I WAS INTERESTED in the assertion by Mr Robert Saulters, the new Grand Master of the Orange Order, that the British Labour Party leader Tony Blair made a terrible mistake in marrying a Catholic (his wife Cherie), that it was an act of "disloyalty" to the Protestant faith and that Tony Blair would "sell his soul to the Devil himself".

You will be wondering straightaway what "fun" is to be had from all of this, what amusement for jaded but nonetheless sensitive readers in commenting on interdenominational marriages in these touchy times.

There must be some. If not we are truly lost.

Mr Saulters is first of all to be congratulated for bringing up the issue of souls for sale, and it is to be hoped that a debate will now be sparked on what a soul is actually worth. With moral standards fallen so low worldwide, it is very much a buyer's market these days, but it would be good to know how much the Devil actually pays, and what coinage is used.

The market has presumably changed a lot since the days of Faustus, or even Dorian Gray or even poor old Patrick Kavanagh, whose soul was, as he said himself, an old horse offered for sale in 40 fairs, and with not one decent bid made for it. So much for the value of a poetic soul.

What with inflation over the centuries, an unsullied soul must be worth a fair few bob to Mephistopheles/Beelzebub today, yet there is no guarantee that a soul can still be easily swapped for a long life involving endless money and sensual satisfaction of the kind one only dreams of.

Presumably the deal varies depending on the quality of soul involved. A child's soul might initially strike one as being more valuable than an adult's, but it is doubtful that this is the case. The Devil is unlikely to derive much satisfaction from having children's undifferentiated pristine souls handed over to him, in wholesale transactions, by unscrupulous traders the fun for him almost certainly lies in negotiating a unique deal with the individual.

Satan is after all a devil, with all the considerable intellectual sophistication that implies.

Is there perhaps a broker to whom one could turn for advice? If not, there may be an opportunity here for some entrepreneur. Dealing direct with the Devil, and thereby cutting out the middle-man, is all very well, but you would want to know what you are doing. The Devil would presumably pay the broker's commission so it would cost the vendor nothing extra.

I wish the Grand Master of the Orange Order would enlighten us further. Selling a soul is a slightly bigger deal than offloading a used car, and we would all be grateful for advice from an expert.

I see too that the new Grand Master denies allegations of bigotry in his remarks about Tony Blair. His denial calls to mind an occasion not too long ago when a certain Dublin Corporation councillor declared himself opposed to offering the Dalai Lama the Freedom of the City of Dublin, and later declared himself "unrepentant" about his position: "I'm not bigoted against Buddhists," he was quoted as saying. "I know nothing about them to be bigoted against. I have no wish to insult anyone.

The councillor was quite right in so far as it is difficult to insult someone properly (and a gentleman never insults anyone unintentionally) without knowing something about him. If the new Grand Master of the Orange Order knows nothing about Catholics then he is not insulting Catholics. All he has to do then is tell us publicly he does not know the first thing about Catholics or Catholicism. Then we will know no insult was intended.

All right. I am as bored with all this as you are.

Any jokes then?

I am afraid not. Oh hold on - just one.

Good, good.

A man is invited to a fancy dress party -

Oh there's nothing I like better.

- and arrives at his hostess's door, crouched on all fours, with a young lady perched on his back.

Is he drunk?

Not at all. The hostess however tells him sternly he is not in the stipulated fancy dress.

He isn't dressed up as Napoleon, a tramp, whatever?

He insists to his hostess that he is attending the party as a tortoise." She asserts that he does not in the least resemble a tortoise.

How does he answer that?

He indicates the young woman on his back: "This is Michelle."

That is the punchline.

I don't get it.

I am very sorry.