There was a bullock dip at the rodeo this year, a pit of livestock-grade femoil. Ranchers from across the state had rounded up their superfluous bulls for dunking in the stuff, and it was a sight to see the aggressive bullocks pushed under the liquid by long poles and docile dairy heifers surface, waddling beneath the weight of their milk-bloated udders dragging on the ground. They were sent away for breeding and milking. Funnily enough, nobody was drinking the milk.

It drew such a crowd that the rodeo itself was practically ignored. Here I was, clinging onto a buckling bull, risking my life for the most dangerous 8 seconds in sport, and the stands were empty. It was putting on a hell of a show too. I'd stripped off my shirt, sweat streaming down my torso as it leapt, plunged, span and finally hurled me off its back, clear over the fence and into the dip.

It was the loudest applause of the day as I emerged spluttering from the femoil, sodden jeans and chaps slipping down my shrunken body. Always the showman, I took a bow. At least I'd found an appreciative audience. Though it looked like my cowboy days are over.