"Fuck shit bastard wank cunt bollocks fuck fuck fuckin’ fuck”.

“And a happy Christmas to you too, Colin,” I replied, welcoming the first celebrity guest to arrive at the door of Snort Towers for Sam’s annual Christmas hooley, as ever the most prestigious party of the year.
Keeping strict time with the festive season itself, the Snort bash usually gets going around late September, so Mr Farrell can hardly be considered an early arrival. As I write, he’s happily installed in the library, smoking a fucking cigarette, drinking a fucking beer, just chilling the fuck out, man.
Note, that Sam is already way ahead of the posse by introducing a special smoking zone this year. It’s called his house. But the no smoking area is even more spacious, a vast expanse of rural farmland stretching away from the brightly-lit mansion in all directions. If people don’t want to smoke this year, they will be free to stand out in the freezing cold for however long they like, and nobody will think any the worse of them. In honour of the great man, we’re designating this the Michael Martin Zone, and we will be only too delighted if the Minister himself turns up, so that we can direct him out into the bracing fresh air for the good of his health, any time he doesn’t feel like firing up a cheroot.

Jazz Cigarettes
Inside the house, meanwhile, guests will loom in and out of a fog like phantoms, as the clouds of smoke generated by a combination of mainstream and jazz cigarettes afford the VIP attendance a thick, protective cover. This will be particularly helpful to visiting overseas dignitaries such as Saddam Hussein and Osama Bin Laden who, whilst not wishing to miss the festivities, are more than usually concerned about keeping a low profile these days.
Under these exceptional circumstances, permission to don fancy dress has been especially extended to the two men. From what I hear, Osama will come as himself, on the basis that everyone will think he’s a crap comedian and he might even get to exchange banter with a royal, while Saddam, ingeniously, is coming as a weapon of mass destruction, on the grounds that no-one would even pretend to be looking for one of those any more.
Anyway, as I’ve often said to the lads, they really should chill out. The Yanks have been trying to nail my old mate Fidel Castro for years – employing everything from exploding cigars to toxic beard powder – and the generalissimo is still holding out, at the age of 107, all of 90 miles from the nearest Miami shopping mall.
Nor should the world’s most wanted men be alarmed at the prospect of my good Texan friend, Sheriff George Bush, turning up for the second year in succession. Sam’s Xmas house party is perhaps the only occasion in the year when Dubya can let his hair down and kick the shit from off his shoes like the good ‘ol southern boy he really is. To that end, I suspect the routine will be the same. “What say, I fix you a nice pretzel, Mr President ?” I’ll ask with a grin. Dubya will reply with that charming, crooked smile of his and then spend the rest of the night flaked out across a table or puking over some visiting premier, weeping in between gasps about how he could never be the man his daddy wanted him to be.
From closer to home, we will be pleased to once again welcome members of Britain’s royal family. This year The Queen and the Duke Of Edinburgh will be staying overnight at Snort Towers, in order that they might enjoy the once in a life time experience of eating their breakfast out of proper bone china. They’ll have to leave the butler at home, however, because Sam would like to keep his delph.

Traditional Booing
The party wouldn’t be complete, of course, without the always welcome presence of our own first family, the Aherns. Their night will be bookended in the familiar manner, beginning with the traditional booing of Bertie around the Christmas Tree and ending with a moving scene beneath the mistletoe – the traditional signing of the contract for coverage of the party in Hello.
From the world of rock ‘n’ roll, it will be a case of round up the usual suspects, with old friends like Keef, Lemmy, Ozzy, Iggy and Lou joined by the disciples Courtney, the Gallaghers, Ryan Adams, Nick Oliveri and, er, David Kitt. (Where the fuck have all the mad Irish bastards gone, anyway?).
With the world’s greatest southern-fried boogie band holed up in rehab for a second year running, we are fortunate to have The Darkness on hand to do their Foghat tribute, or perhaps their own set, if anyone can tell the difference. Don’t matter really: Sam is happy enough to have onstage the kind of band who recently began a U.S, gig by shouting “Gimme a D”, then “Gimme an Arkness”.
One other showbiz celebrity we’re looking forward to seeing is endurance magicman and Man Of The Year David Blaine. The delightful plan here is to get him smashed at the earliest opportunity. That way, as he staggers about the party crashing into potted plants and dropping all his cards, other guests can have the great good fun of pointing at him and going, “Oh, look, David Blaine is out of his box.”
Ah yes, the simple pleasures.
At some point in early Spring, however, Sam’s overseas commitments in South America will oblige him to bring down the curtain on proceedings. This is never an easy job since nowhere else in the world are guests exposed to so much drink, so many drugs, so much love, so much poontang. And that’s just when I’m taking their coats.
But this year I have devised a failsafe plan to flush out the last of the stragglers before you could say “Ha, you don’t have a home like this to go to.”
I will simply call for silence and ask Eamon Dunphy and Shane MacGowan to sing ‘Raglan Road’.
Of course, it might take a little while longer for the screaming to stop.
Your ever-lovin’ Samuel J. Snort Esq