The streets were crowded as always, St. Mary's Street closed in readiness for the evenings revellers.
In short, Cardiff piss-artists get so spannered that we have to close the roads to prevent them from being mown down by traffic. The Green Cross Code disappears in a haze of Aftershocks and Vodka Jelly.
I was doing a nightshift, 8am to 8pm, crewing an ambulance, mopping up the blood, vomit and sobbing girls out on a hen-night, soaked in piss and taken something dodgy. Why won't my legs work? Why can't I breathe? That'll be the cement dust mixed in with your Ecstacy, darling.
I love it. It's like a whole load of mini-soap operas, rolled into a few hours. Who needs telly? Just hang out for a while in the town centre, listen to a few arguments. Run like hell when the bottles start coming, exploding around you, blokes too drunk to work out that you're not the police.
There was something happening in the Cardiff International Arena. Stereophonics or the Sugar Babes or something. Someone famous, anyway. A few extra thousand punters pushing out of the bars, getting tanked up before the gig. Quick! Down a few more vodkas before we get to the CIA.
Screeching gangs of girls, caught a train down from Sheffield, excited. Blokes in gangs, following them, shouting abuse, trying to see up their skirts. Police swarming everywhere.
I drove back into town after delivering some bloke with a fractured skull up to A&E.
Narrowly missed a guy staggering across the road. Tosser. He knocked on the drivers window and I wound it down a couple of inches, just enough so that I could hear him but not enough so that he could gob on me.
"CIA?", he yelled.
"No, ambulance!" we shouted back, and ramming my foot on the accelerator, we disappeared in a cloud of exhaust fumes.