Paddle my ass in front of the class, but it’s been yet another frantic, frenetic, funky and fucked-up fortnight in the life and strife of your fabulously rich, massively talented and enormously well-endowed rock ‘n’ cock ‘n’ roll correspondent, Samuel J. Snort (oh, and just in case you were wondering, the J stands for ‘Jumbo’).

Seriously, readers, it’s just one fucking thing after another in Snort Towers these days. Take this morning, for instance. I snorted a line of Columbian marching powder after a shot of Jack Daniel’s after a super-strength E after a blowjob from the maid after a spliff of Jamaican weed after a double Hennessy after a bowl of Fruit & Fibre after getting out of bed.
While I realise that some of you will be appalled to read that Sam eats Fruit & Fibre, I’d just like to point out that the fruit is eaten off the bare bottom of my Filipino maid and the fibre refers to the material of her panties (which are obviously consumed as a starter). But maybe that’s too much information.
Anyway, enough nonsense. Onto more serious matters. After the nightmare of the recent marijuana drought, I spotted on the weather forecast last week that it isn’t going to be a white Christmas this year. Well, alright, it wasn’t the weather forecast, it was the fucking TV3 news.
Fuck me gently with a chainsaw! Sixteen million euros worth of snow seized in a raid on a Dublin apartment. The two lads minding the coke apparently jumped 25 feet from the balcony to make their escape. Not saying anything, like, but Ernesto and Raul have been limping around the place for the last few days. The useless bastards didn’t even manage to bring back a single bag.
What a waste! That’s a shitload of premium gak that I won’t be able to sell... sorry, I mean buy over the Christmas period. If I hadn’t already cleaned up on the Ride Her Cup, I’d be fucking ruined.
What’s really galling is the way the Guards announce these seizures as if it’s something we should all be really fucking happy about. Get with the times, lads! We don’t appreciate your efforts to save the nation’s nostrils from collapse. Round here at Snort Towers, we positively resent it. And if the figures can be believed, myself, Ernesto and Raul are far from alone. Truly, we’re living in a cocaine nation. But there’ll be a serious absence of sneachta this December.
Oh, I can’t even bear to think about it. So let’s quickly hop along, Ernesto-style, from Christmas to Summer – or rather, to Ann Summers.
I see that a district court judge has taken himself off a case involving a vicious catfight between a number of women following a raunchy Ann Summers sex toy party in a Meath housing estate. Hells bells! Kells bells!! Or even Kells belles!!! [Fuck me, with punning skills like mine, I should be writing for the Herald].
Seriously, Judge John Brophy told Kells District Court that he would stand aside because one of the witnesses was treating his court as a joke. By his own reckoning, she was a “fishwife” and he was prejudiced against her (and obviously all other fishwives).
The defendant had told the court that she had been crying outside the sex-toy party in a house on her estate because she had not been invited. “I looked in the window and knocked on the door,” she told the court. “I cried to be let in!”
It’s a terrible image, isn’t it? Just picture it in your mind’s eye for a moment, and see if you don’t shed a tear for that poor unfortunate girl.
Sob!
The reason she hadn’t been invited, she said, was because the party organiser “blamed me for taking a vibrator” at a previous sex-toy party. Sam’s question is: which hole did she take it in? Unfortunately, the report didn’t specify.
Anyway, there were certainly no good vibrations going down between the wicked womenfolk of Kells that day. So annoyed was the defendant at not being allowed attend the party, that she started to “kick lumps” out of the party thrower’s car. Cue a major street fight involving fingernails, corkscrews and hair-pulling.
When the judge was shown pictures from the party, he exclaimed, “Good Lord, disgusting!” Then he asked, “Are they all sick in Kells?”
Stating that he found himself prejudiced against the witness, the Judge stood down, sneakily pocketed the pics, and adjourned the case until November 9. Sam has already booked front row tickets for the courtroom. This promises to be a show that’s not to be missed.
Just while we’re on the subject of women fighting, I see that Naomi Campbell’s in trouble again. Last week she spent 10 hours sleeping off jetlag in a cell in a London police station, having been arrested for allegedly assaulting her drug counsellor. Now, Sam likes his women feisty, but not that feisty. For fuck’s sake, woman, what are you like? That’s an assault case every year for the last eight. That whistling sound you hear in the distance is the sound of Adam Clayton breathing a long sigh of relief. A lucky escape, Adam, a lucky escape...
Anyway, send her to Kells, that’s Sam’s opinion. A solid beating with a stolen vibrator will soon sort her out. The mad bint!
Speaking of mad, I see that Michael Jackson has been living in the Four Seasons for the last while. I suppose it makes a change from the Fourth Dimension. Any day now, I’m waiting to hear Glenda Gilson denying that she’s been secretly dating him. In the modern Ireland, being publicly denied by GG is the new rite of passage. Or so I keep reading.
Anyway, gotta rock and roll now. Apologies that your favourite Hot Press column is a little shorter than usual this issue, but, as I write, there’s a busy bank holiday weekend ahead, and now that Ernesto and Raul have fucked up my load, it’s back to work for Sam. Column writing doesn’t pay too badly, but gak-smuggling is really where the money’s at these days. But don’t tell anybody I told you, yeah?
Till next time then...