Sam was watching the news the other night – the usual diet of war, famine, murder, disease, plane crashes and Colm Murray with the sport – when an astonishing thought suddenly struck me: do they know it’s Christmas time, at all?

It’s a good question, I think you’ll agree – and, after considering the whole thing for about five seconds, I’ve come to the sorry conclusion that the answer appears to be ‘no’. Or worse, if they do, they simply don’t give a damn. People just carry on fighting and starving and dying, with nary a thought for those of us who’ve worked hard all year and are looking forward to a little bit of festive cheer.
The least they could do is call a temporary halt to all their depressing activities, a bit like that famous Christmas Day truce in the First World War, when the Brits and Germans rose from their trenches and had a good game of footie in no-man’s land. The next day, they reverted to their usual tactic of wholesale slaughter, of course – but imagine how much worse that conflict would have been if they hadn’t been willing to give the gorefest a break for a few hours just to show that, yes, they did know it was Christmas, after all.
Would that the present generation would learn from their forefathers. But, no, over in the Ukraine they persist in ruining a picture postcard snowy scene by filling the streets with angry people stopping the decent folk doing their Christmas shopping. Down below in Darfur they can’t even be bothered to import a bit of fake snow or tinsel to make those dusty refugee camps look a bit more festive. And here at home, the sick and the lame and the elderly crowd our accident and emergency departments when, what with the season that’s in it, our entire health service should be devoted, 24/7, to coping with acute alcohol poisoning, suicidal depression, a sudden upsurge in the clap and all those other traditional manifestations of a good old party season in overdrive.
So some people are stuck on trolleys? C’mon, it’s Christmas - let them get off their fucking trolleys, same as the rest of us.

Side-splitting
Be assured, there’ll be no glum faces at Snort Towers where, for this year’s Christmas Party, we’ll be making a special effort to cheer up all those celebrities for whom the last 12 months have been a bit of a trial.
Celebrity bouncer for the event will be our dear friend Robocop, who will be given strict instructions that Mike Skinner is not to be admitted to the house under any circumstances, thereby giving the force’s sweetheart a chance to do his thing and “reclaim” The Streets for once and for all.
Our guest MC for the night will be former FAI boss Fran ‘The Man’ Rooney, who can be expected to wow the crowd with an endless stream of side-splitting gags. Well, endless at least until about three minutes into the gig, at which point I will walk on stage and inform Fran that he is being replaced, not just by any old MC, but by an interim MC. Should be a hoot.
For some of our Olympians, a difficult year can be put behind them in fine style at Sam’s party, as they mingle happily with wild-eyed showbiz folk who would be flabbergasted to learn that anyone has ever tried to get to the top without taking drugs. And the fact that one of the sporting greats at the top table will be an actual horse ought in no way to faze my regular clients, many of whom are well used to conversing with, and invariably trying to bed, exotic creatures at record company ligs. So don’t be surprised if Waterford Crystal goes home with a record contract or at least a part in the next series of Celebrity Farm.
Still smarting from the break-up of his relationship with the lovely Eric Cantona, not to mention the horrible experiences he had at a school he never attended, Brian McFadden will have his mind taken off those dreadful traumas when he discovers that Sam has arranged for him to be seated next to my old mucker Elton John – that’s the bould Elt who recently said of Bri’s single ‘Irish Son’, “I nearly died when I listened to it…it’s the worst lyric I’ve ever heard. I had to take it off in case I committed suicide.”
In the spirit of Yuletide, it’ll be interesting to eavesdrop on Elt explaining how his comments were, y’know, “taken out of context” by the press and that the line about taking it off before he topped himself was really a reference to his famous duck costume. And who wouldn’t believe that?
For his part, Bri will doubtless be fascinated by the extensive songwriting wisdom of a man whose own fabulous lyrics are written by someone else.

Long Face
To some, poor defeated John Kerry would be a valued overseas guest, except that, like my old mate Freddie Mercury, Sam has no time for losers, so the only long face in the room will belong to the horse. Still, the world of politics will be ably represented by Michael ‘The Mad Mullah’ McDowell who will be invited as far as the front gate just so’s he can see what a really big house is like when it’s finished.
And, of course, no party at Snort Towers would be complete without the presence of the greatest rock ‘n’ roll band Ireland has ever produced. But since Reform broke up a long time ago, I suppose we’ll have to make do as usual with The Frames.
Assuming, of course, they manage to get past Robocop in the first place.

Your ever lovin’ Samuel J. Snort Esq