Nearly a week on and Sam Snort has only just put the light out on his Bloomsday celebrations but then you d hardly be surprised to learn that a mere 24 hours just isn t enough time, for a man with the highly developed aesthetic sense of the Snortian one, to do full justice to such an iconic figure.

(Excuse me for a moment WILL YOU FOREVER FUCK OFF YOU WITLESS DINGBATS!!!).
Sorry about that; it s just that I m penning this week s column in my city centre penthouse suite above HPHQ here on Trinity Street, and it being a fine sunny day, I have the windows open to the sheer blue sky, the better to admit a cooling breeze and simultaneously release the plumes of pungent marijuana smoke being generated by my patented Aughrim Aubergine thirteen-skinner.
Unfortunately, this otherwise pleasant arrangement also admits the sound of primitive drumming from the street below, as a bunch of hairy neanderthals attempt to bludgeon the decent citizens of Joyce s city into submission. Hence, what I m sure you ll agree was my entirely justified and appropriate, albeit robust, response, as outlined above.
I mean, Jesus marauding Christ, of all the sins that have been committed in the name of art in the community none can possibly be worse than the bongo madness which has resulted from the all too easy availability of tribal-style drums. As a result, spotty, middle-class oiks who would be ordinarily much more usefully employed digging ditches, signing on the dole, annoying the poor people of Tibet or studying useless shite in university, now feel entitled to sit cross-legged on our major thoroughfares, upsetting innocent bystanders with frenzied demonstrations of Ireland s utter unfamiliarity with the basic concept of rhythm.
Worse still, these noisy, grinning loons like nothing better than to flock, like vultures caught in the throes of a feeding frenzy, to create the kind of brain-numbing, multi-tom-tom cacophony that can finally force even a sane person like Samuel J Snort Esq over the edge.
And, hey, let s not even think about those waterbrains who reckon they re entitled to your money in return for playing empty Coke bottles on their fucking knees. From spoons to Coke bottles there s the complete history of the dark side of Irish music right there, people. Funny how they didn t tell you about that one on From A Whisper To A Scream, eh?
Anyway, I seem to have digressed more than somewhat...where was I? Ah yes, explaining how Sam Snort s Bloomsday might have differed from that experienced by the lads in the stripey blazers and the straw hats.
Well, for a start, we didn t partake of the inner organs of beasts and fowls ; instead we plumped for the surely much more appropriate oyster breakfast, washed down with copious draughts of stout. We also gave the Forty Foot a miss even though it s named after my good self for what should be fairly obvious reasons on the grounds that the only thing which should be permitted to tighten Sam s scrotum is the expert attention of a willowy blonde with hands-on experience, as it were, of the physical sciences.
Our Bloomsday festivities continued, the afternoon being spent behind closed doors, in a darkened room, deep in the bowels of Snort Towers, listening to such classic dizbuzter spectaculars as Agents Of Fortune , Secret Treaties and, of course, the double live On Your Feet Or On Your Knees .
Then, come evening, we betook ourselves into the fabled nightown , dressed appropriately in leather, lace, silver and aviator shades. Fancy a trip on the hot rails to hell avec l homme Snort? , I would ask of the painted ladies. Yes, they d say yes they d say yes they d say yes they d say yes. But then they always do, so nothing special there then, eh? Hell, even Ulster wouldn t say no to a romp on the massive prong of The Great Snort
Finally, there was only one way to finish off the evening, of course, and that was back in the Great Hall of Snort Towers where the bould Foghat assembled to perform their blistering hour-long tribute version of (Don t Fear) The Reaper .
For what better way, on the day named after him, to honour Eric Bloom, lead singer with the Blue Oyster Cult and one of the finest heavy metal vocalists to emerge from the greater New York area in the last 25 years. At least.
Now please excuse me while I go out to throttle a bongo player.
Your ever lovin Samuel J. Snort Esq.