Everybody else is doing it, why can't I?

My inquiry concerns a serious incident that occurred during a music event, not unlike that business with Barbra Streisand last weekend, which is now being inquired into.

In the situation in which I was discommoded, there was more than just chaos at hand.

There was violence, and looting, and attacks on members of the Garda Siochana. If inquiries are being handed out, this case should be top of the queue.

It was a Saturday night in June. The town of Slane in Co Meath was alive in anticipation of the arrival of a major international star. Just like Celbridge might have been last week.

A few lads got tanked up and became over-boisterous.

Before you knew it, the village was a battlefield. At the top end of the street, these lads full of beer and anger were ripping the place apart, and hurling what they could at the cops, who had been herded to the other end of the village. It wasn't for the faint-hearted.

I was an innocent abroad.

The commotion forced me up to the top of the main street, well back from the front line.

It had been a long day and at that point in time, all I was really interested in was communing with a flagon of cider, which I had managed to purchase just before all the trouble blew up.

So there I was, stranded at the wrong end of town, cast adrift from my mates who were scattered all over the place. But me and Mr Bulmer were getting along fine.

Next thing, my world exploded. As I raised the flagon to my lips, it came into violent contact with a baton.

It took me a few seconds to realise that the cops had charged the crowd, and were flaking away at everybody, however innocent they might be. There was blood on my face. I was bruised on my arms and legs from a few cracks of the baton.

That was nothing compared to the sense of loss that flooded my heart. The cider was gone. It was only midnight and the pubs were shuttered up. I had nowhere to sleep and nowhere to go, now that my transport had been whipped from me in such violent circumstances.

Later that night, wandering through the village, past the burnt-out cars and the guards in their riot gear, the place resembled nothing as much as downtown Beirut. It was awful. I was traumatised and sober, but there was no counselling on offer. Joe Duffy wasn't taking any calls. I had nowhere to turn.

Now I demand an inquiry. That all happened 23 years ago, on the eve of Bob Dylan's appearance at Slane. In tribunal of inquiry terms, that was only yesterday. Back then, inquiries were as rare as jobs. Today, they are as common as a line of cocaine at a well-heeled dinner party.

Sometimes, we get two or three inquiries into the same thing, coming at it from different angles, peopled by different inquirers. It's a gas, gas, gas. Even allowing for the prevailing environment, nothing plumbs the depths of silliness and cynicism like the inquiry into the Barbra Streisand furore.

Unlike those who survived Slane, the Celbridge disaster involved the wealthy and middle-aged, most of whom, we hope, weren't powdering their noses at the gig. They have power and influence.

What is a promoter to do in the face of this onslaught?

What will take the heat out of the media coverage?

Ladies and gentlemen, I give you an inquiry.

The Streisand inquiry team is made up of PR man Julian Davis; the PR man for the gig's promoter, MCD's Justin Green; the former commissioner of An Garda Siochana Pat Byrne, who was affectionately known as PR Byrne; and, of course, just to ensure this isn't a PR whitewash by the promoter, we have the MD of MCD, Denis Desmond.

My guess is they will produce a scathing report damning the gig's promoter and recommending to the government that MCD has its licence revoked.

By the way, how're you fixed for an inquiry yourself? Anything you want to get off your chest?