A MAJOR UNDERTAKING

IT IS heartening to note that Mr. John Major has recently joined the Bad Language Revival Movement, founded by the former Irish Prime Minister, Charles Haughey.
Reports that Major, in an unguarded moment, referred to members of his Cabinet as "bastards," offer a nostalgic echo of Mr. Haughey's remarks in this very organ, that there were some bastards whose throats he would like to cut, before throwing the fuckers off the edge of a fucking cliff. Or words to that effect.
Sam Snort, recalling the positive effect that Haughey's foul-mouthed outpourings had on his standing with the public, was immediately struck by the possibility of cultivating Mr. Major's image in a similar way. For an impressive, not to mention a gigantic fee, of course.
Further consideration, however, led to doubts that even Sam Snort could re-build the persona of John Major as a hard-living, acid-tongued sonofabitch in the Haughey mould, even though it is his last hope at this stage of his doomed career.
Most of the punters didn't even believe that he was bonking that caterer woman in Downing Street, and then the loopy dingbat had to go around denying it, rather than milking it for all it was worth.
If Sam Snort were handling the Major public relations account, he would be actually leaking this kind of information all the time, and instructing Major to respond with an enigmatic smile, and a coy "no comment."
Since very few people believe that John Major even possesses a willy, and since it is on the whole, better for people to think that their leader is not completely pecker-less, here was a golden opportunity to present the Grey Man as someone with a drop of red blood in his veins.
Alas, he blew it.
I fear that it will take a mighty leap of the imagination if the Snort P.R. machine is to work its old magic here. I will accept a large retainer, and try for a modest result, perhaps a few stories about how he once auditioned for Motorhead, but was turned down by Lemmy, who reckoned that "this band ain't big enough for both of us crazy motherfuckers"; or how his first encounter with his future wife, Norma, was at a leather bar, where he introduced himself with the words: "do you do it doggie-style, big mama?"
Like I said, I would only expect a modest return on such manifestly preposterous gambits, but I am dealing with very miserable material here. If my media services can make the poor asshole appear even human, then I will consider the project to be a success. Merely changing his name by deed poll to Long Dong Major would scarcely be enough, but it would be a small initial improvement.
HAIRY ALCOHOLICS
Naturally, Sam Snort's ears prick up with interest, and his prick pricks up with even more interest, when he hears about eight billion quid flying about the place. Even if it is not eight billion quid at all, and those ludicrous fuckoffs in Brussels demand that it be spent on "worthy projects."
If the Government was really intent on seizing the bull by the horns vis-a-vis unemployment and the like, they would straight away do something to foster the image of Ireland as a kind of sex playground, now that Bangkok is losing its lustre, and Amsterdam no longer has the cachet of olden days.
It is a universally acknowledged fact that the over-riding priority of all people who go on their holidays to a foreign country, is to shag as many of the natives as possible with the least hassle that can be avoided.
Our Government, meanwhile, think that foreigners want to come to Dublin to enjoy the artistic ambience of Temple Frigging Bar, or to Kerry to play a few rounds of golf, or to the Burren to look at a few nonsensical rock formations.
Certainly, they can do all these things if they are so inclined, but only as a prelude to an evening of rampant drinking and fucking. If you asked the average visitor whether they would prefer to look at a troupe of hairy alcoholics playing the melodeon, or at an endless vista of babes sitting in windows with a view to rumpy-pumpy, I think you would find that the latter would receive a unanimous "aye."
For a suitable remuneration, Sam Snort would happily receive custody of one of those billions, to develop a proper sex infrastructure up and down the land.
We could finally replace Nelson's Pillar with an enormous phallus, which, in a way, was what it signified in the first place. We could re-name the Ring of Kerry as Pussy Highway, with attractions such as the former love-palace of Eamonn Casey to break the journey with a quick romp. O'Connell Street in Limerick would feature a sculpture of Dan the Man himself, hard at it, emancipating the Catholic virginity of a local babe, as was his speciality.
The possibilities are hugely exciting. There would, of course, be a new Snort Boulevard where Talbot Street used to be. Old Matt Talbot may have had a highly-developed taste in bondage, but most visitors will associate the outer realms of sexual gymnastics with yours truly. They will find what they are looking for on Snort Boulevard, in spades.
Laois will become Leash, kingdom of the dominatrix. Longford will not be longing for it anymore when we replace all those abandoned factories with high-class bonking dens. Mayo? Yes, you may, if you can afford it. It's a long way to Tipperary, but the poontang is worth it when you get there.
When these changes have been put in place, the tourism potential is nothing short of astronomical.
Exhausted, but happy revellers will say to their friends back home, "I have not really departed from Ireland. I have just made my excuses and left."