Driving through Belfast the other day, I spotted what at first glance I took to be a paramilitary mural, but which actually turned out to be an advertisement by an enterprising (legitimate) local firm promoting its wares.
It's Melania I feel sorry for. I'm not sure her heart's entirely in it. When she first began to command media attention, way back when her husband Donald initially signalled his intention to run for President, newspaper pictures showed a woman with a dazzling, but fixed, smile of someone indulgently going through the motions.
Oh no! Not the guinea pig. For dear's sake, anything but the guinea pig in the 'love glasses' meme. In the immortal words of May McFettridge: "Surely Ulster has suffered enough?"
I spotted a sign outside a bar the other day. 'For Dry January we are serving the following: Dry Gin, Dry White Wine, Dry Martini and Dry Roasted Peanuts.'
Donald Trump v Meryl Streep. There can only be one winner. And I have to say this, Donald, my money's on Meryl. I saw her in that white water rafting movie. She's tougher than you think. And she is right, of course, about Trump's appalling sneering at disability. Totally right.
Would robots make a better job of running Stormont than the current crop of MLAs? The question arises following a new report which suggests that by the year 2030, one in six state jobs could be replaced by technology.
It will go down in history for many reasons - Trump, Brexit, terrorism and a quite shocking celebrity cull - but 2016 will also surely be seen as a bit of a milestone in the rise of womankind.
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Often, around this time of year, I've wondered to myself why the churches haven't ever had a go at trying to copyright Christmas?
Brexit doesn't just mean Brexit. Brexit now also means potential Brex-down, at least if news from a couple of the nation's universities this week is to be believed.
The FBI have been in touch. I think I'm in big trouble. I've received an email which, it says, comes from Agent Andrew G McCabe.
Two stories from the news in recent days have touched me deeply. One concerns the Sunday Times journalist AA Gill, a boy for whom I would not previously have had a lot of time.
Good news for anybody who voted for Donald Trump in the US election. Donald Trump got elected. Bad news for anybody who voted for Donald Trump in the US election. The Donald Trump who got elected might actually be Nick Clegg.
By the time you read this it will all be over - bar, of course, the shouting, the recrimination and the traditional, interminable in-depth analysis on both sides of the Atlantic.
The poor old Queen. Her family are at it again. After a few placid years during which Charles, Camilla and Co refrained from their former habit of washing their dirty linen in the tabloids, a new row is reported in the House of Windsor.
It's been a few years since I was up at the Giant's Causeway but we were in the area at the weekend, driving around in the unusually mild and gorgeously autumnal weather, and decided to drop by for a look.
America has a population of just over 324 million people. It says something that out of this colossal and diverse pool of talent, the best they can seemingly get to run for presidential office are Donald Trump and Hillary Clinton.
Portadown isn't a place that automatically springs to mind when you mention the words "slave trade." Co Armagh - it's not exactly 19th century Alabama, is it?
I can't remember the last time I was at Belfast Zoo. But I do remember one of the last times. Our boys were still small and on a bleak, rainy day, having nothing better to do, l decided we'd go and visit the global wildlife.
Has Jeremy Corbyn been taking career advice from his old friend and fellow beard Gerry Adams? Corbyn, who is standing for re-election as Labour leader this week, is generally regarded as a shoo-in, although in Brexit Britain a shock result, as we know, is always a possibility.
Has civilisation not now, in 2016, finally reached a point where we can consign to history something which, like cock fighting and dunking witches in the village pond, has really, truly had its day?
The first week in September. And we all know what that means, don't we? Ladies and gentlemen, start your engines. The school run races start here. And it's every driver for themselves when the classroom bell tolls.
There used to be a line of graffiti, daubed on a wall in central Belfast (and nicked from the original joke by John Linehan/May McFettridge) - 'Ban Topless Sunbathing. Ulster Has Suffered Enough'.
Why are we such vandals in Northern Ireland? Or, let me rephrase that more tactfully, why do we have such vandals in Northern Ireland?
I know somebody who once innocently drove off from a filling station without paying for petrol. She'd wanted to buy other items so she'd driven her car forward from the pumps into a parking bay. When she came back out again there was no "OMG, I forgot about the petrol" moment of realisation. She just got in and drove off.
As an unbeliever I don't pretend to be a Bible scholar but there is a bit in the Good Book, is there not, that has something about judging not lest ye shall be judged?
Who among us hasn't had one of those days when we've left the hairdresser's so indebted for the transformation/salvage work carried out therein that, were it in our power, we'd gladly give that crimper an OBE? A knighthood even.
Are you Brexit body ready? I only ask because, you will recall that, around this time last year, there was a massive hoo-ha over posters which had appeared in London Tube stations enquiring of passers-by, Are You Beach Body Ready?
