SAM'S ASHES

PEOPLE MUST often look at Samuel J Snort Esq, with his plutonium babes, his heavenly mansion, his lavishly stocked cellar, his fast cars, his fast powders and his freakishly large tool, and wonder: how come some guys have all the luck?
In fact, luck has nothing to do with it, unless you want to stretch a point and describe as lucky the day a huge sack of cocaine fell out of a helicopter and landed in the back garden of Snort Towers just as the men from the building society were at the front door trying to repossess the property. Then by a further stroke of good fortune I was somehow able to rustle up at short notice about five hundred showbizzy people with a passing interest in chemical experimentation, all of whom were prepared to give me a few bob in exchange for a shovelful or two from the big sack. Then, before I knew where I was, I found myself with enough money not only to pay off my debts and thus fasten the homestead to the bosom of the Snort family forever, but with sufficient change left over to add on a kidney-shaped swimming pool as well as covering the cost of a night out at Shelbourne Park with the entire staff of Sirens Escort Agency.
As I say, you could call that lucky and, hell, maybe you d be right.
Emotionally Shattering
But it wasn t always so for the family Snort, as will become apparent to all with the imminent publication of my memoir, Sam s Ashes, a vivid, compelling and emotionally shattering account of one family s survival against all odds, which I lashed together in between writing a few album reviews one recent wet weekend when the fucking Cablelink was on the blink.
This brief extract, which covers just one day during my difficult teenage years will, I think, suffice to give readers a flavour of the gut-wrenching honesty which characterises this tome.
Things are fast approaching breaking point for the family. For the tenth day running, we have just a scoop of grain each for breakfast. I d imagine it could hardly have been worse for those poor bastards during the Famine. Still, Mother insists that this colonic irrigation is good for us and also requires that we should all tinkle a Tibetan bell before sitting down to eat. Fuck this hippie shit! I ve eaten so many pellets of grain recently that I can t even assume the lotus position now without violently breaking wind.
More devastating news for the family: Uncle Shamie Snort has had his plastic surgery postponed because the family Doc has been busted for issuing bogus scripts to visiting jazz musicians. Shamie has long been considered the black sheep of the Snort family on account of his miniscule dick hence his nickname Shorty Snort and we were all very encouraged by the news that he was going for some much-needed cosmetic enhancement of the old todger. Now, it looks like we re saddled with the miserable tosser for some time to come. As indeed, come to think of it, is he.
Hashish Smoke
It seems like there s no end to the doom and gloom which has enveloped our lives like a big dense cloud of hashish smoke. Speaking of which, Ol Grandpa Snort may have died this morning. Then again, he may not. Frankly, it s hard to tell just by looking at him sitting in his chair with his headphones on listening to Mike Oldfield s Tubular Bells, because he really hasn t moved from that position since first sampling the fruits of his little pensioner s allotment last harvest.
The Da, meanwhile, has taken to the bed with a bottle of Wild Turkey and a Hell s Angel chick with an eye-patch while Ma is down the corridor getting it on tantric-stylee with some spotty student from Carlow who s just back from finding himself in Afghanistan. Any moment now, they ll all join forces for one huge big four-in-a-bed romp. Shit, here I am at 16 and my folks are getting more poontang than me. Nothing for it, I suppose, but to borrow a twenty-spot from Mother s purse and go visit Big Bertha down the knocking shop. Oops, better make it a forty cos I ll probably have to pay for the old shot in the buttocks afterwards, just to be on the safe side. Fuck, that means I ll have to wait another week before I have enough pocket money to buy the Grand Funk Railroad album and a wodge of dope to make listening to it less painful.
Could life possibly be any worse, I wonder? Could it get any more depressing and dispiriting than this? Not really unless, of course, I was living in Limerick. Now that really would be the fucking pits.
Your ever-lovin Samuel J. Snort Esq.