The leader of the gang

Sam has no time for waterbrains who diss my old muckers Bono and Bob.
You know the routine: what are a couple of rockers doing thinking they can cure world poverty, free all political prisoners, stop the leak in the Port Tunnel and get the Luas back on the rails?
In short, the hoary old argument is that rock stars should spend their time playing rock music, snorting coke and shagging supermodels, preferably all at the same time – and leave the business of putting the world to rights to adults.
To which Sam replies: bollocks. If our rock heroes aren’t going to save the world, who will? Politicians? Excuse me, but aren’t they the fuckers who got us all into this mess in the first place?
No, Sam has survived to a ripe old age by strictly adhering to two codes: Christianity is too important to be left in the hands of the Christians, and politics is too important to be left in the hands of the politicians.
Sexual Repression
Even a cursory examination of both propositions will show that they are watertight. Cede Christianity to the Christians and you get sexual repression, religious wars, an eye-watering belief in intelligent design, and flat-earthers outside City Hall in Belfast getting their Orange knickers in a twist over some sweet lovin’ dude-on-dude and gal-on-gal action. (Incidentally, Sam’s Pulitzer Prize for last year goes to the tab which titled coverage of Elton John’s nuptials with the ingenious headline: ‘Elton Takes David Up The Aisle’. Lovely hurling, I think you’ll agree).
Now, take Christianity away from the Chistians and what do you get? Live and let live, if you can’t be with the one you love, love the one you’re with, The Pogues beating Cliff to the Christmas number one, and some of the best minds of our generation hanging around on big crosses singing, ‘Always look on the bright side of life’.
Similarly, leave politics to the politicians and you get the worst of all possible worlds, a place in which nothing is done to save the whales and there aren’t even a few good guitar riffs to accompany the act of not doing anything worthwhile at all.
No, rather than slating rockers for meddling in politics, Sam reckons we should be rubbishing politicians who stick their noses into the big beat.
Exhibit A: our glorious Taoiseach, who recently showed up on Rattlebag to reveal his desert island discs. And believe me, if his did actually turn out to be the soundtrack to life on that mythical speck in the ocean, even the fucking palm trees would be hurling themselves into the surf.
Frankly, I couldn’t bear to listen to the whole thing; suffice to say that Bertie nailed his rock ‘n’ roll credentials firmly to the mast by selecting as one of his jukebox faves, ‘Sweet Caroline’ by Neil Diamond.
No, really, he did. Bertie only went and picked possibly the worst song ever written – aside, of course, from ‘The Final Countdown’ by Europe – and managed to make one of his childhood faves, ‘How Much Is That Doggy In The Window’ sound positively ground-breaking and radical and Nick Cave-esque by comparison.
The only consolation is that it could have been worse. Bertie said that ‘Sweet Caroline’ was “a good singalong” tune but allowed that, perhaps, it was “not one of Neil’s best”.
Jesus in a bucket, this can only mean that we were a whisker away from hearing ‘I Am, I Said’, Neil’s brutal piece of navel-gazing, pseudo-existential angst in which, if memory serves, the chorus goes:
“I am, I said/To no-one there/And no-one heard at all/Not even the chair.”
Well, fuck it, if you were a chair you’d keep your ears covered too.
Neil Diamond, lest we forget, is the carbuncle on the otherwise perfectly-shaped ass that is ‘The Last Waltz’, The Band’s fabulous kiss-off show, in which the big ditz stands out from the massed ranks of my old muckers Muddy, Bob, Neil, Joni and Van The Man, like goddamn Dev backstage at an Aerosmith gig.
Mojo Wire
Furthermore – er, sorry, what’s this? – hang on a second there – oh shit –
(Editor’s Note: At this point Mr Snort’s copy abruptly terminated. Approximately ten minutes later, the mojo wire sprang back into life and coughed up the following hastily scrawled amendments. Unfortunately, deadline pressure precludes our acting on our columnist’s precise instructions so, for the purposes of reader clarification, we will simply print his communiqué here exactly as he wrote it).
Niall,
Christ in a biplane, I’ve just read that Neil Diamond has released a new album produced by Rick Rubin. Rick fuckin’ Rubin?!? Well, obviously this changes everything. I would be very grateful if you would amend this week’s column as follows: delete all negative references to Neil Diamond. Instead insert the words “my old mucker” in front of his name. If you want to keep in something about ‘The Last Waltz’ mention that Robbie Robertson (insert “my other old mucker” here) figured Brother Neil was one of the last of the Brill Building giants. Mention his good works on behalf of The Monkees and, for the love of God, be sure to stick Johnny Cash in there somewhere as well. At the end add, “See you all in the Fianna Fail tent at the Galway Races”.
Phew. That was a close one, eh? Thanks.
Your ever lovin’ Samuel J. Snort Esq