Jamie, without Twitter you'd be standing on an upturned milk crate outside Belfast City Hall, delivering your latest revolutionary proclamation to three Saturday shoppers and a pigeon. Yet somehow you've convinced yourself you're the commander-in-chief of unionism, given Unionism is all over the show, you found a gap- well done, you. Ffs, the delusions of grandeur are extraordinary, amusing as feck, but still delusional You keep insisting this isn't a political rally, yet you've spent multiple posts promoting it like you're personally organising the Second Coming, putting yourself front and centre . At this stage, it sounds less like an Orange Order event and more like a political slumber party for yourself, Carla Lockhart and Jim Allister. All that's missing is a flatbed truck, three microphones and a competition to see who can mention Sinn Féin, human rights, nationalists and Ireland most often before bedtime; my money is on Jim 'I walked away from Ulster resistance before it got scary," Allister. And where exactly is the Orange Order in all this? It's supposedly their event, yet we hear considerably more from you than from the people you're claiming to support. The 35 Orangemen must be wondering when they'll actually get a word in, although given you keep telling us they are "old men", they really should be able to remember how divisive their presence at Drumcree was and how it cost both sides of the community At this stage, Jamie, your political allegiances are another spectacle altogether. Who will it be next week? I see you are now running Robinson into the ground. FFS, one minute you're championing one unionist politician, the next you're practically hanging off the arm of another. Whoever gives you a passing glance or a few minutes of attention suddenly becomes your latest political soulmate. It's like watching political speed dating, except you're the only one who thinks it's a serious relationship. Embarrassing doesn't begin to cover it. You've spent the last few weeks behaving like a child who got Twitter for Christmas and hasn't put the bloody thing down. Another proclamation, another dramatic warning, another Paisley "LITE" impression from the comfort of your armchair. Even Paisley occasionally stopped talking Strip away the flags, the theatrical speeches and the enormous self-importance, and you're still a loyalist blogger with a background in picking up criminal convictions and despatching the odd taxi, not the commander-in-chief of unionism. The irony is delicious. You're telling everyone this isn't political while treating Portadown like your own personal party conference. And when the microphones are packed away, Twitter goes quiet, and the crowd goes home, you'll still be Jamie Bryson. The milk crate will be waiting outside City Hall, big fella