It’s taken myself and Mrs Snort until now – a full three weeks later – to prise ourselves off the sofa. And, no, we weren’t putting Anne Sexton’s latest column to the test.

Frankly, clutching each other in shock and sadness was about the most we could manage as the full impact of Ireland’s Eurovision catastrophe set in.
Never mind all those anguished commentary pieces you’ve read elsewhere, all those daft Louis Walsh quotes and all that fevered head-scratching in RTE about “where do we go from here?” No, Sam is the man with the one and only question that matters: what were the Brits doing spoiling everything by giving us seven points?
Myself and Mrs Snort were ready to pop the champagne at what, by any measure, was set to be an historic moment in Irish culture: the moment when, after years of embarrassing success, we could finally take our place among the sophisticated nations of the earth by registering a big fat zero in the Eurovision Song Contest. “Nul points! Nul points!” we were chanting ecstatically when up popped the vote of the London jury.
Seven points. Sept points. What the fuck did they think they were at?

Post-colonial Guilt
I mean, Christ on a bike, it’s not as if we haven’t given the bastards reason enough to hate us. We fought them tooth and claw for 700 years. We have jeered at their football team. The minute they became world champs in rugby we went out and humiliated them on their own turf. We gave them the Irish pub. We even sent them Graham Norton.
And still they come back and tell us that they love us. What is this? Post-colonial guilt? Gratitude for building their roads and giving them all their chat-show hosts, intelligent rock stars and comedy?
Or, hang on, maybe they’re more subtle and sophisticated than that. Maybe they understand that while winning Eurovision doesn’t really matter much and getting nul points matters just about the same, not doing either but instead ending up with seven – sept!!! – points, is a form of fingers-on-blackboard torture, a horrible numbing limbo, as if your football team has nothing to aspire to beyond mid-table mediocrity. In short, the Brits have turned us into Everton. (Hi Stuart!).
Of course, things were very different back in the day. When Sam were a lad, there weren’t too many Irish role models to look up to and hardly any occasions for celebrating a great international success. Consequently, in the 50s, young Samuel wanted to be a runner (Ronnie Delaney), in the sixties, a horse (Arkle) and, at the start of the 70s, a warbling nightingale from Derry in a Celtic-decorated dress (Dana). And, by the way, where are they now? Ronnie and Arkle haven’t won anything in years and Dana may be about to get her own version of a Euro sept points.
Still, Dana’s victory did cast a long shadow, and with Johnny Logan doing it twice as a performer and once as a writer, the Irish concept of the Eurovision contestant as a solo singer has virtually become set in stone. Never mind that even neophytes like the Ukraine (and, by the way, again: why “the Ukraine” and why not “the Ireland”?) are suss enough to send out an act that looks like something from the set of the Rocky Horror Show; the vastly more experienced Irish insist on clinging desperately to the idea of a voice and a soppy ballad as representative of all that is best in the country’s music culture.
Well, enough already. If we’re not going to win or lose the thing spectacularly, I really don’t see the point in taking part. I mean, the Eurovision is not the Olympic Games – at least, with them, there’s the opportunity to take loads of interesting drugs. In the Eurovision, it’s the spectators who have to reach for the dubious anti-inflammatories.

Ladies’ Undergarments
So where to from here? Having come so close and failed I would now put our chances of ever achieving a glorious nul points at, well, less than zero. Therefore, if the only way is up, I think we should go for it like gangbusters.
We should bring out our heaviest guns, take no prisoners, blow the opposition out of the water, burn their crops, level their cities, cover their heads with ladies’ undergarments and- (Thanks for that considered contribution to the war issue, Sam – Ed).
In short, we must send in U2.
Why not? As Irish ambassadors on the world stage, they’ve done just about everything else except that, like gaelic footballers, they never really get a chance to wear the jersey, as it were, to officially represent their country. Well, no, that bit about the gah lads is not quite true; some of them do get to play for Ireland in the Compromise Rules series. But that doesn’t screw my basic point: after all, in a music context – and here’s the clincher – what could be more compromising than taking part in Eurovision?
So I reckon I’ll have to have a word with my old mucker Bono. “Bo, old son,” I’ll tell him, “it’s all very well and good running around saving the world, repealing the corn laws and ending slavery in Africa and that kind of thing. No-one more admiring of this selfless endeavour than my good self etc etc. But, for fuck’s sake man, will ya get a grip. Have you just seen how we did in Eurovision?
“So Bono, what you need to do is call up the Hedge, Saddam and Barry and crank out some vaguely tuneful ditty in double-quick time. Yeah, yeah, make it about the Deity or even nick a few lines from the Bible, if you must. It doesn’t matter: nobody will pay any attention to the words anyway. All that really matters is that myself and Mrs Snort don’t have to put up with another Eurovision year like this.”
“Remember: seven points. Seven fucking points. Bono – your country needs you.”
Your ever lovin’ Samuel J. Snort Esq