A real fame in the ass

Torture my nipples with sharp Scottish thistles, but it’s been yet another wild, madcap fortnight in the sexy, salubrious and smoky environs of Snort Towers. Usually most of the smoke in my gaff is caused by Ernesto’s chronic White Widow habit, but we actually had a seriously unforgettable fire the other week.

House fires are always inconvenient but, just to make matters worse, this one happened bang in the middle of my annual Hallowe’en orgy. I’ve been hosting this event for more than a decade now. Most people celebrate Hallowe’en by getting dressed up and going around to the neighbours. Round here, we celebrate by getting undressed and going down on the neighbours.
But I’m only following ancient traditions. As any Celtic scholar will tell you, Hallowe’en is also known as ‘Samhain’ – the feast of summer’s end. I prefer to interpret the word Samhain as a partial acronym – Samh(as)in(tercourse). As for celebrating summer’s end, there were two young hippie chicks named Summer present. Just to be on the safe side, I rimmed both of them.
As it happened, we were all so busy gorging at the carnal feast that nobody even noticed the fire at first. Things were pretty hot already, but it wasn’t until the record actually melted onto the turntable (ironically enough, it was the Lizard King crooning “Come on baby, light my fire”) that anybody noticed something was amiss – or rather, alight. Fuckin’ hell! I’d thought that those guys in firemen outfits were just role-playing. But no, that was an actual hosepipe they were carrying.
Anyway, some slight water damage aside, no real damage done. The investigators traced the source of the conflagration to my Filipino maid Rosita’s bedroom, which conveniently adjoins the orgy area. Apparently she’d been charging up her Roger Rabbit, but there was a loose wire in her loose wire. She’d left the damn thing in a drawer full of lacy underwear. Pretty soon, her hot pants were hotter than ever intended.
Ah fuck it, though, nobody died and the insurance will cover the damages (and a lot more besides). And I’ve already told Rosita she can sleep in my room for the next while. Ha, ha!
Meantime, I’ve got other worries. Your beloved correspondent has just been socially snubbed, which has dampened my spirits far more than any fire hose possibly could. The new Who’s Who In Ireland has just been published and, once again, the country’s premier penman has been ignored. No, I’m not talking about Roddy bleedin’ Doyle!
Having sent Ernesto into town to shoplift a copy for me, I eagerly turned to the ‘S’ section only to discover that there was no listing for one Samuel J. Snort.
Nor was there any mention of my Hallowe’en orgy, undoubtedly one of the most important events in the social calendar. You wouldn’t believe some of the people who’ve attended down through the years. Politicians, pop stars, priests, actors, writers, magazine editors. Suffice it to say, I call the videotapes my pension plan.
Anyway, I feel insulted at this ostracism. I’m Samuel Jumbo Snort – the most influential rock journalist this shithole of a country has ever produced. How can they possible leave me off their list? Snobby bastards! I knew I should’ve joined the K Club. Thing is, though, I’m not really all that fond of Ketamine.
Nah, readers, I’m joking. Sam shall survive. Besides, it wasn’t just me who didn’t make the grade. Actors Cillian Murphy [pictured] and Jonathan Rhys-Myers weren’t mentioned. Nor were Roy Keane, Mary Robinson or John ‘Homer’ Bruton.
Even less forgivably, Van the Man was totally ignored. And it wasn’t just vans left out; racing cars were also excluded. That’s right, the two Eddies – Jordan and Irvine – ain’t mentioned.
Hilariously, being of supposed Irish ancestry, actors Harrison Ford, Emilio Estevez and Robert De Niro are all listed. According to the list, Paris Hilton also has a bit of Irish in her. But not every day, mind.
Oh, woe betide these arseholes and their areseholery.
Speaking of which, but turning to other news, I see that Dr. John McManus has recently unveiled his genius strategy for solving Ireland’s drug problems. “Dr. who?” you might ask. No, I’d never heard of him either, but apparently he’s married to Labour’s Liz McManus. I dunno if he’s in the new Who’s Who.
Anyway, McManus wants to see a TV presenter or hack in the Joy. According to him, locking up the messengers will send out the right message to Ireland’s middle class drug fiends.
Last week, he told the Indo, “Until such time that a young TV presenter or journalist gets a sentence from the courts for cocaine use, or a young barrister has to do community service for the possession of E for his own use, or a young doctor gets an adult caution for the possession of cannabis, this market will continue to grow, for there is very little consequences at present for possession.”
Notice how he didn’t mention politicians in that little roll-call of typical drug abusers. Funny that, given that there were traces of cocaine found in the toilets of Leinster House recently. Probably didn’t want to upset his missus.
Of course, when it comes to politicians and drugs, Ireland’s Charlie-problem positively pales in comparison to the fiends of the Italian parliament. The satirical TV show Le Iene – The Hyenas – recently pulled a seriously sneaky stunt on 50 politicians. Having set up a series of interviews about next year’s budget, the show’s makers secretly collected samples of each interviewee’s body cells during the pre-interview makeover.
The cells were then sent to a lab and tested for drugs. Mama mia! Miami Vice!
The results indicated that of the 50 tested, almost a third had been living la dolce vita within the previous 36 hours. Four of them tested positive for cocaine and 12 for marijuana. However, for some bizarre reason, that particular episode of Le Iene still hasn’t been broadcast on Italian TV. Expect to see it sometime after midnight around the year 2059.
But I digress. Back to these naively green shores. Dr. McManus continued his lecture with the following quote: “In my view, the Government’s strategy of simply targeting the dealers has been wrong. We must shrink the market and that will involve difficult choices. Unless people know that there will be consequences for them by the use of drugs, the market will continue to grow, fostering criminality.”
Shrink the market? Em, no offence, Doc, but don’t you think it’s a little too fucking late for that? Fostering criminality? We’ve got gangland shootings happening on a weekly basis, a black market worth billions, and illegal drugs available anywhere you look in the country. And you want to lock up loveable hell-raisers like Ryan Tubridy and Derek Mooney? What the fuck have you been smoking?
Anyway, enough idiocy. Oh alright then, just a little bit more...
Sam would like to send a big shot out to moronic Fine Gael councillor Michael Fitzgerald for giving us all a badly-needed laugh last week. There was outrage when the plain speaking Tipperary man – who apparently has a bit of previous on the auld drink driving – openly admitted to regularly driving after “three or four pints”. Obviously, he’s actually more of a pint-of-plain speaking man.
He made this admission when he was trying to highlight the issue of young boy racers driving at high speed in souped-up cars in the early hours of the morning. “I’ve never killed anyone,” he said. “I feel the wrong people are being targeted.” Sadly for Michael, Enda Kenny didn’t agree – and unceremoniously recommended that the party whip be removed from Fitz over his remarks. And there was me thinking that the Fianna Gael whip had been destroyed during my orgy fire.
For what it’s worth, Sam’s only advice on this matter is that you should never ever drink and drive. Like the classic bumper sticker says, you’ll only spill it!