... and all I got was this lousy power-sharing executive.

Well, I wasn't, but a lot of people I'm aware of, have met, have socialised with, were part of the militant Republican movement.

The war was declared over some years back. Now the British overlords have confirmed that the transition to mainstream political activity is complete.

I suppose there wasn't much time left for Martin McGuinness (see pic, far right) to be holding IRA council meetings since his day job as Deputy First Minister to Ian Paisley and Mr Iris Robinson (who himself was a terrorist in his day, as the people of Clontibret can testify, see pic below) takes up so many hours.

But today's final nail in the Provo coffin must be hard to bear for some of the ground level volunteers - the people who took a guerilla war to what were often violent, brutish and sadistic British troops.

They've got out of prison early, which I wasn't a great fan of. But where are they now, the best years of their lives spent fighting a civil war or incarcerated? Sure some of them have got nice state jobs like Marty McGuinness, as 'community workers' and the like.

But most of them must now be wondering what was it all for? This paltry power-sharing deal? The same deal as Sunningdale offered so many decades ago? For Martin McGuinness to swan around preposterously posing as a peacemaker to Iraqis?

And what of the victims? Not just the victims of Provo attacks, but the victims of Provo domination of neighbourhoods, the victims of Provo intimidation of individuals, the victims of Provo insistence that they and only they could speak for Irish Republicanism?

How do they feel today?

Well, the Unionists now have what they wanted. They have Stormont back, they have made the IRA go away, they have their gerrymandered veto on Irish reunification. They have their pet Provos in the ha'penny power places.

According to 'Colonel' Kevin Myers, in his forthcoming tome about the Troubles, he was barely able to file copy most days due to the amount of women he was boffing in Belfast.

In yesterday's Sunday Times, we got two self-indulgent broadsheet pages of his Belfast bedpost notches, full of glorious detail about how our hero was paramour to Provos and lothario of Loyalists in the early Seventies.

In fairness, the Colonel didn't have his recognisably pendulous jowls back then, and I've little doubt that to the denizens of Belfast back then, a plummy English accent that wasn't accompanied by battle fatigues and a rifle was a real novelty.

But am I the only person to find his account of love across the barricades more than a tad unlikely?

Let me be frank - some of his Don Juantics simply stretch my disbelief suspenders to breaking point. Let me quote a couple of examples. After being taken back to the Falls Road house of a prominent Provo by his missus, Myers is interrupted in his nocturnal adventure when the aforementioned paramilitary returns unexpectedly. Myers assumes the position (hiding under the bed.)

"And so it proceeded, her nagging and his bluster, until finally he went downstairs to make the tea. I rolled out from under the bed, scooped the remains of my clothes from the floor and without kissing my girl of the night farewell, hopped into the only other bedroom, where the sister was drunkenly slumbering. I had no choice but to slip in beside her and hope she didn’t notice."

The Colonel manages to make his excuses and leave in good journalistic fashion of course, albeit his quick exit means he drives home in his pelt with an accidental armful of the cuckolded Provo's undies.

He manages to get caught in flagrante a second time with 'classically Protestant' Trudy on the other side of town. Her rugby playing hubby returns early from the game, while Myers again assumes the position:

"I leapt nimbly over the bed and lay alongside it, in the small gap between it and the wall beneath the curtained window. But it had taken too long. Erskine had grown impatient and had gone to the front of the house, where he was hauling the unlocked sash window open, just inches above me."

Again, using the quick wit for which he is famed, he makes his escape unharmed by husband.

"This was the second time a husband had nearly caught me, but on different sides of the sectarian divide. With such gallant cross-community endeavours as mine, peace was surely at hand."

Surely indeed, Kevin. What did it take in the end, three more decades? You should have put it about a bit more.

Now, I'm not saying he couldn't have got one or two pity shags. After all, Belfast back then was like that line from Pulp's song 'Common People' - "We drink and smoke and screw because there's nothing else to do."

But does he really expect people to believe all this sleeping with the enemies guff? My arse, he does.

I reckon he's just seeking to take the piss out of a place which he seems to have despised for many years. That or desperately trying to flog his book.