SO THE word is that my old showbiz chum Bono has written the introduction to what is being called a "pocket canon" version of the Bible and doubtless my faithful readership is eagerly awaiting the verdict of The Great Snort regarding this unusual initiative on the part of a member of the rock 'n' roll persuasion.
My first reaction, frankly, was to guffaw loudly as I pointed out what I felt was the fairly obvious typographical error - there being a double 'n' in the only kind of pocket cannon that makes any sense to Samuel J. Snort Esq, a man who always shoots from pretty close to the hip. And I thank the ladeez know jest what ahm a'talkin' 'bout.
My second reaction was to guffaw even more loudly as I noticed another glaring typo - this one implying that Bono had inked his intro for something called 'The Book Of Psalms'. Need I spell out the bleeding obvious? Owing, presumably, to a bad line (telephone, of course, har, har), my old showbiz chum had clearly thought he was giving his blessing to "the book of Sam's", meaning my sensational autobiography, A Mighty Schlong Way Down Rock 'n' Roll, currently available on prescription from all good pharmacies.
But no, it turns out that Bono really has written some class of hymn to the Bible, which news certainly gives Sam Snort pause for thought. (Pause for thought...) And, you know, having given it considerable thought, and accepting that my legions of weak-kneed devotees will find this hard to take on board, The World's Most Degenerate Rock Journalist reckons that his old friend in music may have a point.
Last Bamboozler
Let's face it, there are times when even the baddest rock 'n' roll outlaw in the world must have a moment of doubt and shame. I should know: I was that soldier.
Picture the scene: it's 4am in the penthouse suite of the Chateau Marmont, a few hours after you've blasted the milling numbskulls with a dose of that good old southern-fried boogie. In the interim, you've had your nose powdered, your throat lubricated and your pecker sucked like a goddam vacuum cleaner. But now the groupies are gone, the record company execs have left, the mini-bar is empty and you've smoked your last bamboozler.
Now, you are all alone and the only sound is the sound of silence.
And that, friends, is when The Fear descends. Existential angst, intimations of mortality, the unbearable lightness of being, it all comes crowding in. You lie back on your four-poster bed, you listen to the air-conditioner hum and, as another great showbiz chum of mine once put it, you find yourself shouting out to anyone and no-one: "Is that it?". But, of course, there is no answer.
Then suddenly your eye falls on that little black book in the bedside locker: the Gideon Bible. You've seen it a million times in a million hotel rooms but now it's as if you're seeing it properly for the very first time. Feeling the first faint stirrings of hope, you pick it up and open the cover. And then it hits you: the epiphany, the revelation, The Moment Of Truth - those wafer-thin pages are just fucking perfect for rolling joints.
Yes indeedy, folks, for that long dark night of the soul which inevitably beckons when a touring rocker runs out of skins, there's only one solution - the Bible. Hell, no wonder they call it the good book.
Third-Leg Boogie
Apart from that, Sam Snort finds it hard to work up any great enthusiasm for the yoke. Okay, the Creation stuff is not bad, and read in the right mood, can even put you in mind of those great album covers that Roger Dean used to design for Yes. Surprisingly, there's also a fair bit of the old third-leg boogie scattered about the place, but the absence of an index means you've got to wade through any amount of oul' 'ye this' and 'ye that' guff to find it, and even when you do, you wouldn't be sure what they were on about half the time.
The miracles are a bit of a blast right enough, but even that one with the loaves and fishes isn't half as miraculous as what Led Zep get up to with groupies and fishes in Hammer Of The Gods. (And if the Bible is supposed to be The Good Book then Hammer Of The Gods has got to be The Great Book).
Inspirational? I just don't get it. Apart from solving the skins problem, the only real inspiration Sam Snort ever got from the Bible was when, in yet another desperate bid to revive the eternally-flagging fortunes of my bestest showbiz chums, Foghat, I tried to court controversy Stateside by re-launching them as a kind of God rock-punk-boogie band called The Sex Epistles.
Needless to say, that one ended in tears too, but then I reckon that even the beardy bloke who allegedly raised Lazarus from the dead would find it beyond him to get the Fogs back on their feet.
Here endeth the column.
Your ever-lovin' Samuel J. Snort Esq.