Have yourself a very X-Y Xmas!

Tie me up in tinsel tight and ride my pole throughout the night – it’s Christmas time! Bloody hell, but that was quick coming around again. It seems like only yesterday that Ireland’s greatest undying rock journalist was stuffing a certain someone’s pink velvet stocking with several pounds of prime.

Well, actually, it was only yesterday (my Filipino maid Rosita’s still staying in my room after the Hallowe’en orgy fire), but I’m pretty sure I was doing it last Christmas as well. What else would I have been doing?
Anyway, as per usual, Samuel J. Snort is planning a very x-y Xmas. I’ll be having a ball. Actually, two balls. Licked. Ha, ha!
We’re already extremely well-prepared chez Sam. For a start, we never took down last year’s decorations so there’s very little to do in that department. We had a very nice imitation tree, but Kiefer Sutherland flung himself into it last year and broke all the branches. That aside, we’re sordid. Sorry, sorted.
The larder of the Snort Towers kitchen is already crammed with every foodstuff imaginable. Truffles, selections of Sheridan’s best cheeses, wild salmon (sadly, we’ve had no wild bass since Adam Clayton went on the straight and narrow), caviar, legs of lamb, fillet steaks, Heinz baked beans, Pringles, peanuts, giant multi-packs of Taytos, we have the lot. We even have a turkey (someone couriered around a review copy of the new Westlife album).
We also have every brand of alcohol known to the buyers at Dunnes Stores – crates of Heineken, Bud, Smithwicks, Dutch Gold and Stella and, of course, several kegs of Guinness, Murphys and Galway Hooker. As for the hard stuff, well, let’s just say that we have more evil spirits floating around than the Pentagon. We have gin rummy, but ever since Don’s sacking they now just have gin.
Fuck having a ‘merry’ Christmas! Merry is what old women become after a thimbleful of cheap sherry. We’re planning a full-on, fucked-up, drunk-as-a-skunk celebration. Nobody’s leaving Sam’s party unless it’s in the back of an ambulance. And that’ll only happen if the driver can’t be tempted to stay (as happened last year).
As for illegal combustibles, my stash-box – or rather stash-chest – is also overflowing. We have narcotics to beat the band – probably even Babyshambles or The Scream.
Now that hostilities have cooled in Afghanistan, the supplies of Afghani Black Squidgy are beginning to flow again. Ernesto managed to score two nine bars of the oily stuff in Mullingar last weekend so we’re extremely well sorted. These days, we wash ourselves in fuckin’ soap-bar.
It’s not don’t do drugs, kids – it’s don’t do shite drugs.
Ernesto’s also gotten his hands on three kilos of killer weed. One of White Widow, one of Purple Haze and one of old Mrs. Murphy’s stash from just down the road. Ever since she had that new hydroponics system installed, her grass has been top notch.
Raul is in charge of chemical operations and, fair fucks to the normally hapless little prick, he’s really coming up trumps this year. We have two-and-a-half ounces of 80% pure Colombian marching powder, one ounce of the other 20%, half-an-ounce of good MDMA powder (the pink stuff), three blotter sheets of excellent acid, 200 ecstasy tablets, two bags of Mexican peyote, several cartons of Xanax and Valium, and a giant-sized Maxwell House coffee jar full of powdered mushrooms. He also managed to score some smack in case Keef drops around –as opposed to ‘off’.
I’d been planning on inviting some of my Hot Press colleagues around for the usual Bacchanalian festivities, but I’m afraid it’s not looking good. Everybody seems to be otherwise occupied. That anorexic fucker Stuart Clark is still on a diet. Olaf Tyaransen recently became a father and has apparently renounced his wicked ways (snort!). Colm O’Hare says he can’t find a designated driver. Peter Murphy’s busy reading the latest Thomas Pynchon. Brett Walker’s heading back down under and Jackie Hayden’s refusing to leave there (i.e. Wexford). Even Niall Stokes has locked himself away plotting the mag’s thirtieth anniversary celebrations.
As for the women, well, after last year’s little incident, they’re all refusing to come. Hurtfully, these refusals are coming in the form of scary solicitor’s letters. Roisin, Mairin, Marie, Tara, Louise, Shilpa – my profoundest, humblest apologies yet again. I genuinely had no idea that Ernesto and Raul had installed a hidden webcam in the bathroom mirror and were broadcasting your ablutions to a worldwide audience of millions.
Of course, the usual bunch of celebrities will be coming, but it’d be very bad form to tell you who. However, it’s probably okay to tell you who won’t be coming. Sam would like to send a big shot out to my old mucker and lord of the prance, Michael Flatfoot. Following his recent marriage, he could be forgiven for staying in bed for a while, but apparently he’s come down with a serious virus of some sort. Get well soon, Michael. You’ll be back riverdancing in no time. Hopefully in the Liffey.
Anyway, enough of all that nonsense. It’s been a busy old fortnight anyway, even outside of the frenzied Christmas preparations. We had that Paris Hilton round the gaff last week. Jaysus, what a wrench that woman is! Having viewed her dismal performance in the infamous One Night In Paris video, Sam felt that someone had to teach her how to give a proper blowjob. Her lousy fellatio was the most infamous thing about that ridiculous flick.
So yes, Sam Snort can now exclusively reveal that those internet rumours weren’t a conspiracy theory. It really was a Paris body-double waving and staring vacantly at all those teenaged fools gathered at Brown Thomas for the recent launch of her fragrance (Eau De Cheapnnasty). The real Paris was studying hard at the Samscrotch School of Sex. Then she – ahem – headed off.
Speaking of sex tapes, I see that Britney Spears has finally dumped her useless fool of a husband, Kevin Whatshisname. Apparently, class act that he is, Kevin is currently attempting to flog an eight-hour long video of their honeymoon sex sessions. His price? $65 million! Dream on, Kevin! Unless the pair of you have reinvented the Kama Sutra and come up with a brand new, hitherto un-thought of sexual position, somehow I doubt anyone’s going to cough up that kind of cash.
Elsewhere, I see that Rupert Murdoch has apologised and scrapped his plans to release a book by professional murdering bastard OJ Simpson. The Juice had apparently written a book and filmed a TV interview entitled If I Did It. Does the man have no shame? Well, actually, no he doesn’t. We already knew that, but what about the insensitive idiots who conceived this abominable idea?
Did they not realise that there’d be such a public outcry that the plans would inevitably be abandoned? And there was me thinking that Fox was an intelligent creature. Fucking morons! But what can you do?
Almost time for Sam to love you, love you again, and leave you, but before I do I’d just like to say how utterly disappointed I was with young David McWilliam’s TV documentary The Pope’s Children.
I watched it expecting another major Church scandal and wondering who the Holy See had been giving a good Seeing-To to. Did I find out? Did I fuck! It wasn’t about the Pope’s illicit children at all. Instead it was an economics lecture by a GIABS – a Ginger In A Blue Shirt.
Anyway, enough, enough and thrice enough. Have yourselves a wonderful Christmas, readers. Be safe, don’t do anything Sam would, and see you afresh and anew in the new year. Maybe. Meantime, all the breast.