Horseracing is one of the few sports that genuinely attracts all-comers. The snobs and yobs, educated and illiterate, royalty and villainy, tipsters and dipsticks – the racetrack is where they come, united by a love of the punt and a desire to empty the bookies’ pockets. 

Sometimes though, this can be a little intimidating for normal folk who don’t know the difference between a placepot and a jackpot and think a yankee is a slur term for a Democrat. So while you might not find a crowd as rich in character at Klampenborg Racetrack, at least you won’t feel alienated by your lack of knowledge. Irish Day is a laidback affair where the emphasis is more on the craic at the bar than the crack of the whip. It’s a great day out, even if it does rain, thanks to some new indoor facilities that are surprisingly swanky.   

They’re good but I’m not sure I’d get a tattoo of them … or anything else. My dilemma about getting one (the Ink Festival) is having the same conversation about it, again and again, for the rest of my life. Like when I’m 80 and a nurse is removing my bedpan and asks why I’ve got a tattoo of Walter Matthau on my back. Cheeky mare. The problem with people who ask about tattoos is that they are invariably blessed with the conversational agility of a Jutland pig farmer. 

I therefore thank people who place them discreetly, because let’s face it, if you get stuck in a lift with Zombie Boy or Lizardman for an hour, what else are you going to talk about? 

Salsa can be a bit of a conversation killer as well. Talk to somebody who regularly attends salsa events and there’s always that sense of disappointment when the conversation dares to approach anything else that isn’t sexy, sultry, good for you, and – what’s more guys! – a fun way to burn off the calories you put on in the first place watching reruns of Vild med Dans. 

So, it’s a hard choice this weekend and might come down to how you like your ladies. Hat-wearing, Latin or painted – be careful and don’t drink too much or you could wake up with an empty wallet, a stiff groin, or a new conversation-starter on your forehead. 

Could be worse: you could wake up with all three – and with Zombie Boy.