Mick Mulligan was a drinker, not a complete lush, but a steady toper. Pints of stout, large whiskies, he could swallow copious amounts and feel no ill effects. Except for one. Secretly Mulligan had a weakness for the worst kind - he talked in his sleep. Not a fault to have when late nights are the norm and drink is always present.

Amazingly, Mick didn't know of his failing until one fateful night he returned home the worse for wear and fell asleep as soon as he hit the pillow. All night through, midst his snores, he kept his wife awake muttering:

'Ramona, oh Ramona! Ramonaaaa!'

In the morning his wife woke him and said: 'It's time for work. And who's that Ramona you were talking about in your sleep?'

'Ramona?' said Mulligan, a little taken aback. 'Ramona? That's not a woman. That's a horse. A feller in the pub gave me a tip in the 3.30 at Haydock Races, a horse called Ramona.'

Off went Mick to work feeling really smug about the way he'd fooled the good lady. Returning home that evening Mick was greeted by the sight of his bags, all packed, standing outside the front door.

'My God,' he said to the good lady, 'what's happened?'

She replied through clenched teeth: 'The horse rang!'