The Taoiseach's most trenchant critics can hardly deny that he deploys exceptional emollient skills when in search of a settlement. The National Wage Agreements and the Northern Peace Process come to mind.

But he will be sorely tested by a plea in a private letter from a Glasgow Rangers fan, Steve McLeod, who wants the Taoiseach to help lift a ban on the new banner of the Dublin Rangers Supporters Club which carries the witty slogan 'Behind Enemy Lines' -- a phrase coined by a Dublin journalist as a little joke.

Alas, the Strathclyde police didn't get the joke. They banned the banner in case it might provoke Celtic fans (who need no provocation, judging by the way they shout IRA slogans). And now Rangers FC, presumably in pursuit of the politically correct high ground, is supporting this ridiculous restriction.

Steve wants Bertie Ahern to put in a good word with Rangers FC Chief Executive, Martin Bain. And in return promises the Taoiseach "that there is a pint waiting for him in the Beaumont House pub". Steve sincerely believes that Dubliners would not deny the DRSC their witty banner.

Judging by the jocular exchanges between the butchers (all Celtic supporters) in my local Superquinn and a lone Rangers customer who seeks them out for a good-humoured weekly slagging match, I don't think the DRSC banners would bother most Dubliners.

And if the Taoiseach can shift Paisley surely he can shift Rangers FC?

TUESDAY

ON my way to the Senate, I get livid listening to Liveline. No, not more hounding of Mary Harney. A parade of punters chronicling the bum deal they get from Irish bookmakers.

Given Paddy Power's and Celtic Bookmakers' cosy relationship with most of the Irish media, this was a refreshing piece of radio. Listening to some of the horror stories helped me calm me down about bets refused in the past.

So it was in a more mellow mood that I mentioned the show to one of the Leinster House ushers who likes a little flutter. Big mistake. He told me a story than made my blood boil.

A few days ago, in his local bookies, he watched a happy Polish building worker presenting a winning docket for the list of lucky numbers. After some consultation, the staff told the Pole that they didn't know him and that they were not paying out. And that was that.

Now I know it's not the same as sticking the screwdriver in someone. But the thought of that Polish worker turning away from the counter makes me sick to my stomach. And I think most decent Irish people will know why.

WEDNESDAY

THE papers are full of pious platitudes about Ian Paisley. At least the Taoiseach's tribute comes from someone who did the heavy lifting and helped put Paisley on the peace plinth.

The same is true of Frank Millar, the London editor of the Irish Times, who was the only journalist to predict -- as far back as the St Andrews agreement 2006 -- that Paisley would do a deal.

Apart from these two, I found many of the tributes too maudlin about Paisley and too dismissive of David Trimble. The maudlin bit comes from amnesiac commentators who forget that the Provos and Paisley were two sides of a bad penny.

But dissing David Trimble comes from a standard Provo script. And it's a lie. Trimble was the democratic leader of a party not fully persuaded. So he took a terrible risk in signing up for the Belfast Agreement and was finally betrayed by Tony Blair.

By contrast, Paisley was dictator of his party. But instead of making peace he destroyed every decent leader from Terence O'Neill to Trimble, delayed peace by possibly 20 years, and did a deal only when he was top dog.

Paisley's belated conversion to peace reminds me why I reject the Roman Catholic doctrine that a lifetime of evil can be excused by a perfect confession in the last few seconds. And it also smacks of a ploy which my Roscommon mother called "first lame the duck."

As my mother told it, a local reprobate, on the way up to beg at a likely farmhouse, would give a ducks a surreptitious kick, wrap a rag and stick around the broken leg, and then present himself at the half door with the splinted duck -- which of course he had had lamed in the first place.

In Northern Ireland, the ducks died. And they weren't ducks.

WEDNESDAY

To the Peacock Theatre, which is packed with young people, for the readings of three short plays by three rising young talents: Love in a Glass Jar by Nancy Harris; When Cows Go Boom by Stacey Gregg and Kama by Paul Murray.

And yes, I am the proud father of Nancy Harris, author of Love in a Glass Jar, which is about sperm donors. Alas, I am not

allowed to admit this to anyone, on foot of Nancy's long standing security instructions designed to spare her being punished for the sins of the father: "Don't say anything to anybody about anything."

Although I applaud madly, I am secretly shocked by the sex stuff (the woman hands the sperm donor a pornographic magazine with the words, "This one's about schoolgirls performing poorly -- but they get a good going-over from the teachers on page 10") and worried that the reluctant and soppily romantic donor may be modelled on a member of the Oireachtas.

This suspicion is not dispelled when members of the public puck me in the shoulder and say "she caught you to a tee". As the French say, you can fool your mother, your wife and your mistress, but you can never fool your daughter.

THURSDAY

RYAN Tubridy takes us through the shortlist for the Irish Book Awards. Bert Wright, the administrator, mentions Hughes & Hughes but has a blockage about the name of the Sunday Independent -- although we and Hughes & Hughes begat the whole business.

This soured me a bit and leaves me a little more sensitive than usual to excessive use of adjectives like "superb" and "extraordinary" by Bert and many of the advocates of the books who succeed him. Full marks to Deirdre Purcell and Ruth Dudley Edwards, who instead of waffly endorsements give concrete examples of what enthuses them.

Ryan should remind future book reviewers of CS Lewis's advice to Kenneth Tynan -- to keep an eye on eulogistic and dystlogistic adjectives: the former should distinguish not merely praise; the latter should diagnose, not merely blame. No harm either in following Aristotle's advice about action being the sole morality. Hollywood has honed this to a hard instruction which holds for criticism as well as screenwriting: show don't tell.

FRIDAY

ON radio, Pat Kenny reminds James Reilly, FG spokesperson on Health that Enda Kenny is hanging onto Castlebar Hospital at the expense of centres of excellence. Here is a hard prediction. Hounding Harney will rebound as badly as hounding the Taoiseach.