Regular readers of this magazine will know that, just once a year, our hard working Editor allows himself a holiday, thus depriving the Irish public, for one fortnight only, of the opportunity to savour his thoughts on the big story of the moment in this here front of house section we like to call The Message.

For The Editor, a selfless man who only has the good of his country and his people at heart, this holiday business is a difficult thing. While others lie about, soaking up the sun, he spends his days frantically pacing distant shores, fretting about the woes of the world and fearful that his homeland may implode without his regular dose of wisdom, common-sense and ferocious church-bashing.

Not even the knowledge that Fintan O’ Toole is at home minding the shop – an arrangement put in place for precisely the same reason that the President and Vice President of the USA are never allowed travel together – is enough to calm The Editor’s deep-rooted anxiety that he will one day return from his holidays to find that, in his absence, Fianna Fail have gained an overall majority or oral sex has been outlawed or Sinéad has joined the Christian Brothers.

Of course, what The Editor doesn’t know is that the very moment his plane leaves the ground, all work halts, the bunting comes out, the music starts up, the sun shines, little birdies chirp and the entire country erupts into a 14 day-long festival of sheer joy and good-natured lunacy.

The reason is simple: for this one time every year, Ireland’s favourite columnist, Samuel J. Snort Esq, gets to write The Message. And, as regular readers will know, that can mean only one thing: a life-enhancing screed full of dope lingo, lashings of poontang, rude references to well-known trad musicians and any number of terrific big knob jokes. And absolutely no mention of the importance of public service broadcasting.

But not this time. Oh, no. Because this time, for once in his crazy, devil-may-care life, even Sam Snort is obliged to get serious.

I refer you to page 11 of the Irish Times of Thursday, July 25, 2002, and to the story headlined ‘Scientists Watch As Asteroid Appears On Target To Collide With Earth In 17 Years’. Read on and you will learn that, if initial calculations hold true, the asteroid, called 2002 NT7, will hit our planet on February 1, 2019. And, according to experts, in a worst-case scenario the global impact would be catastrophic, creating “a meltdown of our economic and social life that would reduce us to dark age conditions.”

Can I first of all say how shocked I was that the Irish Times chose to break this story a whole 17 years in advance? Given the track record of the Old Lady of D’Olier Street on stories like the Bishop Casey scandal, it is a pure wonder that they didn’t decide to sit on this one until February 2, 2019, just to be sure. (Followed, inevitably, by a Correction and Clarification on Feb 3, stating that, “contrary to a report in yesterday’s edition, the asteroid which wiped out North America is called NT7 and not NI7 which is, of course, a road in the west of Ireland”).

But I digress: back to the end of the world. What should our official position be on this? In the absence of the great man, I feel unusually secure in stating, for the permanent record, that on balance, all things being equal and at the end of the day, Niall Stokes would be almost certainly trenchantly opposed to asteroids wiping out life on earth.

And that’s good enough for me. But immediately another question arises – who should we blame? Once again, sensing The Editor’s muse hovering about me, I feel I can confidently lay responsibility for this unprecedented catastrophe for humanity at the feet of the FAI and RTE. And I’m sure that if I think about it long enough, I’ll work former Justice Minister John O’ Donoghue into it somewhere. I mean, whatever happened to zero tolerance of asteroids wiping out life on earth? Eh?

So there you have it – not many laughs in this Message but then I think, you’ll agree, these are exceptional circumstances. If Niall was here, I’m sure he’d argue that it’s time for action not words, and I’ve no doubt that those of you in the Socialist Workers Party are already busy organising a petition.

I’d love to sign it, I really would, but, hey, I’ve only got 17 years to break 90 at the K Club.

Your ever lovin’ Samuel J. Snort Esq