A minor matter caught in a trap like marathon man

Tuesday night: I’m locked in a bathroom, behind a door with a faulty lock. Forty-five minutes into the ordeal I’m eating toothpaste and have promoted a rubber ducky to head of communications.

SATURDAY night: I borrow a pair of paint-splattered overalls, fold a South American-style scarf around my neck, pull on a pair of black boots and secure a spotlight to my forehead.

Hey presto, Trapped Chilean Miner is ready for a Halloween party, a doner kebab and a local discotheque – not necessarily in that order. The craic, you can well imagine, is noventa.