JUST SAY YES!

AMID ALL the brouhaha – and indeed the brouhoho – about the IRA cease-fire and the promise of peace in our time, it seems to have escaped the attention of many commentators that the agenda being pursued was fully outlined in these very pages last year. By me, Samuel J. Snort, of course.

Ever since the Snort Initiative – Fucking For Peace – was published, there has been a clear intention on the part of most of the combatants to scale down their military activities and search for a new way forward.

Now that this has occurred, we can really start to make progress, on all fucking fronts.

Last year, Sam Snort’s position paper identified shagging as being at the very crux of the matter. Catholics and Protestants in the North have had an unusually restricted worldview, beginning with the fact that they only fuck people of their own religion. What a fucking disaster!

Sam Snort is appalled at the idea of leurve and religion even being mentioned in the same sentence – but in the North, the two concepts have become horribly twisted, resulting directly in 25 years of carnage. Yes indeed. Fucking without frontiers should always have been the main plank of the drive towards peace and reconciliation.

Every night, somewhere in the North, a guy brings a babe home to his vixen pit, gets out the Luther Vandross tape, changes into his best rubber suit, and skins up a joint.

Soon, she is butt naked, and, as a plume of sweetly aromatic smoke rises from the spliff, the guy says something like this: “By the way, what religion are you?”

“Catholic,” she says.

Immediately, the atmosphere darkens, and the mood turns ugly. He slips out of his rubber-wear and tucks it away sadly. Luther Vandross is cut off in his prime, the bamboozler is stubbed out, and after some rummaging, the guy emerges in a black suit, orange sash, and bowler hat.

“Babe, me and you can’t ball,” he says. “No way, no how. My Protestant pecker must never be plunged into your Catholic love-canyon. It is against my principles. And incidentally, I happen to be a brigadier-general in the UVF, so instead of making sweet leurve all night long, I must shoot you in the head and dump your body on waste ground. You know it’s the only way, babe.”

IMPERIALIST MEDIA

The failure to fuck across the great divide can, of course, be partly attributed to the quality of leadership on both sides. They are such plug ugly sons of bitches that their goddamn whole aura discourages ordinary folk from even thinking about rumpy pumpy, and instead drives them out onto the streets with the aim of terminating members of the human race itself, with extreme prejudice lest they breed.

I always believed that John Hume would look far better without his glasses. Jesus, John did you never hear of contact fucking lenses? Now I know there are those who would allege that instead of singing some poxy Fenian ballad when he gets sozzled, John should be sinking his enormous Taig todger into some luscious Presbyterian pussy. True, this is the way of the Lord – but I’d be well satisfied if the man merely got himself a pair of decent fucking shades. Hume in shades – the babes would just leurve you, John . . .

Meanwhile, Gerry Adams can’t fuck unless Martin McGuinness is in the room, reading the Proclamation in Irish. And McGuinness can’t fuck because he’s too busy figuring out hoaxes he can foist on the imperialist media. He prefers fishing to fucking, and the fish are happy enough about that.

Ken Maginnis (no relation) tries to look like an ageing Lothario with a taste for flogging, but ends up looking like someone who failed the audition for The Village People.

Paisley is a beast.

Jim Molyneux is a desiccated old toad who looks like he couldn’t get his rocks off if his life depended on it. Jesus, there are thousands of people lying six feet under Milltown Cemetery who are more sexually active-looking than Jim Molyneux. If he has a dick at all, he should hand it back and apologise for doing nothing exceptional with it – unless of course he was the Unionist politician who pissed in his trousers when he was short taken on the Twelfth.

PUNY PORKSWORD

Of Peter Robinson, it can be said that no decent person would entertain him with anything short of a bargepole inserted in the rectum and turned rapidly. But he might like that. So make it an electric cattle-prod and tie a knot in his little orange pecker.

Yes indeed. We are talking here about a hideous catalogue of humanity at its least shaggable – and these are the bozos who have been calling the shots!

The people must cast them aside and start cocking those weapons between their legs. Instead of the Confidential Telephone Number, army land-rovers should carry Lady Di’s number emblazoned on the side, so that the good folks of Ulster can give her a bell. “Whatever you say, say nothing: might assume whole new layers of meaning here.

Similarly, the politicians must respond to the new wave of horniness.

There should be a television link-up featuring Hume, Adams, Paisley, Molyneux, McGuinness (Martin) and Maginnis (Ken).

Hume, shampooed and showered, can lead off with a rendition of ‘The Babes I Loved So Well’.

Adams can talk us through the Kama Sutra, wink, and say, “I’m pretty flexible myself. Drop in to my centre sometime and find out. Ciao. Gerry. 32 inches.”

Over to Paisley, who will bellow: “Ulster says yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, oh my Gawwwd.” Under new broadcasting restrictions his words will be spoken by an actor very late at night, to avoid distress to people of a nervous disposition.

Molyneux can be fed a bevy of babes until he somehow revises the old flag. And then, when his puny porksword reaches its zenith, Stormont will be razed to the ground in a series of controlled explosions.

Ken Maginnis can play it for laughs, re-living his Village People audition with a blast of “INLA”.

And finally, it will be over to Martin McGuinness in the Derry studio: “In conclusion, I will say one thing to the people of Northern Ireland, Catholic, Protestant and Dissenter: ‘Wang, dang, sweet poontang’. Good night, my fornicating friends.”

Fuck the Queen and fuck the Pope . . . And fuck me too.

• Your ever-lovin’ Rev. Samuel J. Snort S.J.