Before I deal with the yarn of an incredible 46-year-old pig who is already the King of Paradise despite the fact that he spends far too much of his life in a Co. Clare public house, I have to declare that the rest of this column is an election free zone despite all the frantic action on both sides of the Atlantic.

Just one comment by a good Irish journalist named Michael Clifford is maybe relevant to my decision and your almost certain relief. Clifford said this week: "We should remember that we get the politicians we deserve!"

I heartily concur and feel that view is valid along both campaign trails. We will leave it there for now.

Back then with a merry step all the way to Paradise and the emerging fairytale of its incredible pig who is so famous already in his region that there are moves afoot to have him officially declared the Mayor of Paradise itself even before this year is over.

He will surely feature in some upcoming edition of the Guinness Book of Records. Overseas visitors in the know are already spending considerable sums of money just to seek appointments with him and his fame and influence are increasing by the day.

My lips are still sealed about the exact whereabouts of the porcine King of Paradise, but I will tell ye more as soon as I am freed to do so by his bodyguard.

They assured me last weekend they wished to preserve some element of his privacy until the summer. They do not wish His Majesty to be pressured by too many unscheduled callers.

They told me this is already a problem and, given his great age, because 46 is an amazing lifespan for a pig, they are determined to protect him fully. They are extremely devoted to him.

I have, however, wheedled some intriguing scraps of information about His Majesty from his minders.

It is clear, as I said above, that he is a character who likes to spend the most of his daytime hours in a country pub. It is also admitted that, although it is totally illegal in the New Ireland to smoke in pubs, this does not stop the King of Paradise from not alone smoking constantly at the bar but even smoking a strong pipe! That would be enough to land any of his subjects in Court.

But there is much more than that. I can reveal that the majority of those who seek an audience with His Majesty are either female and childless after years of marriage, or their male spouses or partners.

It is believed, you see, that there is some kind of Viagra and/or fertility factor attached to an audience with Himself, and it was suggested to me that a number of babies have been born over the last few years who, otherwise, would not be in this world.

I have also learned indirectly that the most of those females who seek an audience with the King of Paradise are required, as part of the ceremony or ritual, to stand on a chair facing away from His Majesty and not to attempt to see his apparently noble snout until the very end of the ritual.

I attempted to secure an interview myself. It was refused at once because the bodyguards do not yet fully trust me.

I will persist with my quest, like the hardy old hack that I am, will surely prevail in the end, and I promise that ye will be the first to know all the crucial details as soon as I achieve what will be a scoop in Paradise. I can't wait to see what my darling Caty illustrates the yarn with!

In all fairness, won't that story be a lot more stimulating and genuinely readable than anything likely to be spun out or spawned that day from either of our two election battles? Let us all look forward to it.

I will spare no effort in the meantime. I won't have either the time or the inclination to get immersed in any election stuff at all.