I've been reading Dracula of late. As you may know, if you've ever read it, or even perhaps if you haven't, it is written in the form of diaries and correspondence, and so I have been inspired to take up writing my own journal in the hope that perhaps even the smallest detail recorded here will shed light on the evil that we now face.

You may, incidentally, have noticed that I never did write a Moz week part II, so I shall simply state that his Thursday gig at the Barras was superb, and that nothing else of interest happened that week. I mean, nothing else that would interest you.

Friday 14th August
I stopped for a couple of pints on the way home after work. The sky was heavy, as if it was about to start pishing doon, and indeed it did. During the course of this terrible storm there were no recorded incidents of any strange boats crashing ashore - not that I live on the shore these days anyway - and nothing which could be considered as unusual. I did get wet on the way home, however, and fell asleep on the couch after my tea, waking up to the chilling sounds of some drunken knob passing by. Oh, what could it all mean?

Saturday 15th
I was compelled by football to travel to the far east. Fortunately I had studied a little of the language of these parts, and was able to communicate with the locals to a degree, although my plea for pies went unacknowledged, as it is local custom to run out of pies ten fucking minutes into the first half. Shortly after half time, although frankly it might as well have been shortly after kick off, the shutters of the pie hut were quickly closed, as if they feared the approach of a great evil. The wind in these parts in strong, and it feels as if it may be blowing in something quite undesired, to say nothing of the effect it is having on the quality of the football.

Sunday 16th
I cannot remember what happened today apart from winning the pub quiz. Is it possible that the Count has even the power to erase my memory, to strip from me those dreadful lessons I have learned of his powers and how one may counteract them? Or did I really not do anything apart from lie on the couch watching football on the telly?

Monday 17th
It seems the Count's dark powers have cast a blanket of depression upon us all, for even the Fringe show I went to see this afternoon felt like it had had all the humour sucked from it. Oh God! I must not think of the terror he is wreaking upon our comedy, for it surely cannot be that the show just wasn't very funny to begin with. In pursuit of the monster I trailed around a number of (public) houses, on each occasion partaking of local hospitality, though oh, it tasted bitter under such circumstances. Bitter with occasionally little hints of zest. And the odd stout. I wracked my brains in the evening as I tackled the pub quiz but struggled to find answers and was soundly beaten. My heart must endure such agonies as it is torn between the foxy Irish barmaid and the foxy Kiwi barmaid; yet I know it to be true that the Kiwi barmaid is going out with some wee nyaff that frankly even I could have in a fight, so perhaps I ought to turn my attention to the Irish bird.

Tuesday 18th
In search of further clues as to the Count's whereabouts, I travelled to Glasgow to see U2; regrettably, I still haven't found what I'm looking for. I did partake of a rather fine pizza though.

Wednesday 19th
Little happened today, save for another great downpour, which feels like it is a portent of dreadful things to come. Indeed it is; another pub quiz defeat follows this evening, and as the rain returns, I get distinctly drookit on the way up the road afterwards. It feels as if the monster's powers may be growing.

Thursday 20th
Ancient studies, from times when scientists had not such closed ideas about what might constitute science, suggest that a stake through the heart may prove fatal to the Un-dead. Tonight I have made a most interesting observation, for it appears the best way to go through Hearts is with Dinamo Zagreb, as that was comparable to a fucking knife through hot butter. Moreover, it appears the Count may have another victim, as Christian Nade wasn't half wandering about like a member of the Un-dead, certainly far more than he resembled a lone forward. Oh, my poor dear Scottish football, what a fucking disgrace you are!