At party time the party throws a celebration of the party itself

I sometimes forget that not everyone in the whole world is Fianna Fail down to his or her socks and so may not be familiar with…

I sometimes forget that not everyone in the whole world is Fianna Fail down to his or her socks and so may not be familiar with our traditions. Keeping that in mind I'd better explain about the President's Dinner.

Each year during the first week in December the party holds a party, nominally to celebrate the leader but, realistically, it is more a celebration of the party itself and the first big Christmas bash.

The whole thing is organised by Cairde Fail (the social committee) and getting tickets is something of an art form. The great and the good want to be there. You need to know "someone" but having strong FF connections helps. Oh, and the tickets have to be paid for as this is a fundraising event. Two groups don't pay - the team captains of the winners of the Sam Maguire and the McCarthy cups. This may have proved to be the only downer in Charlie Mc Creevy's week, having to share a room with the wonderful Ray Silke, Galway's captain, but he took it well.

The evening is a mixture of the starchily formal and the woozily informal. It isn't a black tie affair but everyone turns out in their best bib and tucker. As is customary when you gather hundreds of women together for a dressy occasion a lot of effort and expense goes into the rig-outs.

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Some of the customs that make up this traditional event have been adjusted over the years in favour of practicality. The speeches are got rid of before the meal so everyone can concentrate on getting polluted, creating a racket and having a relaxed good time. And the auction has been replaced with a raffle to save time.

It might be hard to believe that a collection of 1,500 people can become such a laid back and friendly affair but it does. Evidence for this was provided by the dance floor. Even at the most raucous company bashes you will find those who are too self-conscious to get up and attempt to dance. Not so on Thursday night. Once the food had been dispatched the dance floor remained jammed until the wee hours. My table was typical of the mix of business people and party members - Pat the Cope Gallagher and Noel Treacy, an entrepreneur from Armagh with companies dotted all over this island, the UK and further afield and a corporate finance guru from San Diego, California.

Our Californian friend was amazed that the leader of the country and the entire Cabinet were in the same room as him - and that the protocol involved in talking to any of them was simply to walk up and say hello dumbfounded him. To achieve the same level of access in the States would cost millions of dollars, he explained, and even then getting through the handlers to just one member of cabinet would take all night.

This was my first President's Dinner since I retired from the political world and I was welcomed like the prodigal daughter. No doubt the warmth of the welcome was helped by the state of the party itself. Thursday night was an opportunity to celebrate good news on all fronts.

The atmosphere was electric and the party could afford to kick up its collective heels and it did. Foremost among the revellers were Albert and Kathleen Reynolds, who didn't stop dancing all night. The Cabinet were on a high after the Budget and when Bertie spoke the biggest clap of the evening went to Charlie McCreevy - he certainly was everyone's darling and was really the only one who looked totally relaxed.

I wasn't the only person there from the party faithful who was in that peculiar inside-outsider position. Pat Farrell, Des Richardson, and Jackie Gallagher have added their names to the group. One nice lady I was talking to asked me what it felt like to be there for the first time as a "non-person". When she realised what she had said she was mortally embarrassed but she needn't have been. The phrasing apart, I knew exactly what she meant. This was an opportunity for me to attend one of my favourite functions without any responsibility whatsoever. It is a peculiarly Irish trait that we let people know we care about them by giving them a gentle slagging. Bertie took time in his speech to single out Des Richardson and Jackie Gallagher, who are both leaving the party machine for the private sector, for a poke in the ribs. ail could be proud of both of them as their performance for the party had been so good as to catch the attention of those outside politics. He noted that they would both be going to jobs that would pay them more than the Taoiseach earned.

OF necessity, the rest of Bertie's speech had to concentrate on the improved finances, our economic success - and especially on Northern Ireland. Because of his intense activities during the last few days, Seamus Mallon couldn't make it. Bertie paid him a handsome tribute, which got a loud, positive response from the audience, and he vowed that he, his Cabinet and the party would stand by Mallon.

By dessert stage Bertie was up and moving - shaking hands with every one of the 1,500. Again this is one of those customs of the night, but this leader is able to carry it off with a mixture of style, calm and friendliness I haven't seen in any other political supremo anywhere.

Of course an evening like this wouldn't be the same without a crisis. The music stopped just as I got the news that a very close friend had fallen heavily on her arm while dancing and was headed for St Vincent's hospital.

I went along for moral support. Typically, no taxis could be found quickly enough at that hour, so a very kind Armagh man drove us to A&E and waited the two hours while everything was attended to.

We arrived there at 3.10 a.m. and left at 5.10 a.m. once my pal had been examined, X-rayed and had her fractured arm "slinged". It was a busy night at the emergency department. We were joined by someone suffering from a coronary, another with a suspected coronary and a person with chest pains. Also there were a drug addict, an asthma attack victim and even a motorcycle garda who had been unceremoniously knocked off his bike. All those and many others were being cared for in eight regular cubicles and a couple of makeshift cubicles pressed into use, as well as a waiting room full of patients waiting to be seen and trolleys on the corridor. The staff were wonderful - the four staff nurses had endless patience dealing with upset, irate and agitated families and patients. Even the overworked Sudanese doctor (they have only one doctor on duty after 2 a.m.) managed to let me know he could speak Irish.

The whole business reminded me of the old saying: "Sure it's not a decent party unless someone gets hospitalised or arrested."