WHAT AN excellent idea it was for the Tory Party to introduce its Back To Basics policy! Certain commentators, and quite a few of the pillocks in their own Party, seem to have misunderstood certain aspects of this gloriously conceived and beautifully executed campaign.

They labour under the misapprehension that John Major was urging a return to conservative moral values, particularly in the area of family life, and other such dreary horseshite.

As subsequent events have underlined, nothing could be further from the truth. Indeed if anyone had had the gumption – not to mention the spondulicks – to consult Sam Snort on the matter, they would have saved themselves a lot of confusion.

You see, I’m a Back To Basics man myself, and have been for as long as I can remember, which isn’t very long, I’ll admit – though what I do remember is ingrained in my psyche like a series of particularly highly-charged scenes from a very blue movie. I’ll tell you about it sometime (for a small – no make that a large – fee) (Will you please get on with it? – Ed)

Back To Basics? Yes, I’ll have a bit of that, Jimmy.

Basics, to Samuel J. Snort, may mean something entirely different to what it means to some sad motherfuckers at the Tory Party Conference, but as far as I can see, John Major’s merry men have been following the Snort formula down to the letter – and then some. Yes indeed.

The most basic thing on this earth is, of course, shagging, and it would be hard to fault the Tory Party’s zeal on this front. They have gone forth and multiplied, riding all around them – and you can’t get more basic than that.

At the current rate of going, I will not be surprised to receive a request from John Major to hold next year’s Party Conference in Snort Mansions itself, where, in addition to the spacious boudoir facilities, there is an absolute shitload of specialist equipment on offer, everything from a fully-stocked torture chamber to rubber Johnnies that glow in the dark, depending on how far back to basics you want to go.

The facilities are also well-supervised at all times by Sam Snort himself, who will be dropping in to wish his guests well in their fornications, and to take some photographs for publication in the national dailies.

Hopefully, we will avoid a Stephen Milligan-type situation by smoothing out some of the obvious dangers of unsafe sex, such as suffocating yourself with a plastic bag, or having your pecker chopped off by a crazy lady.

What can I say about my man Milligan except, way to go!

I suppose that if you are going to pop your clogs, one of the most agreeable ways to do it is to shoot your load just when the Main Man says that your time is up.

If you want to postpone a visit from the Grim Reaper whilst engaging in kinky sex practices, then it is better on the whole to have Sam Snort by your side in case of emergency.

Indeed, I am hereby offering my sylvian services in this regard to anyone who feels that they may be taking on too much in the dick department. Just give me a call, and I will be around in a jiffy to monitor your perversions – and even to participate, upon receipt of the appropriate cash donation.

Health and safety are also basic issues, and I would view this as a kind of public service, part of my role as a good citizen, oiling the axles of leurve, sweet leurve.

Further to the John Wayne Bobbit catastrophe, I have noted with alarm that the papers are now full of stories about babes from Berlin to Botswana, cutting off their partners’ love-truncheon in imitation of the devil woman Lorena Bobbit.

Every fucking day there is a paragraph or two about a peckerectomy being performed without the owner’s permission.

The world is becoming full of guys walking around with amputated mickeys, as a result of some minor indiscretion or other.

There is a veritable Pecker Mountain out there, building up to a height akin to that of Mount Everest.

It is getting to the stage where a guy goes up to a babe in a bar, gives her a knowing leer and says, “let’s get back to basics, little woman,” and the next thing you know he is having his prick handed to him, the wrong way up.

Sam Snort is now so disturbed about ongoing developments that he is setting up the Peckerectomy Institute, where students can learn how to perform on-the-spot re-attachments of Mr. Floppy, should the need arise.

Eventually, I hope that people will develop a facility for this vital skill akin to that of simple First Aid, and that if they see a chap holding his severed tool in his hand, they can say, “no problem, just give it to me and I’ll have it dangling from the usual place in two minutes flat.”

This is now a global emergency, with Back To Basics being pre-empted by the mass mutilation of the most basic item of all, Mr. Hissing Sid.

The theme song of the Peckerectomy Institute will be ‘Johnny I Hardly Knew You (“Until I Saw You Lying On The Floor)’.

All together now, after Sam Snort.

Sing, Irishmen, sing!