Everybody wants to save the world

“Git down, bitch, an’ when you’ve gotten up, scramble me some eggs,” as I said to Kofi Annan the other day.

My main man in the UN laughed heartily at that one. “Sam, you’re a breath of fresh air in the stale corridors of international power politics,” he told me, as we dined after a recent successful meeting of the World Economic Forum in New York City, “but I really think you should be careful about snorting coke in public off the back of our Drop The Debt glossy brochure.”

“Okay, I’ll use the front next time, Kof,” I quipped good naturedly.

Oh, how we laughed, me the grizzled old rocker, him the soft-spoken man from the United Nations. This is what we find at the dawn of the 21st century: the new rock/politics interface, a coming together of the three-piece combo and the three-piece suit, the Marshall Stack going mano a mano with the Marshall Plan, Debt Relief getting jiggy with Oral Relief, nu-metal transforming into u.n.-metal, huge, wet, throbbing (That’s enough similes - Ed).

High-class Pussy

It should come as no surprise to his legions of dotty admirers that, as ever, Sam Snort is right at the heart of the action, one moment engaging in intensive discussions with a Republican congressman, the next having his dick hoovered by the same congressman’s comely intern. It’s all about making the world a better place and, failing that, getting as much high-class pussy as Frank Sinatra.

Not that there’s anything new in any of this, of course. You’ll remember that way back when, Eddie Cochrane was taking his problem “to the Yew-Nited Nayshuns” while even Elvis himself signed up as an honorary Fed for President Tricky Dick, an Oval Office tableau made all the more unforgettable because, behind his aviator shades, El The Pel was so pilled up that he rattled.

Some people reckon that rock ‘n’ roll should have nothing whatsoever to do with the forces of reaction, arguing that for it to do so is nothing less than a fundamental betrayal of the rebellious impulse that brought the boogie into being in the first place and which has defined its greatest achievements ever since.

To which Sam replies: ah fuck off and grow up. It’s all very well singing about street fighting men, police and thieves, kick out the jams and up against the wall motherfuckers, but that won’t get you a special pass into the Vatican Library and an expert guided tour through the comprehensive dirty book section in the company of Il Papa himself. (“Now you know why my sight is fading, “ he quipped good-naturedly, as we slipped the last volume back into its brown paper bag).

And there was you thinking that we must have spent our time together praying for the salvation of the word. Puh-leese. There is a time and a place for everything, and 12 midnight in the Vatican with an access all areas pass, a head full of valpolicello and couple of of those fiesty liberation theology nuns in tow, is not the time or the place for thinking of others, especially not others less fortunate than yourself. Jeez, talk about taking the edge off the buzz.

No, the time and the place for saving the world has to be carefully plotted, much like the release of a new album. And you must be aware of the competition. Like, there’s no point in Sam Snort announcing that he’s going to have a bed-in for world peace in the Gresham on March 1st if, on the same day, Bono is going to have a 17-course lunch with Bill Gates or Sting is going to nail himself to a tree.

These things have to staggered in such a way that all the problems of the world can be solved without affecting the global market for CDs and DVDs or giving REM, say, an unfair advantage over Foghat.

Very Fucking Funny

Speaking of the 'hat, may I say how disappointed I am that their offer of support on any major Amnesty International gig for nothing more than accomodation, expenses and standard contract rider (plus broadcast and recording rights etc) has been so rudely turned down by the human rights organisation. Okay, so maybe yer Fogs aren’t as poltically sophisticated as U2, maybe they think The Disappeared is the name of a horror movie and maybe they actually haven’t performed on stage since that Sun City spectacular with Budgie and Grand Funk Railroad in 1973 but, still, at least you’d think Mr Amnesty International would have the good manners to return our calls. But no it’s all “he’s not free at the moment” and “sorry, he’s a bit tied up right now.” Very fucking funny, I am sure.

Not to worry, there are plenty of other good causes in the world deserving of the attentions of a washed-up bunch of old rockers desperately in need of a career relaunch. For example, has anyone else noticed the absence of cycle lanes in rural areas?

Well, shit, somebody has to be the spokes man for a generation.

Your ever lovin’ Samuel J. Snort Esq