A touch of the aristo. One doesn't like to brag or go on about these things, but there was always a regal grace, a beauty of mind and physique, created, one felt, by generations of high breeding, such as we discern in the faces of princes. And in this, I am not alone. Look around you, for God's sake. Look at any Irish man you happen to know. His dress sense. His table manners. The way he dances at a wedding. All these years you have been accusing him of treating you like a servant. Now you know why. It's because he is royal.

The New York Times reports that one in 50 New Yorkers of European origin (which, when you think about it, is one rake of New Yorkers) carries a distinctive genetic signature, inherited from a fifth-century Irish king.

Niall of the Nine Hostages you will remember from school, although up until recently he was thought to be more legend than fact, like many of the other entities we learned about in school in the 1970s, such as Peig, Cuchulainn and Limbo. But it turns out that Niall may have been genuine flesh and blood, especially flesh, which he put about vigorously. He had 12 sons we know about, and possibly more. You and me would be taking Viagra.

This dude was taking hostages. How he ever had the energy is beyond me, I can tell you. And no paternity leave in those days either.

Dr Daniel Bradley of Trinity College, who discovered all this with his scholarly colleagues, estimates that two to three million men, all over the world, carry the distinctive 'Y chromosome signature' bequeathed us by Big Niall, early Ireland's answer to Warren Beatty. That makes him one of the most prolific men in the history of the world. (Niall, I mean, not Dr Bradley of Trinity College. ) All us male O'Connors have the blue blood in our veins. We are as royal as the Windsors, probably much more so, since we, unlike they, can trace our magnificent ancestry back into the swirls of the Celtic Dawn. But lest anyone think I am dissing Her Madge: no, not at all. We are equals now. And I have always admired her concern for the long-term unemployed, not only the ones around her at breakfast.

And all the male Flynns, all the male O'Reillys: these, too, are the rare auld stock.

(Think of Padraig and Sir Anthony. How could we have ever doubted it? ) And arise, all you Egans and Quinns and McManuses.

You too, my lieges, are the cream of the milk. No longer must you tolerate the messing of peasants, the mockery of upstarts, the disrespect of your lessers. One word out of their beaks and it's off with their heads. Tell 'em Big Nially sent you.

Yes, other early Irish heroes were playing hurling or breaking heads.

Spearing each other in rivers. Getting langered on mead. It was pretty much what you'd see in O'Connell Street any bank holiday weekend night, except for the bearskins and beads.

None of that carry-on for wise old Niall, the original love-hound of Ulster. He knew, perhaps, the wise old adage: the life of the party goes home alone. He didn't have to impress. When you're the real thing, you don't. He bided his time. He cooled his boots. Then it was back to the rath with a couple of bardesses, and next thing we knew: Ruairi Quinn.

And in between all this jiggery, Niall did a bit of kidnapping, too. Really, he was quite the multi-tasker.

He captured and enslaved Saint Patrick, thereby bringing Christianity to Ireland, and green furry hats to Boston, and emptying the country of cabinet ministers every year in March. Two of these things were in my view good, but I'd better not say which two.

In Martin Scorcese's film The King of Comedy, the dismal central character, aspiring comic Rupert Pupkin, lives by the dangerous and dubious motto that it's better to be king for a night than shmuck for a lifetime. Now, thanks to genetics, we O'Connors have learned the truth. No such choice is necessary any more.