Savour this moment, as for one week only this column is transformed into a refuge of sympathy for politicians. It's reluctant sympathy, mind you, but sympathy nonetheless. I awoke on Friday to read a story on the New York-based media/celebrity/gossip website Gawker titled "I Had a One-Night Stand With Christine O'Donnell". So far, so whatever.

There's some brilliantly unnecessary detail in the story for those of us (okay, fine, me) who like to read about the very private antics of public figures when the cameras are off. O'Donnell turned up tipsy at the door of an acquaintance's apartment on Hallowe'en night three years ago, dressed up as a ladybird, went to a bar, drank a load of Heineken, propositioned him, and then when they made it to the sack pretended to be a virgin. I know, I know, I'm basically just describing what you did last night, right?

Christine O'Donnell, as you probably know by now, is the Tea Party-supported Republican nominee for next week's senate election in that magical land of outlet malls and other cultural irrelevance – Delaware. Aside from being a gift to the writers of stand-up scripts for late-night talkshow presenters, she pushes a strangely staunch strand of sexual conservatism that would even unnerve the Iona Institute.

O'Donnell is not my kind of chick, but even still, if she wants to get wasted and crack on to some young lad – bear in mind this incident occurred three years ago, and they didn't even have sex after her pubic hair turned him off (what a gent) – then she should be allowed go for it without fear of public repercussions. Extremist politicians are just as entitled as anyone else to have drunken Hallowe'en-night sex while dressed as ladybirds. I mean, who are we to judge? What Irish politician hasn't had sex dressed as a ladybird? For me, it's a prerequisite for voting for any candidate. They come canvassing, I open the door, ask them if they have got down and dirty while assuming the likeness of a coccinellid, and let me tell you, I won't even dream of putting the kettle on unless the answer is affirmative.

By mid morning on Friday, the Twittersphere was abuzz with the drunken ladybird O'Donnell sexposé and I was in the middle of a barrage of fine political ladybird-related gags that I now wish I had saved for this column. But more seriously, this is a landmark moment in the destruction of politicians' privacy. There is no grey area anymore. Everything is fair game. For years, the details of indiscretions by political and public figures have been maintained by journalists and PR heads, imparted only in exchange for other secrets and as gems at dinner parties. Or in my case, to my mother. Reputable publications can't print gossip or hearsay, but that's what the internet feeds on, greedily dousing its snout in the goss trough for information, the seedier, the more sordid, the more bizarre, the better.

Women in politics are subject to separate criticisms and analyses than their male counterparts. Their physical appearance is dissected relentlessly, with every wrinkle or misjudged fashion choice or extra few pounds on their waistlines discussed. Being serious is being an 'ice queen', being promoted 'ruthlessly ambitious', being well put together 'vain' or backhandedly 'glamorous', being diligent 'difficult', making an intellectual slip-up is being a 'bimbo', and so on.

You could, if you really wanted to, create a justification for the publication of the wildly misogynistic Christine O'Donnell article (which, as it happens, is written in the first person by the man himself, who stalls for a while, leading us to believe they actually had sex, before eventually getting around to his "I did not have sexual relations with that ladybird" moment). You could say O'Donnell's preaching about abstinence and restraint isn't exactly consistent with her running around pubs in full-on horny ladybird mode. But there's no justification for this level of invasion of privacy, no matter who the individual is.

For all her faults, O'Donnell doesn't deserve to have what is basically an embarrassing booty call gone wrong played out online for millions to joke about. I mean, she might be a drunken, tactless ladybird, but she's hardly a witch, now, is she?

Hold me...

It has been a good week for people who treat most American and British women's magazines with complete disdain since Maura Kelly of US Marie Claire wrote an idiotic article berating "fatties" for their very existence. We should be grateful that, most of the time, Irish magazines aimed at the female market by and large don't stoop to such levels. We're smarter than that.

Thrill me...

For all her domination of Ireland last week, Lady Gaga-out-on-the-town sightings were conspicuously non-existent. No Gaga ordering toasties in Grogans. No Gaga having a wee outside Krystle. I've no time for the meat-clad charlatan, so I went to see Marina and the Diamonds in Vicar Street instead. Now THERE'S a pop star.

Kiss me...

Minister, may I suggest that the new state training agency replacing Fás in 2011 be named Bás. You're welcome.

Kill me

The last thing you want to be greeted by on a Friday morning after injecting some much-needed capital into the maligned vodka tonic sector the previous evening is Jedward bouncing off the walls of your office. That said, their follow-up tweet to the visit to Independent House was a thing of genius: "Just spent the morning editing the hearld feel so smart." Typo, Jedward's own.

umullally@tribune.ie