Drizzle me with wee under the Christmas tree, but Samuel J. Snort is seriously thinking of dispensing with the increasingly ridiculous and depraved rhyming intros that traditionally open each issue’s fabulous column. Sex is more about rhythm than rhyme. Most of the time. Sublime.

Admittedly, I’ve had my moments of inspiration – and, indeed, genius. Who could ever forget such poetic gems as ‘Fuck me gently in a gold plated Bentley,’ ‘Tie me up in tinsel tight and ride my pole throughout the night’ or (my own personal favourite) ‘Lick my load off a hallucinogenic toad’.
Unfortunately, though, there’s only so many sexual acts, body parts and Class-F amphibious creatures that actually rhyme, and even Sam himself will admit that it’s all starting to get a little bit ridiculous.
At times, it’s even downright dangerous – Jackass style. For example, if somebody took today‘s opening couplet seriously and actually attempted watersports under the Christmas tree, it could well wind up in disaster. Like, what if the lights were still plugged in? Ouch!
So for safety’s sake, I’d like to amend this column’s opening. Kindly drizzle me with wee under an opened gee, instead.
Nah, I’m just taking the piss, readers. When I return in 2007, I’m sure I’ll be greeting you with yet another corny rhyme. Tie a rock to my cock and... ah shit, I dunno... something something. Fear not, I’m sure I’ll come up with a few good ones over the holiday period.
Anyway, at this time of year it’s traditional for me to cast a bloodshot Snortian eye back over the 12 months just gone, and royally take the piss out of the various characters and events that came to public attention. First, though, a word of protest.
Protest!
Regular readers will recall that Sam Snort actually said his goodbyes in the last issue of this printed organ. Then those demanding fuckers at hot Press ring me up and ask me to do another. Is my work never done? Apparently not yet, it isn’t (“That was for the Christmas edition – now we’re doing the annual you drunken fool!”). So consider this an encore.
Unfortunately, there’s a slight problem with this whole looking back at the year vibe. You see, I’ve been smoking a hell of a lot of Afghani Squidgy and White Widow recently, not to mention guzzling down gallons of Hen. Consequently my memory’s more or less shot to shite. Literally, I remember sweet fuck all about 2006.
Sporting events? Outside of the Channel 4 Wank-a-thon, I seriously can’t remember what the fuck went on. Was there a World Cup or something? Or was that last year? Did Roy Keane hit anybody? Does any of it matter?
Culturally? I remember something about controversial Danish cartoons. I didn’t watch them though. To be honest, I couldn’t see the appeal in animated pastries, no matter what they were saying.
World events? Of course, there was the ongoing rape of Iraq and its people, aided and abetted by the Irish government. They’ll undoubtedly justify their cowardly compliance with cries of real politik, but the truth is that no US jets at all should be allowed land in this country. None. At. All. Why? Well, just last month one landed with Paris Hilton on board. Or should that be ‘bored’?
And let’s not even mention Michael Jackson.
There’s Bush of course, but the only bush Sam cares about is the lightly trimmed one to be found between my Filipino maid’s legs.
But maybe Sam will leave it to his colleagues to trawl through the carnage that was 2006. Fortunately, there’s been enough idiocy over the last fortnight alone to allow me to concern this column solely with events of a more recent and local vibration.
First up, I see in the tabloids that Jim Corr and his fiancée have sensationally split up. Apparently she couldn’t put up with Jim’s hard-partying ways any longer. He went out on Saturday night (undoubtedly with Tony Fenton) and didn’t come back until the following morning. The crazy bastard!
Speaking of crazy bastards, did you catch the drunken nutjob who invaded the stage of the Late Late Show the other week? Not that Sam Snort ever watches the show – it’s just that Rosita my Filipino maid is a petite Pat Kenny fan.
It was possibly the most entertaining moment on the show since Pee Flynn made a giant tit of himself boasting about his three houses, ugly children and supreme begging skills. It was even funnier than Boyzone’s first appearance.
Obviously a Knight Rider devotee, apparently the guy had invented some kind of intelligent car that’ll prevent road crashes entirely. He wanted to sell it to Gay Byrne and the Road Safety lads for five million quid. They wouldn’t buy it so he decided to win some people over to his safety cause by staggering drunkenly on to interrupt the show, pissed as a Keef, and calling Pat Kenny an insufferable arsehole.
Fair fucks to Plank, he didn’t lose the cool. Undoubtedly, this is because he had absolutely no cool to lose to begin with.
Stoned me! But no, it was real! Up North, Michael Stone Mad provided another of the year’s more bizarre spectacles with a rather half-hearted assassination attempt on Grizzly and Curly. And those spectacles were wedged awkwardly around his ears after the rusty warrior got stuck in a revolving door. Tosspot!
A big shout out to our glorious leader Bertie Ahern, who truly proved himself to be the most Machiavellian of them all with his teary-eyed Teflonic antics this year. Fianna Fail’s popularity is intact, back to the pre-scandal levels. Or so they tell us.
You couldn’t make it up. Well, actually, given that Bertie has no less than three make-up girls in his fulltime employ, he possibly could.
To those of you who missed it, back when he was our Minister for Finance, Bertie trousered a ‘gift’ of eight grand from a bunch of Manchester businessmen. Around the same time, he accepted a couple of ‘loans’ from his mates (loans which he still hadn’t repaid).
When this was all revealed, his spin doctors went into overdrive. They even gave Sam a call when they ran out of ideas. Loathe as I was to work for them, they offered a fairly decent wedge and also promised to drop certain legal charges. Without wishing to divulge too much, you might say they had me over a barrel. Not literally, of course.
“Tell Bertie to turn on the tears,” I advised. “Those sappy members of the Irish public will definitely fall for that one. Tell him to mention the split with his moll and say he slept on a couch for years. Everybody feels sympathy for a guy who isn’t getting laid. Whatever you do, don’t mention Celia Larkin. Stick with the sad tosser story.”
Typically Failers, though, they’ve so far Failed to pay me. I’ve been told I have to wait for some new rezoning thing to pass. They tell me they’ll all be flush then.
Oh, lest I forget, heartiest congratulations to the two steamed and esteemed members of An Garda Siochana who got sacked last week for drunkenly brawling outside the US Embassy in June of last year. Forget about being there to serve and protect. These guys just wanted to get served and wrecked. Rock & roll!!!
So that’s all for 2006, folks. Sam’s off now to have his way in a manger with a beautiful stranger, and plug the firm but of a horny young slut – but that’ll be the end of it.