Polish my prick like a candlestick, but it’s been yet another weird, wild, wacky and wonderful week in the life, times and crimes of the planet’s biggest bestest rock scribe. Well, actually it’s been a fortnight, but I really wanted to keep that whole alliterative ‘w’ thing going.

Yes readers, as always, there’s been voluminous quantities of sex, drugs and rock & roll happening in the bacchanalian environs of Snort Towers, but the funny thing is that I haven’t even left the couch. All I can say is thank the Lord for Grainne Seoige.
You see, while I’ve still been getting laid (natch!), Samuel J. Snort has also been laid up. That fucking fool Ernesto accidentally dosed me with a full bottle of liquid LSD, and I’ve been hallucinating like a big, sugar-coated, Smartie-studded, shades-wearing, candy floss giraffe ever since. He got the bottles mixed up. He was supposed to be giving me the liquid MDMA.
Not that I’m complaining too much, mind. I enjoy tripping as much as the next big, sugar-coated, Smartie-studded, shades-wearing, candy floss giraffe, but I actually had some serious work to get done this week. Tough work when you’re tripping like a bedsit full of drippy hippies.
While the worst of it is over, it obviously still hasn’t fully worn off. Just the other night I thought that I saw the Irish soccer squad play a match, and the fuckers didn’t actually lose the thing 15 – 0. There’s no way that could have actually happened.
Elsewhere I see that Fianna Fail have actually gone up in the polls, following revelations that their glorious leader had taken handouts from strangers and loans from his mates. I must still be off my bin.
Still, as my dear departed old mucker Hunter used to say, when the going gets weird, the weird turn pro. So, acid or no acid, here’s my column anyway.
Speaking of Dr. Thompson, I see that Ralph Steadman has a new book out. The Joke’s Over: Memories of Hunter S. Thompson is a memoir of the Welsh cartoonist’s travels and travails with the king of gonzo.
Because I’m betting Steadman doesn’t subscribe to Hot Press, here’s an unpaid for extract concerning the good doctor’s lavish and explosive funeral: “Hunter’s funeral was a pretty show, but it wasn’t what I’d thought of when he and I designed it. I think Johnny Depp’s a great actor and he was a huge fan of Hunter’s, and I admire him for organising and paying for it, but it was a little bit on the Hollywood side. When we came up with it in 1977, a tower with a two-thumbed gonzo fist on top, the idea was that a metal capsule with Hunter’s remains would come out of a peyote flower in the palm, shoot up in the air and explode. In the event, it came out of three or four different firework displays, which I thought diluted the force of it.”
Still, what a way to go, eh? When Samuel J. Snort eventually breaks on through to the other side, I fully intend to have my remains mixed with an equal quantity of Columbian marching powder, and then shot from the warm vagina of a Bangkok go-go girl. When they explode overhead, a gentle dust shall descend onto (and into) the upturned dainty nostrils of a select group of supermodels. For many of them, it won’t be the first time they’ve had their noses full of intimate parts of Sam.
I haven’t decided who will get the privilege of paying for it though. Probably my old mucker Paddy the Plasterer (so named because of his fondness for getting his friends plastered).
Just while we’re on the subject of gak, I see that there’s been a huge brouhaha about Graham Norton admitting to not only taking drugs, but actually enjoying them as well. For fuck’s sake! Can you imagine? Middle-aged gay TV presenter takes drugs! Hold the front fuckin’ page!! As for enjoying them, well duuuhhhh!!!! Why the fuck do they think it’s called ‘ecstasy’?
The usual suspects have been condemning him for being irresponsible and a bad role model. In Sam’s humble opinion these wishy-washy do gooders should all be chopped up into lines and forcibly snorted up George Shrub’s left nostril. If Norton is to be condemned, let it be for his dress sense, not his narcotics of choice.
Elsewhere in the news, I see that rip-off Ireland extends to prostitution as well. Apparently, Irish hookers – or rather, hookers who work in Ireland – are charging up to €400 per hour for a simple lunchtime suck-'n'-fuck. According to Conor Pope’s Pricewatch column in the Irish Times, this compares unfavourably with the hookers of Hamburg and Helsinki – who charge just €50 for exactly the same service.
Now, as a veteran voyager through the cathouses of New York, Amsterdam, London, Ibiza, Majorca, Barcelona, Bangkok, Brussels, Budapest, Claremorris and Knock, I’m something of an expert in this area. However, I’ve never once had to pay. More often than not, the girls actually offer me money. Of course, I’m far too much of a gentleman to accept their cash. I’ll usually just take payment in kind.
Anyway, take it from me, I’m an expert in the whole red light area. So much so that the good people of Newstalk asked me on to discuss the matter the other morning. Unfortunately, due to my chemically addled mental condition, I couldn’t do it. Every time I reached for the telephone, the little fucker kept scuttling away.
However, here’s what the esteemed Samuel J. Snort has to say on this matter. This whole planet runs on sexual energy. Even as you’re reading this, millions upon millions of human beings are sweatily making the beast with two backs. Of course, the luckier ones (including Hef, Beep, Stringers and the members of Aerosmith) will undoubtedly be making the beast with three, four or even five backs. In the time it takes you to reach the end of this sentence, the equivalent of seventy-four-and-a-half Jacuzzis have been filled with jizz.
Take it from Sam, monogamy just isn’t what it used to be. Group sex is the new missionary position, dogging is the new religion, and prostitution is still the oldest profession. Older than Twink herself.
Forget about the morality; our morals are between our own good and bad selves. Those girls are working hard for their money, and their clients are working just as hard for the money to pay them. As my old mucker Bill is fond of saying, it’s the economy, stupid. So legalise it and get off your fucking moral high horses! Literally, for fuck’s sake!
Just before I go I’d like to ask what the fuck is wrong with rock stars these days? Robbie Williams and Justin Whatshisname from The Darkness have both just cancelled tours, claiming to be suffering from drink and drug induced exhaustion. What a pair of limp wristed wimps! They just don’t seem to fucking understand their role in the grand scheme of things.
As my good friend Conor Montague so sagely points out in his hilariously debauched and politically incorrect new novel Damnation (coming soon all over a bookshop near you), it could well be that your only purpose in life is to serve as a warning to others.
Think about it, lads. And get back to fucking work!!!