Experts have predicted that much of the history of the last few years will have to be re-written in the light of the publication today of Conspiracy! the new book by Tony Winters which proves beyond a shadow of a doubt that Marilyn Monroe was murdered by Robert Kennedy with a bath brush. The book's revelation that John F. Kennedy may first have choked Marilyn, the vivacious sexpot who put her eye on the dynamic brothers, has aroused even more comment, with trenchant denials that author Winters has produced any proof to back his allegations.

Sticky Sullivan, by Owen Smullen, Abbey Theatre.

Another triumph for the old firm. With raw material consisting of only a dramatised argument about the relationship between religion and politics, director Tomas McGiolla has had to work hard to give his actors something of substance to get their teeth into. Patiently the director has created space between the author's lines to allow his cast rollick around the stage, dragging their vowels and crunching their consonants, rolling their eyes and twitching their limbs, doing pratfalls and clutching their shawls to their breasts as only Abbey actors can. The resulting familiar Synge-song, a triumph of acting over writing, turns what could have been a dry and serious drama into an enjoyyable piece of knockabout theatre.

Garret was chalking his cue, sizing up a difficult but possible pink into the top left and the white off the side cushion and into a cluster of reds, so he didn't notice Jim Dooge coming in the door of The Long Rest. I gave Bobby the high sign and he was out from behind the counter like fast, feeling Jim bo's collar. Sorry, sir, members only, that kind of thing.

To be honest, I was prejudiced. I expected a couple of guys like maybe Lee Marvin and Ernest Borggnine to come off the plane. Their footsteps like a succession of explosions as they tromped their way down the corridor. Pushing old people aside as they grabbed their luggage. Skipping the taxi queue and thumping the little guy with glasses who says, "I say, there ... "

Notes for Canvassers: Local Elections, 1985.

When canvassing votes from the citiizens (or "gooks", as we professionals have come to know them) you will notice that they come in three types:

Often called "the most exclusive club of the Western establishment", the Bilderberg Group is a mixed collection of some of the world's most powerful financiers, industrialists, statesmen and intellectuals, who get together each year for a private conference on world affairs. The meetings provide an inforrmal, off-the-record opportunity for innternational leaders to mingle, and are notorious for the cloak of secrecy they are held under.

The phone barked. Some people have phones that ring or beep, ours bark. There's a little cluster of pinholes through which a voice was barking. "He's on again."

It all started this morning when I was listening to Gay Byrne's show. Gay had just finished asking listeners to send in this and that if they had them to spare. Then he went on to the letters. "A lot of people," he said, "are very worried about what's happening on our streets. For example, a listener from Cork - who for obvious reasons wishes to remain anonymous .; desscribes. in vivid detail how he dealt with 'a mugging attempt." And then Gay read the letter.

YOu're going to Kerry, they say. Be God, and aren't you the lucky one, they say. Fell on your feet there, they say. Lakes of Killarney. The Ring. The mountains. The clear air. The fish. Dick Spring. Sure, you're landed, they say, you're landed.

It was all Alan Dukes's fault, as it often is. Maybe that's not fair. It was Jim Doege's idea in the first place, and if he'd kept himself to himself I wouldn't have had to endure the shame and disgrace of being thrown out of O'Donoghue's. Whooever's fault it was, God rot the lot of them.

I was sitting at the end of the bar upstairs in O'D's, as per usual, communing with a glass of lager. Lord be with the days when that corner seat saw a lot more action than a glass of lager, but time goes by. Christmas, at least, is a time for elbows down on the bar and thoughts going back over the years. It can get maudlin after a while, but it's fun. I was working on Christm as 1975, which was ace, when I heard a lot of people clumping up the stairs. I paid no attention, nodded to Con for a refill.

It was a mess right from the start. Cock-up City. I didn't want to go to Chequers, in the first place, but bloody Jim bloody Dooge stuck his greasy finger in the pie and stirred things up. "Offer to go to Chequers, Garret," he said, "For security reasons, Garret," he said. "Put her under an obligation, Garret," he said, "Get you off on the right foot, Garret," he said. A real deep-dyed, spit in the cup, God I must be dreaming, cock-up.

The following are some of the Major points from the "National Plan" drawn up and published last month by the executive of the Spontaneous Aggravation Party (SAP). The plan was unveiled in the midst of great pomp and ceremony in the lounge of The Oasis before an invited audience.

(The plinking music fades and we hear the voice of Ireland's Most Civilised Man, Sir John Bowman, for it is he.)

Welcome to Day By Day, and on this evening's . . . sorry, this morning's programme we have our usual collecction of items, em, all the, em, topics which are, em, topical. So to speak.

Walk in the door and Oh Lord, so it's going to be one of these. There he is, talking out of one side of his mouth, drinking a pint of Harp through the other. Tosh Finnegan doesn't like to waste good drinking time. Shudda known he'd be here.

Bloody heat.

Bloody bus strike. A CIE management that sends redundancy notices to men dying of cancer. You wonder why there's a bus strike. Bloody CIE.

Profiles in Courage: 2.
Dermot Metcalf, Fianna Fail TD for Dublin West Central

It all started with a bad bottle of Guinness. Chesty Culliton ran a somewhat decrepit pub in the village of Cligeen, Co Wexford, back in the Forties. And one night he served that selfsame bad bottle to one Trigger Metcalf. Trigger was out in '16, put seven notches on his Webley .38 during the War of Independence and in the Civil War stood by the man he always called The Chafe. A hard man; Trigger, and not one to be lightly insulted. When Trigger upbraided Chesty for his careless treatment of the National Drink a slight fracas ennsued and the resulting feud lasted until both men died within a week of each other in 1974.

It's some years since I got onto the Readers Digest's hit list. About 1978, maybe. They sent me a letter saying I had been specially chosen, by computer, because of my fine intellect, social sophistication, personal charm and all round gee whizz goodness, to participate in a fun experiment they were organising. Love that kind of flattery, except that at least three-quarters of the people I know received similar letters, and a good two-thirds of them are well-known hairbags and dog breaths (Mick Belker is a juicy little guy, isn't he?).

Dear Ken, Sorry about the long silence. Things pile up. Just finish one month and the next one starts. You know the kind of thing.

DUMPETTY-DUMPETTY MUSIC, and then Pat Kenny appears, his eiuows braced on the desk and him staring intently at the camera like he might suddenly leap up and wrestle it to the ground. Hint of a Boyish Smile. (Thank God, that means they're not doing the North tonight. When they do the North it's Eyebrows Dipping and a hint of Oh God Wouldn't It All Get You Down Sometimes But Sure You Have To Soldier On Don't You?) Kenny: The Presidency. The highest office in the land. Today President Hillery was inaugurated for a second term at a rather splendid affair at Dublin Castle. The President, flanked by a guard of honour and with 40 pretty little girls strewing rose petals in his path, was wearing a cute little off-the-shoulder cape with just a touch of ermine along the collar. I was sporting a somewhat fetching little number in two-tone black with lapels you just wouldn't believe. We'll have a report on that event later.

There now follows a party political broadcast on behalf of ...