Accounting For Myself

At first, when the hack from the Daily Ghoul rang to ask me about the rumours, I could only laugh.

“So let me get this straight, asshole,” I began gently, “according to your wonderful sources, I’ve been linked with some well-known chick called Ann, right, and spineless little reptile that you are, you think I’ve got some reason to be worried if all this goes public. I see. Well, lemme put it to you this way Mr Pond Scum, Sam Snort doesn’t do discreet; not only do I mark up every conquest on the bed post, I’m quite happy to push the fucking bed down O’ Connell Street in the middle of the St. Patrick’s Day parade. And if Ann somebody or other wants to kiss and tell on old Uncle Sam, well, all that really matters is that she kissed in the first place, comprende? And, frankly, slimebreath, if I were her, I’d wanna tell the world about it too. So, print that in your pathetic little organ, you worthless piece of dog shit, and don’t call this number again unless you want a personal 4am wake-up call from the Foghat roadie we affectionately call Manmountain Dense. That’s just as soon as he gets his release papers from the wet brain ward, of course.”

Normally even my mother would hang up about now but the diseased ferret on the other end of the line was nothing if not determined. And as he whimpered on a little bit more, I realised that at the top of the call there we’d had something of a failure to communicate. Because it turned out that Ann wasn’t a chick, after all. She was – how can I put this? – a bank account. By the time you read this, Sam Snort, it seems, will have become Ansbacher Man.

Brown envelopes

However, before all you heroic little PAYE types rush to judgment, may I say, with hand on heart, that there’s a perfectly simple explanation for how I ended up in that damning report – the bribes obviously didn’t work.

It’s a scandal right enough. When a man spreads his load around in all the supposedly right places, the least you think he can expect is a little bit of peace and quiet. What good is stuffing brown envelopes with nice crispy euros and sending them off to Judge this or Inspector that, if all you get in return is a Fed under the bed and Fin Laden O’ Toole giving you grief in his dreary column? Where did this great little country of ours go so horribly wrong?

You know, if this kind of poker up the ass mentality had prevailed back in the day, not only would Snort Towers never have been built but that stupid old stone circle would still be standing in the weed-strewn field where we installed our state of the art landing strip and control tower.

Think of it: instead of playing host to such fine upstanding folk as Kid Rock, Lemmy and the Oz, as well as some of the planet’s most sophisticated drug couriers, our little corner of the world would have been frequented mainly by – oh Jesus – “ramblers”, new age dingbats and bearded archeologists with withering halitosis and chronic real ale habits.

And what about the right to privacy? If, for argument’s sake, word had leaked out that Sam’s day to day cash flow included the processing of cheques from Sirens Escort Agency, Wanda’s Lap Dancing Nite Club and the Banca Nacional De Bogota, as well as a few large canvas sacks descreetly marked ‘Swag’, well, you can imagine how certain lefty conspiracy theorists would immediately put two and two together and come up with 22.

Next thing you know, they’d be pointing out that my accountant is in the throes of a 25 year stretch in Sing-Sing and that when I sign on every week I do so as “an unemployed labourer” before driving off with my entourage in a convoy of stretch limousines.

Before very long, people might even form the impression that Ireland’s most beloved rock journalist was up to no good and my chances of getting elected to the Seanad could be seriously undermined.

With all that to consider, I think it was merely practical and prudent to hand over all my financial dealings to the excellent people in what I like to consider Ireland’s fifth green field – Grand Cayman, to you – where a man can savour the fruits of on an honest’s life endeavour, with a potent cocktail, not to mention a potent cock massage, beneath hot sun and swaying palm fronds. It’s also a much handier spot to meet my South American associates, the Brothers Hernandez, than, say, the Burlington.

Mysterious Blaze

So, no, Sam Snort has nothing to fear from the publication of this irritating little report. And I

would be more than delighted to co-operate with any criminal investigations which might arise, were it not for the fact that since starting this article, my life has sustained a series of unexpected and brutal blows.

In the last fifteen minutes alone, I have learned, to my horror, that my accountant was knifed to death in Cell 53; my office at Snort Towers has been gutted in a mysterious blaze; and everyone who has ever had any financial dealings with me – inlcuding Great Uncle Norbert Snort, who gave me my Communion money in 1965 – has contracted a deadly form of anthrax, apparently on receipt of a mail-order offer of discount CDs at Dolphin Discs.

What a pisser, eh? Needless to say, I have acted promptly by fleeing the jurisdiction – sorry, rushing to the bedside of my ailing offshore account – and will, in future, be filing all copy from a secure e-mail address in downtown Cayman.

Meanwhile, hope the summer picks up for all you poor saps.

Your ever lovin’ Samuel J. Snort Esq