DRAPIER: One of the golden rules of the political game is that you only play away from home when you really have to. Few of us will actively look to pick a row on territory where another party has or is thought to have a better claim to ownership.
Not so Michael McDowell.
First off there was the flag. Proceedings at the PDs' last annual bash were dominated by a backdrop that featured a giant fluttering Tricolour. Not that there's anything wrong with the Progressive ladies using the national flag. It just seemed sort of strange.
Then came the news that Mary Harney had signed on for Bertie's Easter tattoo. Later still we heard that Michael was all on for transforming the GPO into a mega monument to those volunteers who gave the two fingers to his grandda by turning up in the self-same place back in 1916.
And then the speech. Michael's ritual filleting of the Provos in the Dáil this week contained the usual blend of rhetoric and insult, but Drapier couldn't help thinking there was something more to it than just ritual. Could it be that Michael actually believes a lot of this stuff ? Could it be that Michael actually believes that he is more republican than the Shinners? Is it really possible that the PDs are trying to out-green the Shinners? Can we expect to see Liz O'Donnell in dark glasses and a cutie little black beret some time soon?
Sadly that ultimate prospect is remote. The truth is that Michael is just about the sole occupant of the PDs' nationalist wing, but it is nonetheless interesting that he has been given such a free rein by the ladies of late.
The PDs and the Shinners do not compete for votes. They fish in different waters. But they do compete for the affections of Fianna Fáil. Mary and Michael are happy to share a bed with Fianna Fáil, but they know well that there are many in the Soldiers of Destiny who might be attracted to the bearded one from Belfast.
Ultimately, it will come down to numbers after the next election. In the meantime we can expect the Minister for Justice to wrap the Tricolour ever more tightly around himself and his reluctant party. After all, away goals count double.
This is the time of year when the invites start to pour in. Not the invites to Christmas drinks - though Drapier was happy to receive the Vintners' invite this very morning - but rather the invites to pre-budget submissions.
These submission meetings have mushroomed in recent years and they all follow the same format. All the big interest groups hire out Buswells for a few hours and invite us to present ourselves for attention. They give us glossy brochures, feed us drink and the occasional canape and bore us stupid with worthy but dreary ideas about Brian Cowen's budget. We, in turn, listen very carefully, make notes, get our photo taken and promise to take the matter up personally with Brian when next we meet him for pints.
Drapier has often wondered why well clued-in organisations like the IFA bother with this annual farce. Surely to goodness they don't think we have any influence over what goes into the budget? Surely they don't think that the guys in Merrion Street would actually listen to mere TDs? Surely they know that Brian is the last person in the world who would waste good pinting time by talking about the budget? Surely, but then again maybe not.
Drapier has been wondering a lot about Brian in recent weeks.
The contrast with Charlie McCreevy could hardly be more stark. Charlie really loved being minister for finance. He behaved like a kid in a playground who was determined to play with each and every toy before his time was up. He brought us all on a major roller-coaster ride which lasted seven years. He fell off from time to time but by God did he have fun.
Brian Cowen, on the other hand, seems blithely indifferent to the fact that he holds down the most powerful job in politics. He seems to have no ideas and no ambition. He manages the brief with ease but he seems to invest very little of himself in putting it together. Most people in Leinster House would give their all to be minister for finance at a time of plenty, but Brian gives the impression that he would prefer to be drinking pints in Clara.
Brian is clever. The troops in Killarney thought he was just great. The boss job is there for the taking when Bertie calls it a day. But can Brian be bothered?
Planning is not something we do well in this country but that doesn't mean there is any shortage of plans. The Health Strategy, The National Plan, The National Spatial Strategy and now Transport 21.
The routine is well established. Nice room down in the Castle, lots of journalists and cameramen, invited audience of the social partners, Taoiseach, Tánaiste, line minister, lots of colourful diagrams and complicated sums. And yet something about this particular outing just didn't gel.
Drapier has a feeling that Transport 21 is just one grand événement too many. Normally with these things Government backbenchers fall over themselves in the rush to convey the good news to the masses, but Drapier sensed no such rush in Leinster House this week. Granted wee Ivor seemed even more happy with himself than he usually is, but everyone else was pretty downbeat.
Drapier likes to think that he can do the vision thing as well as the next man but he admits to struggling with the little Martin's big plan. Grand Central Station under Stephen's Green? Yeah right . . .