THE boss sent me to Belcoo in search of something sensational. And I found it. Trouble was, he hadn’t entrusted me with the cheque book, so even though I uncovered not one but two James Bonds – talk about a double agent – I couldn’t afford to buy their stories.

Actually, one of them was too open about it to be a secret agent, brazenly displaying his new wife to hundreds of spectators who lined the roads for Wednesday’s fancy dress and vintage vehicles parade.

It was there among the crowd that I spotted the real Pierce Brosnan. Like all suave secret agents, he was incognito; working under cover.

But even without my x-ray specs I could see through that bin liner disguise.

“No photos” screamed the banner around his neck, and when you are dealing with a spy who is licensed to kill, you do what the man says!

Still, I was prepared to risk it for the readers until, that is, I read the next line of Bond’s ultimatum: “All rights reserved, Hello Magazine”.

Call me squeamish, but there is only one thing more dangerous than a vexed 007, and that is his lawyer.

The scoop was there for the buying at Belcoo Festival, if only I’d been given that darn cheque book.

I slunk back down to the sports field a broken Blofeld. Bond had won the day yet again.