At home with the Snorts

It’s a scene that will be instantly familiar to all parents of teenage kids.

The location: a locked bedroom in Snort Towers. Even from outside, it’s almost impossible to hear yourself think over the wall-pounding thud of techno. Simultaneously, the nostrils are assailed by an exotic aroma seeping from under the door. And when the noise momentarily abates, as one 12-inch gives way to another, in the sudden silence there can be discerned the distinct sound of female giggling. Then the relentless, head-crushing beat starts up again.

It is time, finally, to act: a fierce pounding on the door, a voice yelling “What the hell is going on in there?”. The music comes to a scratchy halt. There is the faint hiss of room spray. The door opens.

Samuel Junior, my idiot son, is standing outside, a textbook under his arm. “What is it this time?” I ask, attempting to hide the furry handcuffs behind my back. “Papa, I can’t possibly study with this racket,” says Samuel Junior. “Plus, mama is looking for Rosalita – she says she sent her upstairs to make the beds hours ago.” Shoving a wad of notes into his shirt pocket, I push him backwards down the corridor. “Go off and buy yourself some drugs, for Christ’s sake,” I yell, “and tell your mother for the last that you can’t ‘make’ a water bed.” Door slam, giggles and the big beat erupts again.

Scarily Demented

You might as well get used to it because fans will soon have the chance to see all of this and more when the innovative television series, The Snorts, opens on a small screen near you. An intimate portrait of life at home with a typically dysfunctional rock ‘n’ roll family, I can tell you that The Snorts is destined to make The Sopranos look like The Riordans – albeit with no single character quite as scarily demented as Minnie Brennan.

Still, there will be much to savour. You will meet our first-born, for example, 19 year old Armadillo Snort. Conceived in the back of tour bus in Texas while I was on the road with Foghat, Armadillo has never known his real mother. But then I always console him by pointing out that I barely knew his real mother either, though I think she may have had the concession stand for t-shirts at a festival in Galveston. Anyway, Armadillo is as much loved as if he were one of my own though, frankly, with lead singer Lance Turnpike’s snout never too far from the trough in those days, I can’t be entirely sure of that either. Whatever, the point is that I was determined to take responsibility and bring him home with me from that American tour, not least because I discovered that you could stash a couple of kilos in a baby’s nappy and thereby confound even the most zealous of airport Feds.

That doesn’t work quite so well now that he’s turned 19 but, even so, I still slip the odd package into his luggage when he isn’t looking and, so far, the worst that has happened is when he had to do a short 18 month spell in Sing Sing. As you might have guessed, he is spectacularly thick.

Incidentally, you may wonder why I decided to call my son Armadillo. Well, obviously, I’m a rock personality and so had no other option but to lumber my sprog with the most stupid and embarrassing name I could think of. To be fair, he doesn’t complain anymore – at least not since I told him that, on the toss of a coin, he could have been called Fart.

Fart Snort, my 17 year old daughter, wasn’t so lucky, which may explain why we’ve heard nothing from her since she ran away to join a kibbutz at age 15. The great fear, of course, is that she might come back, but so far, thankfully, we haven’t heard squat.

Exotic Dancer

Would that Samuel Junior would follow her. At 14, he is the black sheep of the Snort family. The boy I hoped would become the man worthy of carrying the name Sam Snort, has turned out to be a conscientious, studious, morally upright young teen, whose hobbies include collecting fossils and listening to classical music. Like any concerned parent, I have attempted to interest him in sport, if only to put him in the way of powerful drugs, but Samuel Junior has about as much physical co-ordination as a collapsed deckchair. As you might have guessed, he is spectacularly fat.

That leaves his mother and my wife, the lovely Luella Snort. The former exotic dancer is now well-known for her wonderful humanitarian work which includes campaigning against landmines in Cambodia and for landmines in Meath.

What could I do without her staunch support, inspiring love and constant attention? Well, how about shagging more babes and spending a lot more nights on the piss with the lads, for starters. Sadly, our pre-nuptial agreement means that I could lose the newly built aquatic centre at Snort Towers, or its financial equivalent, if Luella were to get proof that I so much as looked at another dame. Hence, I am always blindfolded – and strapped to the bedposts just to be sure – when our charming Hispanic housemaid comes in to hoover the master. Sorry, I mean the master bedroom.

So there you have it, a brief, first glimpse of the swish family Snort at work, rest and play. Y’all come back now, y’hear?

Your ever lovin’ Samuel J. Snort Esq