Better Late Late Than Never

Six days later and Sam Snort is only just beginning to come down from the high of his very own Late Late tribute show. It was, as you can imagine, an intensely moving night for the Snortian one, as his colourful life and times were replayed before his very eyes in the company of so many who were there from the very beginning.

Former lovers, ex-wives, any number of offspring, the brothers Hernandez from Miami, a brace of retired South American dictators, heavy hitters from the sex industry, a secretive chemist from Cambridge, a chorus line of dancing girls, a man who was formerly high up the planning department of Dublin county council, two disgraced bishops, someone answering to the name of Slab , disgruntled ex-members of Budgie, one frankly demented sean nss singer with a grudge, an embittered former DJ who claims never to have received his payola, one disbarred doctor, three politicians who ve served time in jail, and BP Fallon these were among a huge, angry, uninvited mob which basically laid siege to the studio and had to be kept away from the building by riot police wielding batons and tear gas.
Meanwhile, inside Studio One and protected by a cordon of heavy security, the specially invited audience of some seven people, having been thoroughly searched by Sam s own minders, settled down to a nostalgic evening of reminiscence, laughter and just the occasional outburst of violence and vicious recrimination.
The first big treat for the guests was a performance of a famous song by the man Sam always likes to call my mate Zimmy the beautiful and entirely appropriate Forever Young by, yes, the one and only Bob Dylan.
Unfortunately, since the great man himself could not be present on the night and, furthermore, in the absence of a video postcard, a telephone call, an e-mail or even a poxy fucking telegram, for that matter the actual performance consisted of Sam playing a cd recording of the song, the one off The Best Of Bob Dylan Vol 1 to be precise. Nevertheless, this did not detract in any way from the very personal and touching nature of the tribute, leaving no-one in any doubt as to the high esteem in which Dylan holds the world s greatest rock journalist , to quote Sam himself.
Barely had the by now semi-dozing audience recovered from this incredible high than the lights in studio dimmed and their attention was directed to the big screen whereon a lovely video history of the life of Sam Snort began to unfurl.
That the Snorter was marked for greatness from day one could be gleaned from the scratchy black and white home movie footage of his birth, in which can be seen not only Papa and Mama Snort, the eminent surgeon Dr Leary and the midwife Mrs Joplin, but also hovering in the background waving an Access All Areas badge, one BP Fallon.
Other rarely seen bits of private footage included a secret FBI recording of Sam trying to buy arms ( I want a big motherfucker of a bazooka ), a secret FBI recording of Sam trying to buy drugs ( I want a big motherfucker of a bazooka ), and a secret FBI recording of Sam trying to buy sex ( See? I already have a big motherfucker of a bazooka ).
Bringing it all back home, the Snort biopic continued with some lovely Crimeline footage of Sam receiving a bulging envelope from a builder ( Just call me Mr Insatiable ), Sam hoovering up a world record 24 white lines backstage at the MTV awards ( Just call me Mr Insatiable ) and Sam, in turn, having his own fantastic dong hoovered by someone resembling Pamela Anderson backstage at the same event ( Just call me well, you get the picture).
When the lights came back up it was to reveal that at least three members of the audience had made good their escape under cover of darkness. But it wasn t long before the atmosphere was screwed up a few notches again, as the heavily barred studio doors finally caved in under the weight and pressure of the human protestors outside, the riot cops having been forced to flee under protracted machine gun fire lead by the volatile Hernandez brothers from Miami.
Ironically, the exciting sound of Sam s old mate Elton John doing Saturday Night s Alright For Fighting was filling the studio as the hordes rushed in, but that quickly ended as the CD player was kicked over by one of those leading the charge an emotional ex-wife of Sam s carrying a sheaf of solicitor s letters and a large plank. Not far behind her were many well-known personalities, including at least seven ex-drummers with boogie faves Foghat, a female weather forecaster brandishing a rolled-up map of the world, an athlete banned for steroid abuse, three exotic dancers, and BP Fallon.
As the credits began to roll on a fine evening s entertainment, I left the building via a fire escape carrying the lovely piece of Waterford Crystal that I had spotted in the foyer on the way in. Readers will be pleased to learn that part two of my televised life and times will be carried on TV Paraguay in the autumn.
Your ever-lovin Samuel J. Snort Esq.