Hot to trot for 2007

It’s a brand spanking new year – and thanks be to Buddha for that! Out with the old, in with the new, and shag your resolutions, that's what I say! Roll on 2007 (Oh, I forgot, it's here already)...

Seriously, readers, I don’t know how your holiday season went, but Samuel J. Snort’s Crimbo totally sucked. Literally. I still have a headache. Just not in my head.
As I’ve possibly mentioned in these pages before, Rosita my Filipino maid is extremely talented. In bed. Wonder of wonders, so are her four younger sisters, all of whom came to stay, and stayed to come, at Snort Mansions for the holiday season. You could say that this Christmas was very much a family affair. That is, Sam was having an affair with most of Rosita’s family.
The girls only left this morning and Ireland’s greatest undying rock correspondent was actually pleased to see them blow (sorry – go). I’m getting far too old for these five-in-a-bed romps. It'll be four every time from now on.
Those fools Ernesto and Raul stupidly figured they were in with a chance, but Sam wasn’t in the mood for sharing his booty, thank you very much. I know it was the season of goodwill but, as far as I’m concerned, all of my goodwill was directed at Rosita and her four sisters. It would have been unforgivably lapse of me to allow my young Filipino charges to fall into the sweaty hands of those reprobates.
No, Ernesto and Raul had to sexually satisfy themselves with internet images of young Britney Spears. On the off-chance that you missed it, young Britney went through a week-long phase of going out commando in December.
Curiously enough, in the background of those images, also seated in the same limo (but with legs firmly closed), smiling coyly to herself, was young Paris Hilton. Could it have been Paris’s idea that Britney would make such a display of herself? If so, here’s hoping that Paris starts hanging out with some Irish celebs over the coming year.
Somewhat shockingly, 2007 is also the 30th anniversary of this very fine printed organ. Sam would like to be the first to congratulate our glorious leader, Captain Stokes, on successfully keeping the good ship hotpress afloat for the last three decades. No easy task when you consider the stormy and shark-infested waters we’ve all been sailing in since 1977.
It really doesn’t seem like 30 whole years have passed since the then 14-year-old wannabe editor offered me a gig writing this column. I was actually paid in Mars Bars for the first six months.
Speaking of 14-year-old boys, did you read about that English kid who sailed single-handedly across the Atlantic? He spent three weeks alone on his dad’s luxury yacht. Which begs the question, if he was sailing single-handedly, what was he doing with his other hand? And I think we all know the answer to that one.
Of course, as always happens, no sooner had I filed my final column of 2006 than a number of important news items landed on the desk of the world's greatest rock journalist.
There was, for example, the portly Dundalk FC supporter who doused himself in petrol and stormed the FAI headquarters. Apparently he was protesting that his team hadn’t made Ireland’s new premier league.
There are numerous good reasons to douse yourself in petrol and set yourself on fire in this country. Chief amongst them would be that awful version of ‘Fairytale Of New York’ that Ronan Bleating recorded a couple of years back.
Although Sam had long been aware of the existence of this utter abomination, he hadn’t actually heard the record. That changed just a few days before Crimbo, when I was sitting after-hours in a dodgy Limerick bar with some of my dodgier friends. Suddenly this sickly wailing noise began to emerge from the speakers and, as if as one, we all left our drinks and charged out the door (of course, this being Ireland, we were also charged as we charged out the door). We didn’t realise until after we’d left that the staff had put it on deliberately just to clear the place.
But I digress. Back to the footie. Much to the chagrin of the assembled tabloid photographers, the Dundalk supporter didn’t actually set himself on fire in the end. Apparently this was only because his team had lost the matches.
I see that Sean Haughey – he of the squeaky voice and mousey moustache – finally landed himself a well-deserved ministerial post. Apparently, he’d threatened to resign from politics unless Bertie gave him a gig. What a loss that would have been!
Having attempted to dodge them for days, he eventually told reporters that he had absolutely no idea that his father was as bent as a Donegal copper. Obviously young Sean never realised that a Taoiseach’s salary couldn’t possibly have paid for the Gandon mansion, the helicopters, horses, yachts, private island off the Kerry coast, and so on. Fair enough.
A cruel fellow that Sam met in a bar – a member of the criminal fraternity actually – pointed out that there’s only two ways of looking at this. Either Sean knew that his old man was on the take, in which case he doesn’t deserve a ministerial position. On the other hand, if he grew up surrounded by all of this opulence and wealth, and genuinely didn’t realise that Charlie must have been crooked, then he’s obviously far too stupid for the job. Sam thinks that's being a bit harsh. I mean, how the hell can Sam afford the upkeep on Snort Towers? And should I be debarred from political office just because of my shady present? I don't think so!
Speaking of stupid, I’d like to send a big shout out to Waterford TD John Deasy. Having valiantly attempted to protest the smoking ban by lighting up in the Dáil bar, Deasy has now totally obliterated Fine Gael’s chances of election this summer. Not only that, but the treacherous young scallywag has probably also obliterated his own chances of ever becoming party leader. Nice work, John!
On a more international vibration, I see that my old buddy Saddam finally got strung up. I can't say that he didn't treat me well when I went into Baghdad undercover as part of Rumsfeld's schmoozing posse in the early eighties, but hanging was probably far too good for the evil old bastard. They should’ve chained him to a wall and made him a judge in the Iraqi version of You’re A Star. Better still, they should have flown him to England and stuck him in the Celebrity Big Brother house. Now, that would’ve been real punishment...
Apparently, thanks to global warming, 2007 is already shaping up to be the hottest year on record. And that’s the real kind of ‘hot’, not a compliment from Paris. Could this be the beginning of the end? Obviously, I hope that it’s not since I have some four-in-a-bed romps to look forward to but, looking on the (really) bright side, at least there’ll be a lot of flesh on display before we all check out.