The ride-her cup

Fuck me gently in a gold-plated Bentley, but it’s been another busy old fortnight for the world’s most well-endowed, erudite and envied rock journalist. Not that it’s rock journalism I’ve been busy with. Nah, fuck that for a game of Brokeback Mountain cowboys!
Rock journalism just ain’t what it used to be. Back in the old days, we had our priorities straight – it was sex, drugs and rock & roll in voluminous quantities, and that order. Actually, our priorities were about the only things we had straight.
But no more. Sadly, times have changed. These days it’s all business, business, business. Half the wankers in the music industry would be far better suited to working for a bank. And I don’t mean a sperm bank.
Admittedly, the business has always been full of whores, but nowadays it’s just corporate whores. Useless shower of straight-laced fucks! I went to interview a certain internationally famous ‘rock artiste’ a few months back, and all I was offered was a bottle of mineral water and a fucking aspirin.
The nervous-looking young record company employee who made this rather insulting offer was wearing an office outfit from Marks and Spencers, and called me ‘Mr. Snort’. For fuck’s sake! Back in the old days, she would’ve been wearing nothing, and we would’ve been on something rather more intimate than first name terms. Like a couch. And she would’ve had a speedball in one hand and a bottle of Wild Turkey in the other. At the very least.
I’m afraid I lost the rag with her somewhat. “Aspirin!” I roared. “Mineral water! What the fuck is wrong with you? I’m Samuel J. Snort! The Samuel J. Snort! Gimme a real drink and a fistful of E’s!! And get your knickers off!!!”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Snort,” she whimpered. “But I’ve been told that you’re not to be given anything. Not after the last time you interviewed one of our bands.”
“What the fuck are you talking about?” I seethed. “I don’t remember interviewing any of your bands.”
“You interviewed little Pete Doherty back when he was a member of The Fluffy Bunnies,” she explained. “They were a manufactured and squeaky clean boyband, chosen from school choirs for their virtue and innocence. We had very high hopes for them. Until you came along. So I’m afraid that it’s more than my job’s worth to give you any alcohol or drugs.”
“Fair enough,” I sighed, shaking my head at the ludicrousness of it all. “But any chance of a ride?”
“Oh, all right then,” she smiled. “Seeing as it’s yourself. Just don’t tell anyone.”

Anyway, I digress. I could bemoan the rise in standards in the rock industry till the cows come home and throw a party, but what would be the fucking point? To quote my old mucker Danny The Drug Dealer, the reality is that they’re selling hippie wigs in Woolworths, man.
Sport is the new rock and roll. Yes, you read me right – sport. Personally, I hate sport but, as my old mucker Hunter S. Thompson pointed out shortly before he redecorated his Aspen kitchen with the splattered contents of his head, the real icons, heroes and warriors of this age are all sportsmen. Roy Keane has balls. The Scissor Sisters, meanwhile, have... actually, I’ll have to get back to you on that one.
But where was I? Oh yeah, my busy fortnight. Rather than wasting my time recording boring soundbites from pampered, interviewed-out wusses, Samuel J. Snort has instead been busily engaged in what I believe is called ‘event management’.
Normally the only kinds of ‘event management’ I specialise in would be managing to deal with an unexpected event. For example, when one of the Foghat roadies overdoses and starts turning blue on the carpet, that would loosely be classified as an ‘event’. Generally speaking, I would be the only one able to ‘manage’ to administer the shot of adrenaline to his heart (if you’ve seen Pulp Fiction you know how it works). All those years hanging out with Keef taught me a thing or two about bringing people back from the dead.
Alternatively, I may just have to ‘manage’ to call an ambulance, clear the room of all narcotics and underage girls, and get the fuck out of there (if you’ve seen Trainspotting, you’ll know how that one works). But I don’t wanna talk too much about that here. For legal reasons.
Or more specifically, for illegal reasons.

Anyway, I’m sure that you’re wondering what event I’ve been busy managing. Well, after months and months of intense and highly secret negotiations in a series of glamorous locations around the globe, I am mightily proud to announce that I’ve managed to bring one of the planet’s most prestigious sporting events to these green shores.
I speak, of course, of the infamous Ride-Her Cup.
While you may not have heard of it before, I can assure you that the Ride-Her Cup has been going on for many years, and is famed in certain exclusive circles.
Up to now, it’s usually only happened in California. The first ever event was held in the perfumed gardens of the Malibu mansion owned by legendary movie producer Don Simpson. It’s true that Don was a depraved, drug-addicted, misogynist, masochistic, bastard. Still, for all his many faults, the man knew how to throw a decent party. Mountains of Colombian Marching Powder, lakes of Jack Daniels and fine French wines, and scores of Heidi Fleiss’s employees. Oh, happy nights!
Anyway, the Ride-Her Cup. As with golf, there are 18 holes and the object is to fill them all in as few strokes as possible. In other words, there are 18 girls – or ‘birdies’ as Don used to call them - and the object of the game is to shag all of them as quickly as possible. The only rule is that you have to ejaculate into each hole. Yes, I know that sounds disgustingly sexist, but it was all Don’s idea. And Don was disgustingly sexist. Anyway, the girls are all getting extremely well paid. And also, natch, extremely well laid.
Ernesto and Raul obviously want to participate but, after their frankly dismal performance at the London Masturbate-a-thon last month, I’ve had to tell them ‘no’. Instead, they’ll both be working as caddies – supplying Viagra, lubricants, condoms, towels and a variety of sex toys to all the participants.
The details aren’t fully ironed out yet, but I’m delighted to tell you that the infamous porn star Tiger Wood (so named because of his ability to sustain ‘wood’) will be attending as Guest of Dishonour. Last year, he managed to complete the course in less than seven hours. It was a hugely controversial win. Tiger actually had six threesomes, rather than playing the course in the traditional way.
Naturally, I myself will be participating. I don’t have any great expectations of winning. For me, the enjoyment comes from taking part.
But it’s not just the primo pussy, it’s also the mucho moolah! I’m obviously very excited about selling the lucrative TV rights. My old mucker Cameron ‘Cumshot’ Fernandez will be filming the event for a live broadcast on Japanese TV. Selected highlights will be available later on DVD. I tried my best, but the senior executives at RTE and TV3 turned it down. They will, however, be turning up.
It’ll all be happening at the G. No, I don’t mean the Philip Treacy-designed hotel in Galway. The G – or G-String Club, to give it its full title – is actually situated in Knock. Or in a Knock knocking shop.
I’d tell you exactly where it is but, as you can probably imagine, we like to keep the crowds to a minimum. I’d also tell you more, but I’m extremely busy right now. I’ve got a flight to catch tonight and a meeting tomorrow in Havana. I’m hoping to attract some sponsorship from a cigar company.
You see, Bill is coming as well. But maybe that goes without saying.