THE invitation wasn't specific.

There was mention of "the Taoiseach", and "dinner" and "cairde", or friends. But it didn't say whether this would be a dig-out or a whip-round.

I went into a tizzy, raided the biscuit tin under the bed, emptied the sock where I keep a few grand for a rainy day.

Next month's mortgage repayment would have to be put on hold. There is no choice when the most popular politician since Daniel O'Connell sends out a clarion call.

Still, I fretted. Would it be Dublin or Manchester rates? Could I get off lighter if I offered to drive the bus, or forego the grub?

The 80th anniversary knees-up of the Fianna Fail party was held in Dublin's Citywest hotel on Friday night.

This was big-cheese stuff. Over 1,800 patrons, good and true, made the journey.

In the hotel car park stands a monument that might serve as election notice to the soldiers. Jim Mansfield's halfcompleted conference centre sways in the wind like a skeletal reminder of what happens if you get ahead of yourself.

It's a job half done, with a lot more to do.

The shindig was, MC Paschal Mooney said, the biggest gathering of the Fianna Fail family outside of an ardfheis. It was time to party, and if the chance presented itself, pass the hat around.

They came from the four corners, swishing through the door in evening wear and sober suits. There was a nod towards glamour, FF style, with the presence of sporting icons Brian Cody and Mick Galwey, and just for Bertie, Dubs manager Paul Caffrey. If Paddy the Plasterer was in situ, he was rendering himself inconspicuous.

Derval O'Rourke put in an appearance, and so too, Paschal informed us, did the captains of the All Ireland-winning camogie and ladies football teams.

Are you watching, Hollywood?

The main man arrived in the lobby at 7.15pm, looking 50 grand and lighting up the room with his 100-watt smile. There's little doubt but the November abstinence did wonders for the Taoiseach, fashioning him into a lean, mean fighting machine for the months ahead.

He glided through the sea of worshippers and up the stairs to a VIP reception in the ballroom, an event designed to separate party wheat from the chaff for a breather before dinner.

A complement of 1,800 soldiers of destiny under the one roof is a convivial sight. There were disco balls suspended from the ceiling and big screens alighting around the room. Bertie smiled out from the menu, with a portrait of PH Pearse hovering above his head, emphasising lineage.

Party founder Dev, it appears, is not sexy enough for New Fianna Fail so they dug up Pearse. Surely a fanatic like Pearse would have been more a Provo man. Why didn't they plunder a sane revolutionary? Next year, observe the Manchester Martyrs being signed up for the party. Did you say Manchester? Don't mention the war!

Then the moment of truth. A woman approaches our table, not with the obligatory hat, but a notepaper and pen. She had the cut of a whipper-rounder. As I reached with a heavy heart for my last few bob, she materialised above me.

"Beef or salmon?" she asked. I wanted to kiss her in relief.

Trumpets and flashing lights heralded the arrival of the Chosen One. These are his people. He has delivered them to the Promised Land, and is now promising five more years.

Paschal handed him the floor and he got stuck in. Aside from the usual guff, he took the time to have two uncharacteristic cuts. First, at his own people.

"I love the Fianna Fail organisation, but most of all I love political activists, " he said.

"Those of you who sit in house-parties with your meals and drinks and on barstools, pontificating bullshit. When you return from your skiing holidays, will you do something for your base?" They lapped it up, cheering each lash he delivered to their well-maintained bodies.

The media were next. "They have a tough job, " he said, the sarcasm shining through. He went on to wallop the "armchair generals, political pundits, all just talking to each other. It's all nonsense."

Cue applause from the oppressed tribe before they got back to discussing the ski slopes.

Then, pure Bertie. Having had his cut, he marched straight across to the three tables where the accused media were corralled. He shook each and every hand. As he approached, I got the sweats again. No roof over my head next month.

I thought of making a run for it. But in the end, all he asked was for a quick pump of the hand.

He's a king, no question about it. When it comes to glad-handling, knifing with a smile or spinning a terrific yarn, our Bertie has no equal.