The twenty-two towers

Well, yes, it’s that time of year again, that time of year Sam Snort likes to call “that time of year”. And does. Every year.

But if that time of year doesn’t change, just about everything else does. As Sam once again prepares to send out the invitations for the social event of the annum – the Christmas/New Year party at Snort Towers – he has to wonder if it isn’t time to up roots and find a permanent new location somewhere else.

For nearly 25 years now, Sam has been doing his best to make Ireland safe for rock ‘n’ roll – and a safe haven for felons, dingbats and outlaws of all kinds. And what do we hear now? Charlie McCreevy is apparently contemplating doing away with tax breaks for artists – the only reason those fine degenerates ever came near the island in the first place. There will almost certainly be some Charlie at this year’s hooley in Snort Towers but rest assured it won’t be the Minister For Finance.

Celebrity Chef

By any international standard you care to mention, our grand little nation is rapidly going down in the flood. Take, for example, our version of ‘most wanted man’. In America, where they do things in style, the Feds are attempting to extradite from wherever he is in the world, the globe’s number one terrorist, religious zealot and all ‘round bad guy, Osama Bin Laden. Us? We’re busting our balls trying to lassoo a chef.

Similarly, when they have a scandal in the States involving a top politician and a cigar, it tends to be about something like which female orifice the cheroot was inserted in during a lively bout of sexual high jinks. In the Irish version, the controversy is over whether or not the smoke was duty free.

Jeez, any self-respecting rock journalist can only be expected to take so much of this wimpy crap. Still, at least there’s the prospect of this year’s Christmas bash at Snort Towers to take a man’s mind off the sleazier side of Irish life.

All the usual suspects will be in attendance, the most hardcore making straight for the cooler, pool table and jukebox in what we like to call the ‘Boys’ Room’. That’s where you’ll find the tough guys like of Lemmy, Ozzy, Keef and, of course, John Major.

The draw for our annual ping pong challenge threw up a real belter this year in the doubles section. As luck would have it, Mick McCarthy and Kevin Myers came out of the hat in opposition to Roy Keane and Eamon Dunphy. Clearly, the potential here for uncontrollable violence was so massive that, at first, it looked like nothing short of a huge police presence would be sufficient to prevent a terrible bloodletting. At least that was until one of my elite security advisors – Raul, my Filipino houseboy – pointed out that a huge police presence is in itself, traditionally, a recipe for violence on a grand scale, especially if they are subject to gratuitous provocation, such as, say, the wearing of Tibetan and/or Mongolian hats.

Since Glen Frame is always welcome at Snort Towers to strum a few tunes – so long as he and his friends stay out on the lawn, of course – the silly ethnic headgear factor had to be taken into account. With this in turn ruling out any chance of an invitation for the fuzz, I was forced to try and come up with an alternative security plan to keep the blood off the tennis table.

And then I hit on it – the organisation of this year’s ping pong championship would be entrusted to the FAI. With the blazers on the case, there would be no problem – the players would be sent invitations with the wrong date, they’d have to go via Taiwan to get to Snort Towers and, just to be sure, in case any of them somehow miraculously found the place in time, there’d be no bats, no ball and the table would be flooded.

Marching Powder

Speaking of floods, every wig and gown merchant on the tribunal circuit will find a welcome on the mat at Snort Towers this year. With the economy in tatters, they’re the only boys left who can afford to buy grade a marching powder in the kind of industrial quantities which make Sam’s business in that area cost effective.

On which subject, republican types who are coming to the party in a state of high expectation ought to be aware that my personal assistant made a bit of a boo boo when sending out this year’s press release. So just to clarify: the acid-techno-funk-soul-blues soundtrack for the night’s festivities will be supplied by the Alabama 3, not the Colombia 3.

Other highlights to watch out for on the night: Bertie Ahern standing in the swimming pool, looking gormless, Michael Jackson being dangled over a balcony by Foghat roadie Manmountain Dense and, of course, the by now traditional and much loved end to the party of the year: the Dunph not driving anyone home. Have a merry one…

Your ever lovin’ Samuel J. Snort Esq