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.

THE sun is so hot, the bus-loads of Japanese tourists put away their cameras and deploy fans instead.

It’s pretty unnerving to see yourself on film when you didn’t realise someone was filming you. Which is why several nurses, doctors and administrators are going to be a tad distracted, all day today, by the expectation that tonight, RTÉ’s Prime Time Investigates may show footage surreptitiously filmed in the A&E units of three or four hospitals.

THE received wisdom is that any minister who goes up against nurses is a lone lemming, headed over a cliff.

THE worst moment for an after-dinner speaker is the point when a silver teaspoon is clanged off a glass for silence.