I'm not taking the you-know-what, but amid the flood of hate directed against John Finucane in the election campaign it's tempting to say that the Lord Mayor's shortcomings have been something of a light relief.
OK, it wouldn't be a piddling little offence for anyone to urinate willy nilly in a crowded public place, but there can't be a bloke among us who hasn't, like the Sinn Fein candidate for North Belfast, let it all hang out in quieter corners in times of pressing need.
I have to confess - I can't keep it zipped up any longer - that after getting bladdered on a night out there's often been nothing more welcome to my beery eyes than the sight of a dark alley off a side street and I've left my mark on more than a few. Sure, what's the harm in a well-directed wee visit to a well-chosen and deserted hideaway late at night?
After all, English rock band Lindisfarne created a tinkler's anthem in the Seventies with their pithy hit Fog On The Tyne, which extolled the virtues of having a "wet against the wall" after a night on the lash.
In one south Belfast restaurant, whose Everest-like stairs were too much for me after a fall, I had to make my excuses and leave the table to go with the flow in an entry round the corner. On long car journeys, in the absence of public loos, a friend with a medical condition frequently has to 'go' where no man has gone before to do what a man's gotta do.
And any lager-loving lad who's ever been bursting on a boozy football bus will be familiar with the dash for the door after anguished calls for the driver to let his cross-legged occupants answer the call of nature hopefully at a lay-by with a handy 'P' sign on it.
Unfortunate female passengers, alas, usually have to hold on, or exercise most unlady like squatter's rights behind a hedge. Some women I know wouldn't stand for it.