Romancing the stoned

Time to stock up on service-station flowers and wine, for ‘tis the day of Saint Valentine.

Alright, that one’s probably not gonna get me a job at Hallmark but, for sweet fuck’s sake, could everybody please get a grip on themselves! Starting with the Hot Press editorial staff.
When Niall Stokes’ nubile young assistant rang Snort Towers to inform me that this issue of hotpress was to be specially themed for Valentine’s Day, I could barely mask my contempt.
“Specially themed for Valen-fucken-tine’s?” I snorted (obviously). “What fluffy-minded fiendishness is this? Why are you calling me? Has Stokes gone off his fucking rocker?”
“No, Mr. Snort,” she replied, nervously. “He just asked me to remind you to, erm, make sure that your column for this issue was about, erm... sex.”
I let those words hang in the air for a while so we could both marvel at the sheer unadulterated stupidity of this request.
Eventually I said, “So basically you’re calling me – Samuel J. Snort – to make sure that my column will be about sex?”
“Yes... em, that’s correct, Mr. Snort,” she squeaked.
“And can you ever remember a time when my fabulous column wasn’t about sex?” I demanded. “Have I ever ONCE in the 30 long and hard years I’ve been contributing to this printed organ delivered an article that didn’t in some way, shape or form concern itself with themes of shagging, fucking, sucking, humping, spanking, wanking, swinging, flinging or just generally doing the nasty?”
“Erm... well... no,” she whimpered.
“So why the fuck are you calling me then?” I snapped.
“Well, you were just on the... on the... on the... list,” she stammered.
“The list?” I said. “Well, that’s just fucking lovely. Tell Stokes that Sam Snort says that Valentine’s Day is for pussies!”
“Erm... okay,” she said.
“LOTS OF PUSSIES!!!” I roared, before slamming the phone down.
Seriously, folks, you just can’t get the staff these days. Ringing up and asking Samuel J. Snort would he be sure to mention sex in his column is something akin to a Principal Management minion ringing up Bono and saying something like, “Oh, by the way, Paul McGuinness just wanted me to remind you to sing some songs when you’re on stage tonight.”
Or someone at RTÉ calling Bill O’Herlihy and saying, “The DG just wanted to make sure that you’d say ‘Okey-Dokey’ at some point in tonight’s broadcast!”
Or someone at TV3 calling up weatherman Martin King and saying, “Listen, when you’re doing your thing tonight will you please be sure not to forget to make a giant tit of yourself?”
Or someone at the Pentagon calling up George Shrub and saying, “Mr. President, we just wanted to remind you to make some really stupid decisions today that will further tarnish the name of our once-great nation in the eyes of all right-thinking people, and also result in the needless deaths of many innocent foreigners.”
I could go on, but the joke’s wearing a bit thin.
FOR. SWEET. FUCK’S. SAKE.
Sam Snort is Ireland’s greatest undying rock journalist, and has lived a life of excess in all areas – but particularly the red-lit ones. I’ve had more rides than the Funderland Waltzler. I’ve received more blowjobs than all the members (of the members) of Aerosmith, Motley Crew and the Vienna Boys Choir combined. I’ve had more threesomes than Mary Harney’s had hot dinners.
Actually, come to think of it, that last one might be a bit of an exaggeration.
Anyway, I don’t just write about sex – I am sex. Consequently, Valentine’s Day means nothing to me. Same ol’. Same ol’.
Well, that’s not quite true. I do have one little annual custom. Because the day falls on February 14, I usually try and bed four teens. Otherwise, it’s business as usual.
With flowers, I never bother. They haven’t released a decent record since ‘Don’t Go’.
I don’t send any cards either, and although I usually receive a few pairs of worn knickers in the mail, I generally give these straight to Ernesto and Raul. In fact, that’s how I pay them.
Speaking of knickers, what’s the story with that Irish model Katie French and her ex? They certainly won’t be spending Valentine’s together. Their break-up has been headline news for a fucking fortnight now. Nobody had even heard of these two twats before they decided to implode in front of a journalist and photographer from the Sunday Independent.
In case you’ve missed these relationship-shattering events, Marcus owns an upmarket chipper somewhere in Dublin (I think it’s near Capel Street). Two weeks ago, he walked in on his missus modelling underwear on the counter for a shoot for Life magazine.
Apparently, she’d promised him that she was going to give up modelling in underwear. However, I don’t think that this meant she was going to take it off. Rather, she was going to put more clothes on.
Anyway, young Marcus totally lost the rag when he saw his near-naked beloved cavorting on the chip shop counter and he broke it off with her there and then. He even demanded that she return the 50 quid engagement ring he’d bought her.
Later that night he chucked her out of his bedsit and began sending nasty text messages. Understandably distraught, young Katie immediately forwarded these texts to journalists so we could all have a laugh.
The whole sordid tale of the knickers, the chip shop, the 50 quid ring and the illiterate texts have been the talk of the town ever since. Which is why Sam no longer lives in Dublin. Get a life, people!
Elsewhere, I see that Social & Personal (or SAP, as I prefer to call it) have just released their list of Ireland’s sexiest men. What a joke! It should be remembered that Jim Corr was a previous recipient of this dubious honour. This year Calum Best took the award. A better choice than Jimbo, admittedly, but still – what exactly is he Best at?
Needless to say, Sam Snort doesn’t need a nobby magazine to tell the lovely ladies of the nation what the lovely ladies of the nation already know all too well. Nor does he need to invest in cards, flowers or overpriced boxes of chocolate to get laid. Not on Valentine’s Day – nor any other.