of the death zone.

10.55 AM: The event starts, five minutes early, with the radio cotrolled planes. The tannoy commentator attempts to announce the names of the competitors as their planes take off, and attempts to name the manouvres that are being undertaken. He's continuously failing on both counts. It's a shambles. That suits me fine. I look at Tim-tom. He's still staring. I look away. I think of the picture he painted on my wall. I'll show him how it feels to stick his cock into my electric socket.

11.25 AM: The radio controlled planes are obviously boring the spectators, who have become restless. Suddenly I feel a hand on my shoulder and turn to face Dave Bahan, who has Angela and Tim-tom in tow. Dave tells me that Big Jim wants the air display speeded up, and so the idea now is that the heliopters, of which there are six, will fly in pairs. "We want a sort of synchronised thing," he says. "Like the fucking Red Arrows or something." My partner, he informs me, is Tim-tom. We're to go first.

11.30 AM: The planes are wrapping up - the final one is coming into land. My position is now fully compromised. Hemmed in on both sides by other competitors and their crews, I'm forced to stand next to Tim-tom: there's a gap of three feet between his head and mine. Angela's gone to get a hot dog, and Geordie and co are still elsewhere as well. To get Tim-tom now would require a fast, extremely hard to control inbound shot, much trickier to guage than any other. Plus any collateral damage could now actually include me! I'm working feverishly on a new flightplan. Then the tannoy squawks into life: "Duckan Donnar and Tammy Stevens are about to take off. Duckan Donnar and Tammy Stevens. Duckan is flying an American Airforce Hooray and Tammy is flying a bright red Hoozer Fighter."

11.35 AM: I've just pulled off a couple of stunts and now my Huey is incoming at full speed at head level. I'm leaning as far away from Tim-tom as is humanly possible. My sense of time is becoming fragmented.
Six seconds left. His Hughes 500 suddenly enters my concentrated tunnel of vision, on pretty much the same course and height.
Five. The helicopters touch.
Four. A shower of debris pours from the back of both of them.
Three. They're locked together somehow, both held aloft by my Huey's still intact rotors.
Two. I pitch the Huey up - or maybe it pitches itself up.
One. Another shower of debris spews out, to the right.
Zero. The mangled, intertwined helicopters zip over Tim-tom's head on a new, unknown, and very shallow parabola.

11.36 AM: I turn my head just in time to see the helicopters smash into the celebrity guest podium. Nicholas Van Hoodenstraagen suddenly stands up, aided by a detatched rotorblade which has driven itself through the underside of his jaw. Then his entire upper torso turns into a mush of jelly, as the rest of the crash continues to happen in the vicinity of his chest, neck and face. He's thrown backwards like a rag doll, spewing gore over Enya as he goes, his lifeless hand smacking her broadside across the mouth, spinning her head so she can see where and how he lands. And then everything is totally still. And quiet. Or at least it is for me. I can hear the distant sound of seagulls.

21.50 PM: This brings us back to now. I'm back in my flat, and I've told you what happened this morning. What happened this afternoon and evening was that Tim-tom and I were held for questioning at Worthing police station. I don't know what he told them, but with his delivery he's not going to come over too well on the recording, that's for sure. ("Tim said this, Tom did that"). But that's his problem. Still, it looks as if I, at least, after seven hours in an interview room, have gotten away with the manslaughter of Nicholas Van Hoodenstraagen... and I still don't even know who he is.
Time for a mogadon. I'm going to bring it on with some cider. Night night

Duncan