You see, exactly like that jackpot winner in the TV advert, I won the Lotto, and instantly, just like him, purchased a desert island for the people of Ireland.
Truly a good dream.
The critical difference though was that my island was totally reserved for those I wished to banish from the outside world because they irritate, annoy, or anger me, or fill me with fear and dread for the future.
So, the first inhabitant of my desert island was the appalling foul-mouthed braggart, Conor McGregor the brawler.
He arrived on the beach, of course, draped in the Tricolour and effing and blinding in all directions.
Within minutes he grabbed a poor baby lemur from a branch, devoured it raw, and then swung himself up into the forest canopy in search of further prey.
He could be heard occasionally roaring and cursing from high above for the rest of my dream.
Next ashore was Donald Trump, who arrived with a harem of much younger wives, a briefcase containing ginger hair extensions and dyes, seven bankruptcy petitions, and 18 unpaid tax returns.
He instantly affixed his name to the tallest palm tree, ordered his wives into the nearest cave to make sandwiches, announced he would build a wall around the island to keep out Muslims, Mexicans, and illegal Irish.
He also called his youngest wife Miss Piggy in my hearing, that and worse.
Who arrived next but President Assad of Syria, looking skywards as he asked where his bombers would find the nearest hospital full of children, wounded civilians and doctors. Not a nice man at all.
And then,carrying what looked like a basic bomb, came the obese rotundity of Kim Jong-Un of North Korea, who went to the far end of the beach with a pair of pliers to work on his project.
And coming the other way, wearing nothing but a bulletproof vest, and carrying a green cellphone, a silvered figure denying loudly that he was Gerry Adams and constantly calling Martin and Mary Lou, who were not returning his calls.
Even in dreamland, I worried a little at the sight of the billionaire Denis O’Brien calling our editor to threaten an immediate libel action if MacConnell wrote anything negative about him.
Nearby, a shambling figure with his head down was Tyson Fury, the discredited boxer, the only one listening to what might have been a powerful speech from Shane Ross.
Bertie Ahern was not listening. He was reading a bestseller written by his daughter, and refusing to talk politics at all.
Sam Allardyce seemed to be writing a book of his own, with the aid of a dishevelled Joey Barton.
It was getting crowded on the beach at this stage, but I did see a priest, whose name escaped me, trying to gain entry to the cave where Trump’s wives were making sandwiches.
There was an explosive ending, for sure.
Kim Jong-Un’s pliers slipped, there was a boom, and he disintegrated, taking with him the nearby bystander, Assad.
And the echoes had not died away before McGregor, now wearing the Tricolour as a stained loincloth, and bloated by a diet of raw gibbons and baboons, leaped down from the canopy, and began to efficiently kill everybody in sight with kicks and boxes and obscenities.
A dreadful scene, and Fury was the first to fall.
Then McGregor effect and blinded that he was going to swim all the way to Las Vegas to murder all opponents there.
He jumped into the surf but did not get 20 yards offshore before he was assailed by two killer sharks with even bigger jaws than his, and they made grisly short work of him, to my great delight.
I awoke with a smile on my face. I was very happy, at least until I heard the next news bulletin from the real world.