MY SON starred in a Labour Party political broadcast when he was two years old and has been threatening to sue ever since. He had no great ideological objections to participation. He just resents having done it for free.

THE rescue photos were heartwarming. Children smiling. Grandparents hugging them. Parents looking tired but relieved: we’re out of the war zone and home safe.

HER employer sends a Lexus to her apartment each morning to pick her up and bring her to the office.

YOU may prefer a Michael Crichton thriller or a bit of chick-lit on the beach, but this July offers a new vacation possibility: Reading for Columbine.

IT’S a funny thing about this country. Even though we’re filled with hatred, bile and venom, at the same time, we’re no good at giving face-to-face negative feedback, at least in formal work situations.

IF Bertie Ahern had been drawn to the boxing ring, as opposed to the soccer pitch, he’d have hugged the other boxer to death. There’s nothing like a committed clinch for pinning an opponent’s arms to his side and preventing him from thumping you.

You could take your choice, yesterday. You could read analysis of the life of a former Taoiseach by political correspondents.

I DON’T do it. But every weekend, I want to do it. I want to take assorted rubbish, create a waffle-weave support system of twigs and branches, and set fire to the lot in the back garden. The smell of a bonfire on a sunny afternoon turns me on.

NOW, you might say that the white flower protestors, in their serried ranks — affiliated to Gerry Ryan or Joe “Spontaneous Demonstration” Duffy — last week showed up the politicians and changed the face of Ireland for the better.

BEFORE the top crook from Enron heads off to do a lifetime’s porridge, he needs to meet the lads from the Ancient Order of Hibernians. They have so much in common. Especially God. He’s on their side. They’re sure of it.