I snort, therefore I am

There are some people who think that Sam Snort doesn’t exist, just as there are some people who think that Handsome Dick Manitoba is a figment of somebody’s imagination. Possibly Sam Snort’s. And then there are all those people who know for a fact that Foghat do exist but rather wish they didn’t.

But back to the mainman, back to moi. In the last issue of hotpress, I wrote at length about my immersion in the world of royalty, a decidedly long, strange trip which has taken me from three-in-a-bed romps with the downstairs staff in Buck House to the august occasion of my recent knighthood, which found me down on my knees in front of a queen – an unprecedented case of role reversal, if ever there was one, for the king of self-gratification, Samuel J. Snort Esq.

Sceptics would have read this and thought, “Arise Sir Sam, my arse – when is this plonker going to get real and realise that he is merely the rather pathetic fictional creation of a hotpress hack with a bad mushroom habit and a non-existent sex life.”

To them, I say, as I always say, in a spirit of good faith and harmony amongst all men: fuck you, you fucking fucks and fuck your muthas. Because today, I bring you proof positive that not only does Sam Snort exist but he telleth no lies.

leathery old

dingbats

Regular readers will recall that last week, I spilled the beans on drugs among the horsey royal set, pointing out that the plant-yapping Prince isn’t the only proper Charlie known to these leathery old dingbats.

And whaddya know, barely had the latest issue hit the stands, than the Evening Herald – widely regarded, I think it’s fair to say, as the world’s greatest newspaper – published the shock-horror story which I am happy to reproduce on this page today, a story which purports to break the news that “cocaine is the drug of choice at the exclusive Royal Enclosure at Ascot.”

Shock-horror to those who don’t read the man Snort or even believe in his existence, of course. But for all right thinking people, this was merely belated confirmation that Sam’s laminate reading ‘Access All Areas’ does exactly what it says on the tin.

In the Herald report, we learn, for example, that “the class-A drug was being taken yards from where the Queen, the Queen Mother, Prince Charles and Zara Phillips entertain guests.”

And a most entertaining guest I was, if I may say so myself.

Next we learn that this shocking development came to light on Ladies Day.

Well, I’d hardly go to Ascot for the fucking ponies.

It is also reported that “more than 1,000 police and security staff have been deployed at Ascot to try to prevent problems.”

Regular readers of this column will know that the Feds have never managed to bust Sam The Man, though unfortunately this has necessitated sacrificing the odd roadie along the way. Clearly, men with fat arses and bunches of keys hanging off their droopy jeans wouldn’t get very far at Royal Ascot but I had no intention of allowing the absence of a personal carrier to destroy my day.

Instead, I simply stuffed my stash of fast white powder up a horse’s arse which not only kept the Feds at bay but also supplied the bonus of an unexpected victory in the 5.30 when the unfancied nag came home like a fucking train at 33 to 1.

Then, at the very end of the Herald piece, there’s the delicious irony of the accidental superimposition of a subbing instruction which translates as “Over 2 Lines”.

This is very true but then over two lines could also be over two hundred lines which is probably a good deal closer to the truth.

And, of course, there is that lovely picture of the Queen smiling in that unexpectedly girlish way of hers. And why is she smiling? Perhaps it has something to do with the wandering hand of the mysterious man in shades sitting to her left (just out of picture).

Finally there is the catchy headline, SNORT PAST THE POST, just in case you had encountered any difficulty reading between the lines, as it were.

wank my cock

So I hope that this report puts paid once and for all to the rancid suspicions of those who think that Sam Snort is nothing more than a nom de plume for some nerdy scribe with more imagination than sense.

Instead, let the doubters take their lead from the world’s greatest newspaper and, indeed, from the excellent Trevor, who writes in this issue’s letters page that he would like to wank my cock in sheer admiration.

To Trevor I say, thank you for your favourable comments and kind intentions. It is always deeply rewarding to receive feedback from true fans.

Now, be a good boy and get in line.

Your ever lovin’ Samuel J. Snort Esq