Inside, high above St Stephen's Green, fires were burning in Mac's eyes.

He was marching up and down the office in his FCA uniform, consumed with the sound and the fury that beat wildly within.

At times like these, Mac reverts to the uniform. It served him well when he was a student at the foothills of greatness in UCD.

He used to show up at political meetings to scare the bejaysus out of the quasi-hippies who thought they were going to take over the world.

These days, the uniform gives a boost to his confidence whenever levels drop into the Earth's atmosphere. I was there to help him do the hardest thing imaginable . . . apologise. It was going to hurt me far more than it ever could him.

He goosestepped across the room, throwing long shadows on the walls where his portraits hung. "If If I apolf I. f" It was time to draw on my skills. I crouched down and clenched my fists, like Mick O'Dwyer patrolling the sideline. "Go on, go on, you beauty, you can do it."

"I apolf I apolof I apologf "Yes, yes, " I cried.

"No, no, " he screamed. "I can't go through with it. This is madness."

We had reached an impasse. There was no way around the apology to Richard Bruton for the Goebbels jibe. If it had been anyone else, say, Gay Mitchell or Willie O'Dea, we might have got away with it. But Bruton? That was like saying that Daniel O'Donnell was the Kurt Cobain of Irish popular music.

Earlier, we had looked at the possibility of declaring Bruton a threat to the security of the state. It had worked with that pest Frank Connolly, why not little Richard?

We wouldn't have to produce any evidence. Mac could just say "I know what I know".

But when he pulled the file, all it had was a caution from a garda for loitering with intent outside an orchard when Bruton was 12. Sam would never be able to work with that.

Then we thought about legislating against Bruton. Mac could announce that he was outlawing the deputy, making him the 2,498th amendment to the Criminal Justice Bill on the basis that Bruton had made a headline and therefore had to be legislated against.

But Mac decided that was too esoteric to strike a populist chord.

"I could apologise 'as Gaeilge', " he said, perking up. "Nobody would have an iota what I was saying. I got away with the cupla focail in front of those clowns in both the Dail and the Seanad."

I told him to drop that one. The media has many faults, but its members don't sleep as soundly on the job as parliamentarians. He was grasping now. But I couldn't help noticing, he still cut a fine figure in the uniform, even if his head had grown far too big for the beret.

Mention of the media brought him onto the notion of writing to each member of the RTE Authority about the matter.

"I could say that they doctored the broadcasts of my outburst to make me sound hysterical, out of control, as if my own legend was disappearing before my eyes, " he wailed. "They made me sound like a baboon on speed." Gently, I broke the awful truth to him.

We had arrived at the darkest hour before the dawn.

Mac was still marching. He had slipped into a trance, repeating to himself in rhythm with each goosestep, "L'etat, c'est moi. L'etat, c'est moi." I marvelled at how this colossus was so dexterous with languages. I walked over and gave him a bearhug.

"Mein Fuhrer, " I said. "How could they do this to you?"

He stiffened, and adjusted his beret. "Bruton still only comes up to my knees in terms of what I've done for this country."

"Ankles, " I said.

"Feet, " he said.

"You are a soaring eagle, he a grounded turkey, " I said By now, Mac was wearing the face of a condemned man.

"For the sake of killing the story, I will do my duty, " he said. "I will apologise."

Tears welled in my eyes.

Truly, this man is the son of Gawd.