Pyro for pornos

Wrap my cock in green shamrock, but that’s Paddy’s Day over and done with for another beer! Sorry, year.

In common with the vast majority of the population of this fair isle, Ireland’s greatest undying rock columnist – that’s Samuel J. Snort to you – spent the big day binge drinking. Of course, I spend the other 364 days of the year binge drinking as well, but there’s always something special about getting hammered on St. Patrick’s Day.
It really makes you proud to be Irish – all that puking, belly-aching and scrapping on the street.
The fact that the cream of our political talent piss off out of the country to kiss arse around the world also helps to make the day that little bit more special. Let’s face it, if they’re not here, they can’t introduce any more botched legislation, ban anything nice, or accept any bribes from redneck builders.
Even the Snort Towers houseboys, Ernesto and Raul, got in on the act. Ernesto woke me up on Paddy’s Day morning with a jug of absinthe.
“Ah, boggorah, ‘tis yerself!” he announced, as he barged into my room. “Top o’ the mornin’ to ye, Sam, and may the leprechauns never pick your hole, the bishop never ride your firstborn, and Michael McDowell never get re-elected.”
Just behind him, Raul began to sing, “Oh Sammy boy/ the pipes/ the pipes are calling…” He has a lousy singing voice, but at least the pipes he was referring to were well stuffed with prime green weed.
Not bad for a pair of wasted Filipinos. I gave the two of them the day off for their efforts.
Louis, Louis
Of course, just because it was Paddy’s Day, it didn’t mean that Sam wasn’t hard at work. I had Louis Walsh around in the afternoon to discuss some important business.
Louis’s really pissed off at getting fired from the X-Factor by Simon Cowell, and has sworn revenge.
Many moons ago, I drew up a proposal for a raunchy show called The XXX Factor. Essentially it was the same deal as the other show, except competitors were auditioning for a starring role in a porno movie rather than a recording deal (from which they’ll be quietly dropped several months later). Admittedly, I stole the idea from a chapter in Martin Amis’s fine novel Money, but nothing’s original these days anyway (and Louis knows all about that!).
Anyway, I tried to get Louis involved before, but he was all tied up with Cowell’s show. Now that he’s got some time on his hands, he’s interested in getting The XXX Factor off the ground (if only to piss Cowell off). Early days, so I can’t say too much about it, except that Louis came up with an inspired alternative title in The Fuck Of The Irish. But watch this space.

Incidentally, fair fruits to Tescos for offering one of the better booze bargains of the year so far. In the run up to Paddy’s Day, they were offering 12 free beers for every 12 you bought.
Needless to say, the Vintners Federation were none too pleased. In fact, they condemned the move as grossly irresponsible. After all, they’re so socially responsible that they’d charge you almost €100 for what Tescos were charging €25 for.
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Virgin on the ridiculous
Anyway, enough nonsense. What else has been happening in the big bad world?
Well, I see that that rat-faced old Nazi, Pope Benedict, has ruled out the possibility of priests getting (legally) laid for the foreseeable future. According to Benedict, “Priestly celibacy is a beautiful notion and one which benefits society.”
You wonder what he means about it benefiting society? I mean, haven’t Catholic priests the whole world over been riding housekeepers, hookers and young children for centuries? Has it occurred to the Pope that maybe if they were allowed to express their sexuality in the traditional way, they wouldn’t become paedophiles? Then again, what else would you expect from a guy who doesn’t dig Bob Dylan? A fortnight ago, Benedict revealed that he once thought of Bob Dylan as a “false prophet.”
In his new book John Paul I: My Beloved Predecessor, Benedict recalled a 1997 youth event that was overseen by Pope John Paul II in Bologna, Italy. John Paul had invited Dylan to perform at the event, and Benedict – who was then known as Cardinal Joseph Ratzinger – wrote, “There was reason to be sceptical – I was, and in a certain sense I still am – to doubt if it was really right to let these types of prophets intervene.”
Benedict didn’t name any of the other musicians who performed that day, and in the book, he never explains what his issue was with Dylan.
At the festival, Dylan performed ‘Knockin’ On Heaven’s Door’, ‘A Hard Rain’s A-Gonna Fall’ and ‘Forever Young’. When he finished, the singer removed his beige cowboy hat and shook hands with the Pope.
So presumably Bono won’t be meeting the new guy and gifting him a pair of wraparound shades, then? (And let’s say nothing about the cowboy hat!).
Sam preferred the old Pope. As the T-shirt said, “I like the Pope – the Pope smokes dope!”
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Remember the alimony
Deepest commiserations to Roman Abramovich, whose recent divorce payout of almost €2 billion is apparently the most expensive in history. The Chelsea terrace chant used to be, “Ro-man Abramovich – he’s so fucking rich!” But now the poor guy’s gonna be ironing his own socks and living on baked beans. In his solid gold yacht.
To end this fortnight’s column on a brighter note, Sam would like to draw your attention to a recent incident in Wisconsin.
On March 4, having just watched the same stunt performed in the Jackass movie, 20-year-old Jared Anderson decided to set his crotch on fire. His good buddy, 43-year-old Randell Peterson, helped him out by pouring lighter fuel all over his penis and then lighting a match.
Needless to say, Anderson wound up in the hospital being treated for second degree burns to his hands and genitals. Unfortunately, despite his protestations, Peterson got arrested and charged with felony battery and first-degree reckless endangerment for his role in the botched experiment. He now faces 10 years in the slammer if convicted.
Surely a lighter offence deserves a lighter sentence?
Louis Walsh pic: Brendan Duffy