Say what you will about his muscly T-shirt look, but I think Rory McIlroy has got it spot-on regarding Zika. McIlroy has been rapped recently for supposedly "showing off his muscles" - this according to an NBC golf commentator who claims that weight training has been to the detriment of the golfer's game.
The Tory succession battle is finally sorted and a new party leader and Prime Minister is in place. Chris Evans, isn't it? Or Tom Hiddleston? Or maybe Angela Eagle? Roy Hodgson? I'm finding it hard to keep up. There's been so much chopping and changing in important roles in public life this last while, I'm beginning to review my firm conviction that astrology is a load of oul' guff.
Theresa May in that tartan trouser suit - what was she thinking? I know that of all the crucial questions raised by events of the last startling week in Westminster, the appearance of Theresa May City Roller may not seem the most pressing.
We haven't totally got a handle on this democracy thing, have we? A clear majority of the voting public - not a massive majority, but a clear one - have said they want to Brexit Europe.
It's only a game. How often we've said that over the years. The old cliched dismissal about a bunch of grown men kicking a ball around a pitch for a living. And for the privilege of doing so being paid the equivalent of a lottery win. Per week.
Often when you read reports following the now all-too-common mass-murder gun attacks in America, you're swept not just with sorrow for the families of the victims, but with pity too for the shocked and distressed relatives of the perpetrators. How awful to be, say, the parent of someone who commits such horrific acts.
Brexit. Don't let your indecision take you from behind. Trust your inner vision. Don't let others change your mind. The immortal, inspirational message from the lyrics of the song Making Your Mind Up by Eurovison winners Bucks Fizz. Who better, then, to headline the Leave campaign's answer to Glastonbury - an eve-of-poll concert in Birmingham also starring an Elvis impersonator plus Nigel Farage, Liam Fox and Kate Hoey?
Mommy, Mommy, can I go play in the gorilla's den? This week's story of parenting fail comes from Cincinnati where a four-year-old boy managed to evade parental supervision, clamber over a protective fence, tumble 10ft into a moat of shallow water and find himself face to face with Harambe, 400lb of western lowland gorilla.
Football - it's another planet isn't it? Not just a different world from ours. A whole other universe. This week's headlines from Manchester are a case in point. A middle-aged man gets dumped, very publicly, very humiliatingly from the day job despite his recent success in silverware production.
You wouldn't buy a designer handbag in a car park in Magherafelt. So why would you consider it an appropriate place to buy a "designer" dog?
Would it make a big difference, do you think, if America was currently facing the prospect of the presidency of a Donna Trump as opposed to a Donald?
In a fairly spectacular step up from the concept of "me time" an author is now arguing for a full-on "meternity" break. You read that right. Meternity not maternity. American writer Meghann Foye is a bit peeved that while working mothers are able to avail of generous maternity leave, their female colleagues who don't have children are denied the same luxury.
It says something about the acting skills of Jimmy Nesbitt that this most genial of men manages to convincingly transform himself into the coldest-hearted of killers for the upcoming TV series, The Secret. The four-part drama tells the story of dentist Colin Howell and his murderous affair with the equally evil Hazel Stewart.
For a while there I took my eye off the Brexit ball and as a result, I'm now not entirely up to speed on who's In and who's Out. Or indeed who is out to persuade us to stay In. Or Out.
The Duke and Duchess of Cambridge on their current tour of India are hoping to create 'new memories', we are told. As William's da Charles might say, whatever that means ...
What now for poor Michaella McCollum Connolly, newly released from her "foreign prison hellhole" (which is how any overseas incarceration facility tends to be described these days)?
Arlene wasn't available and Mike seemingly had other things to do. So somebody had to go. In fairness I doubt very much if I was the only observer from a unionist background who went down at the weekend to view the Dublin commemoration of the 1916 Rising.
What sort of a clown is Madonna making of herself these days? Caught up in a custody battle with her ex, Guy Ritchie, over their 15-year-old son, Rocco, she has appeared on tour in Australia togged out as a clown, riding on stage on a very small trike, her thighs bulging like a prop forward's over stripey stockings.
It is a tragedy beyond comprehension. Not just the scale of it, but the speed of it. The utter harrowing, helpless horror of it.
Charlotte and her hen party were all dolled up and ready to revel. They were wearing lurid green tutus, sparkly green tiaras and matching, specially printed T-shirts. That's how I knew they were Charlotte and her hen party.
I feel as much affection for the city of Belfast as for a dear old friend. So bearing in mind that line about the things a good friend really should tell you, here goes... Belfast, old girl, you smell a bit. In fact you smell a lot. Has anyone else noticed how vile the whiff now is in various parts of the city centre?
Another week, another homeless man dead on our streets. If there is any ray of light in this bleak saga it is that coverage of the tragic death of the man who was found several days ago in a Belfast shop doorway has reminded the rest of us of the great work being done by so many volunteer outfits working to help others like him.
