With Cheltenham Horse Racing Festival 2006 in full swing, it wasn't long before the lads were backing donkeys. We arrived in Kells just in time to catch the Gold Cup race. Our five-man syndicate having just won a few yo-yos on Black Jack Ketchum made the gambling gods rub their hands with glee with a disastrous decision to go all or nothing on Monkerhostin.

Having drowned our newly aquired sorrows, we hopped back in the car only to discover yet another Paddy's day parade winding it's way through the streets. As we started to pull out of our parking spot, an obese woman in a flourescent jacket rapped the window. 'You can't move 'til the parade finishes in half an hour', she slobbered. We tried to reason with her, pointing out that our exit route would not disturb anyone, but it was no use. It's amazing how a clipboard, a walkie-talkie and a shiny badge can turn normal, sensible people into complete arseholes. Fortunately, the Garda intervened on our behalf for the third time that day and we zoomed out of Kells with a few sarcastic waves to the beetroot faced bitch.