The Xmas files

Yes, it’s that time of year again, the time of year when newspaper columnists traditionally begin their columns with the phrase “it’s that time of year again”. Indeed, this is the 24th year in succession that Sam Snort has begun his annual Christmas column with the phrase “it’s that time of year again” and, frankly, he’s getting rather fucking tired of this lame old bullshit. Sadly, however, there appears to be no workable alternative because, well, it’s that time of year again.

The good news, of course, is that it’s not only cliché time but also party time and, as ever, the Christmas knees-up at Snort Towers is the one that all the coolest people are desperate to attend. However, in 2001, there is one crucial difference; this year, Sam is the one determined to get a certain name on his list.

I think y’all know who I’m talking about: the man whose strangely beatific face beams almost nightly from our TV screens; the self-styled sworn enemy of rock ‘n’ roll; the manipulative guru figure to millions of deranged and impressionable young men; the one they call the evil-doer; I speak, of course, of the world’s most wanted man, Louis Walsh.

In fact, what Sam has in mind this year, is to invite Louis along with his fellow Popstars judges Linda Martin and Bill Hughes. When these three wise guys show up at the front door, they’ll be told, yeah, it’s looking good, come back in about 15 minutes. Then after they’ve been back and

told the same thing another five or six times,

we’ll send Ted Nugent out to the hall to officially inform ‘em that, unfortunately, we now have

all the good guests we need, and so would they kindly fuck off and never darken our doorway again.

But just before they burst into tears – hopefully in full view of the closed circuit security cameras – The Fuckin’ Nuge, using his vast experience of showbiz, will impart a few much-needed tips on such germane matters as style, attitude and the problems associated with the fuller figure.

Not that our contestant guests should be too disappointed, of course, because they’ll surely get invited to someone else’s party – say, Shay Healy’s - with any luck at all. And if they don’t, well, shit, what’s another year?

ROCKET LAUNCHER

Meanwhile, Sam doesn’t want to sound like Dubya shitting on the evil-doers but if old Osama Bin Laden is still looking for a cave to hide out in this Christmas, he’d be best advised to give Snort Towers a wide berth. Frankly, with a guest list ranging all the way from Keef to Lemmy and back again, the party will already be so full of proud and professional evil-doers that there couldn’t possibly be room for even one more, and especially not a stone dingbat like my man Bin, whose perverse idea of evil seems to stand for the direct opposite of everything – powders, poitin, poontang, power chords and good old life itself, godammit – that Sam and his people hold dear.

Of course, this ban does not apply to Osama’s wives, all 48 or so of them, at the last count. Word has it that their old man isn’t exactly in possession of a rocket launcher in the trouser department, if you get my drift, so the Bin Babes are more than welcome at Snort Towers where they can check out that rare and beautiful thing: a weapon of mass ecstasy.

Keeping Bin himself at bay will also mean fewer Feds coming down the festive chimney. It would be too much to expect the fuckers to be entirely absent, of course, and so once more I would plead with the Garda Commissioner to stop spooking arriving guests – many of them artists of a sensitive disposition, like Andrew WK – by restricting that irritating police helicopter to the northside where it belongs.

Unusually for the Snort Christmas party, a politician will be on the invite list this year. Not an Irish one, of course, because they’re all shite. Instead, the red carpet will be rolled, if you will, out for David Blunkett, the Britpol who this year decided that skunkweed should be available on the National Health, or something like that.

Way to go, Blunk. There’ll always be a welcome on the mat in Snort Towers for you, my man, just as long as you bring your own stash, keep the boring speeches to a minimum and don’t go trying to smuggle no sniffer dog into the house, okay?

fantastic appetite

In another break with tradition, we will be inviting a dead person to this year’s party. Why not? In a year which saw St Therese and Kevin Barry make unexpected comebacks, what could be more appropriate than to finish off 2001 by having have my main man Jim Morrison presiding at the head of the table. Or maybe that should be the skull of the table, eh?

Some leading members of the Foghat road crew were dispatched to Paris recently where, at dead of night, they dug up Jimbo’s bones and brought ‘em over to Dublin in a big jiffy bag. (And they say airport security has improved, hah!). Said skeleton will now be reassembled in a tasteful fashion and displayed at our Christmas do, though fans of The Doors can rest assured that we will, of course, be keeping The Fuckin’ Nuge far away at the other end of the table, lest the evening’s menu of roast venison, wild boar, stuffed pheasant, shanks of beef and medallions of Limerick ham not prove sufficient to satisfy the great axeman’s fantastic appetite for blood, gristle and bone.

Incidentally, speaking of wild boar, Marty Whelan won’t be getting an invitation, as usual.

Many others will, of course, including the staff of the Bada Bing, everyone who has ever been associated with the Alabama 3, that bloke in Spain who gave it to the banks up the ass and, last but not least, Robbie Fowler, just to help him acclimatise to the fun regime at Elland Road. And, of course, Eamon Dunphy will be on hand to drive everyone home.

To the rest of you, stuck outside in the cold this festive season, with your little noses pressed against the window, fuck off or we’ll set the dogs on you.

Your ever lovin’ Samuel J. Snort Esq