Little Richard and the big dicks

After the terrible news of last week, many bewildered young people have come up to me in the street, pleading for reassurance, for leadership, for hope and for consolation. But even I, the great, swaggering, rock-hard he-man that is Samuel J. Snort Esq, was frankly shaken to the very core of my being by the gut-wrenching shock of it all.

But then how else could any sane person react to the announcement that Marilyn Manson has cancelled his gig at The Point?

It’s a downer for sure but somehow I know we’ll all muddle through without the old cock-eyed git. Indeed, the more Sam thinks about it, the more he’s relieved that the lanky streak of misery is not set to darken our shores. Okay, so the proposed Television Audience With… angle might have been a hoot, especially if it was done in an Up For The Match stylee, with oul’ fellas of 101 talking through their arse (“If you dressed like that in our day you’d get an unmerciful puck in the gob”) and Mary Kennedy introducing the whole thing with a big smile and the words: “Many of our viewers might be surprised to learn that gaelic games are popular with controversial rock star Marilyn Manson’s audience but, believe it or not, I’m told that many people do actually hurl at his concert performances. So let’s hear what the man himself has to say: a big ‘bualadh bos’, if you please, for the God Of Fuck.”

Interesting Poontang

Yes, indeedy, I’d have paid a few bucks to see that one myself, especially if they discovered that the God of Fuck had relations in Tipperary, but, sadly, you and I know that in all probability they’d have gone for some arty-farty angle instead, with a dark backdrop, white lights, a crucifix stage prop and some bozo in a turtle neck getting horny every time he uses the word “paradigm”. Frankly, if it’s a fission of danger you’re after, you’d be better off going to see mad old Arthur Brown setting fire to one of his own farts.

They don’t make radical rock rebels like they used to. Take Slipknot – please. Let me be sure I’ve got this right: the self-styled most extreme rock ‘n’ roll band on the planet, the latest threat to civilisation as we know it, and what exactly is it that they bring to the party? Scary masks and loud noise. Remind you of anything? That’s right, kiddies, Halloween – except without dunk the apple and the chance for some interesting poontang on the one occasion in the year when your missus doesn’t mind dressing up as a witch.

Then there’s Eminem. What have we got here? A bloke in a boiler suit with a chainsaw. Well, hey, I reckon that pretty much makes him the Gerry Daly of rap, except that Ireland’s coolest gardener would obviously get through a lot more hoes.

So that’s Marilyn, Slipknot and Eminem sorted. Even if we throw in poor, fat, demented Oz, they hardly qualify as the Four Horsemen Of The Apocalypse, now do they? Stick all those boyos in a locked room with any elderly bearded folk group you care to mention, pipe in a constant supply of stout on tap and five’ll get you ten that when the doors are opened after a week the only thing left standing will be red-faced men called Jemser and Mickey and Tadhg, bellowing ‘Boolavogue’ at the tops of their voices and using Marilyn’s corset to mop up spillage.

Pure Balls

To all those who think that 21st century rock‘n’roll is more edgy, menacing, dangerous, decadent and depraved than ever before I simply reply in two little words – Little Richard.

How’s this for pure balls: out of the segregated, homophobic, pre-rock American south comes

a young black bisexual who appears onstage wearing full make-up and singing in a screeching falsetto, “Awopbopaloobopalopbaboom”.

Little Richard: the God Who Didn’t Give A

Fuck. And that was nearly fifty years ago,

kiddies.

Marslipeminoz should be made to listen to ‘Tutti Frutti’ every day before they leave the nursery. And then they shouldn’t leave the nursery.

Still, they could be worse. They could be Foghat.

Your ever lovin’

Samuel J. Snort Esq