Alex has clearly had an overdose of Unionist biographies recently. He comes up with a nice line in bumptious hyperbole in tribute to the acres of print spilled during our recent, prolonged spell in the horse latitudes of politics.
My dozens of dedicated readers will be delighted by the news that I, too, have been approached by a publisher, keen to produce an intimate biographical portrait charting the up and ups of my predestined path from obscurity to the front pages of the Ballybungle Thunderer.
After some seven or eight seconds of inner turmoil, I finally wrestled my doubts to the floor, swallowed my pride and agreed to sacrifice my humility, safe in the knowledge that my fellow unionists would soon be presented with a fully one-sided chronology of events.
But what would I call this momentous tome? I juggled with many titles, including