The stamp of disapproval

The news that Irish rock ‘n’ rollers are to be honoured on postage stamps is surely the final death knell for the devil’s music as we once knew and loved it in this benighted isle.

Once upon a time, as Sam remembers only too well, you couldn’t get arrested as a fully paid up member of the rocker class in Ireland.

Well, actually, that’s not quite true: just about the only thing you could get was arrested, usually by a couple of big country lads attached to the D.S., lumpy fuckers who didn’t like the look of your loon pants, the Fruup album under your oxter or the still smouldering jazz woodbine which you’d attempted to hide at the last minute by stuffing it into your back pocket and which was now burning a hole in your left buttock, as some dickhead from Offaly fingered your posterior and asked with a demonic grin: “Well, well, well, what have we got here, Miss Jaw-ger”?

HORRIBLY WRONG

Whoda thunk at that moment that the boogie would one day become so acceptable that some of its leading practitioners would be immortalised by An fucking Post? Once upon a time, these were outlaws pushing the outside of the envelope; now they are the outside of the envelope. Post modern I could just about handle but post early for Christmas!?! Jesus, how did it all go so horribly wrong?

As you are probably aware, U2, Rory, Philo and Van are the chosen four but of much greater interest are those who didn’t make the cut. Sam can now exclusively reveal that Enya turned down the offer because she didn’t like the idea of complete strangers licking the back of her head, while BP Fallon was delighted to be involved but unfortunately was never approached.

All of which leaves a number of intriguing questions. Will the U2 stamp always be placed close to the edge? Will the collecting of Lizzy stamps be called Philately? And will all angry final demands be sent in letters adorned with a Van Morrison stamp?

We also have to ask: where will the institutionalisation of rock ‘n’ roll end?

In the depths of the night, when his hands tremble and his head is full of dangerous visions, Sam is haunted by scenes from an appalling vista: an Ireland in which Sinead O’ Connor is President, David Kitt is Taoiseach and the national anthem is ‘One’.

In this Ireland, U2’s studio complex will not only not be demolished but some nearby homes will be flattened so that an interpretive centre for the studio can be built. In this Ireland, Shane MacGowan, David Holmes and the drummer with Therapy? will all be members of Aosdana. In this Ireland, a new pedestrian bridge over The Liffey will be named after Glen Hansard. And in this Ireland, arts shows on RTE will actually treat rock and pop and dance music as though they’re worthy of the same serious consideration as more plays about violent drunks, sex crazed ‘oul fellas and gap-toothed dingbats living in noxious squalor.

LEATHERY TONGUE

Needless to say, Sam Snort and his people will be doing all in their power to see to it that none of this comes to pass. Sam has not spent most of his adulthood doing prodigious amounts of drugs, listening to very loud music and fucking in the streets in order that this precious way of life be sanitised, commodified and reduced to a small square picture on a letter.

He does not want to have to stand in some rural sub-post office while a doddery old dear peels off a Phil Lynott stamp and says “I always thought the version of ‘The Rocker’ with Eric Bell was the best, myself” or “If you hurry you might just catch the post van – the post Van, geddit? “ or “Ah, a Rory stamp – I suppose this one is going to your hometown, then?” or even “Who’d have thought that one day I’d get to run this leathery old tongue of mine all over that nice Larry Mullen”.

No, this kind of shit does not even bear thinking about. Mark this idea: return to sender, address unknown.

Your ever lovin’ Samuel J. Snort Esq