Stick ‘em up punks, it’s the fun lovin’ criminal! No, your eyes do not deceive you and, before the Daily Mirror asks, no, Niall has not gone mad again. Or maybe he has. For all we know, he could be busy calling for compulsory elephant tranquillisers with school dinners at this very moment, but since he’s currently somewhere over the American rainbow, we’ll have to wait for the next editions of the New York papers to find out if he’s managed to whip up some wild new scandal Stateside or, since he’s supposedly on his holidays, simply contented himself with a few discreet letters to the right people on the hitherto undocumented role of the Christian Brothers in the decimation of the native Americans. (“Might I add, Mr President, that poor Geronimo’s eyeballs nearly popped out with fright, as Brother Iggy, a big, ugly bastard from Tipperary, came at him with a catechism in one hand and a huge leather in the other . . .”).

The big news at home, of course, is that in Stokes’ absence, there’s been something of a palace coup here at HP HQ, with the result that it has fallen to my good self – Samuel J. Snort Esq, Doctor Of Divinity, Drug Guru, Sex Therapist and World’s Greatest Rock Journalist – to take over the editorial reins for this issue. (I’ve also taken the liberty of appointing my good friend, Sir Lemmy of Motörhead, as acting Chairman of the IRTC, with the result that we’re finally in a position to comply with Sile Dev’s demands for a national 24 hour heavy metal television service. Not that this will in any way affect the launch of TV3, since, as the acting chairman has personally assured me, he has “major hots for that chick in ‘Buffy The Vampire Slayer’.”).

Meantime, regular readers will notice a few subtle changes in the design and content of this isue. Nothing too radical, of course, but just enough, I trust, to suggest the merest hint of the presence at the top of a fresh, new editorial vision.

The paper’s new title, for example, is Snort Press, and the cover price has been increased to £75.99p in order to meet spiralling newsprint costs as well as my obligations to certain swarthy gentlemen of Colombian extraction who appear to be entirely lacking in the sense of humour department. (Hell, I know I’d laugh if I opened a suitcase and found it full of packets of Odlums).

However, I trust that this apparently steep but entirely necessary price increase will be offset by this issue’s fantastic free gift – an astonishing double CD featuring previously unreleased live tracks by The Verve, Fun Lovin’ Criminals, Bob Dylan, U2, Bruce Springsteen, Oasis, Prince, Sinead O’Connor, Van Morrison, Elvis Presley, Beastie Boys, Miles Davis, Madonna, Frank Sinatra, Puff Daddy and Dolores Keane.

This ultra-rare collector’s item – unquestionably the greatest free gift ever given away with any magazine anywhere – should be affixed to the cover of the issue you are now holding in your hands. If it’s not, tough shit. You could, I suppose, try taking up your case directly with our specialist suppliers – Ali’s Record & Tape Exchange, Marrakesh – but be aware that you may find it difficult to walk upright with an entire hubbly bubbly pipe shoved up your arse.

Knowing how much readers like to feel themselves on familiar ground, I have resisited the temptation to make too many other changes to the traditional Hot Press format – apart, that is, from throwing out all the regular columns to make way for ‘Foghat – A Complete History’. A long overdue tribute to my old showbiz mates, this fascinating account of the life and times of the world’s greatest southern-fried boogie band, begins on the next page and, like one of their legendary bass solos, goes on and on and on . . . But don’t worry, ‘Foghat – The Middle Years’ will follow next issue.

Many thanks to all on the team who helped me, the great Sam Snort, to put this fabulous issue to bed – and especially to my personal assistant, Greta, a willowy blonde of Scandanavian extraction, for the not-bad typing and exceedingly good poontang.

Until the next time, it’s goodbye from the man who put the mess in The Message.

Your ever-lovin’ Samuel J. Snort Esq.