People often come up to me and say, “Mr Snort, what do you like most in a woman?” To which I always reply, “Why, my dick, obviously. Now ask me a difficult one.”
Of course, I jest. Sam is a thoughtful, considerate and sophisticated modern man, and the idea that women can be reduced to the status of physical playthings and/or cheap sexist gags, is one to which I would never subscribe. Of course, I don’t subscribe to Playboy either. I just pick up a copy at the newsagents. Boom and, if you will, boom.
No, let’s be serious for a moment. In the context of this special issue of Hot Press, I would ask you to consider the enormous contribution of the female sex to the evolution of the big beat. There, that wasn’t so hard was it? (As the actress said to the bishop who’d misplaced his Viagra.)
I’m sure, like me, you came up with a huge and hugely impressive list. Okay, maybe not quite as long as one that might include Elvis, Little Richard, Muddy Waters, Miles Davis, Bob Dylan, Van Morrison, Neil Young, Jimi Hendrix, The Band, The Beatles, The Beach Boys, The Rolling Stones, The Kinks, Sly Stone, Marvin Gaye, Otis Redding, Bob Marley, Iggy Pop, the MC5's, The New York Dolls, Lou Reed, David Bowie, The Clash, The Sex Pistols, Television, Nirvana, U2, Oasis, Radiohead, Foghat, and, while he was still a man, Wayne County.
Not as long as that then, but I’m pretty sure it must have included such great names as Janis Joplin, Joni Mitchell, Madonna, Patti Smith, Celine Dion, Mariah Carey and, 'er, The Singing Nun.
Plus, 'um, let’s see, Sinead – although, for all I know, she could be a man this week, since she’s already tried just about everything else – Twink and The Corrs, at least three of whom are women.
So, as you can see, if it wasn’t for women, there would still have been an awful lot of great rock ‘n’roll albums – more than enough, in fact, if you include all those Yes double and triple sets – but hardly any decent tour catering. Or intricate denim embroidery. Or, fuck me, groupies. (And they did).
So thanks sisters, it’s been great.
And please send all letters to Shooting Gallery, as my secretary is off on one day’s maternity leave.
Total Exhibition
I don’t know if my old mucker Mary McAleese got wind of all the above, but for some insane reason known only to Her Excellency, she declined to invite yours truly to the “Presidential tribute to the artistic community” above in the Park.
Like, I give a shit.
Did anyone else, apart from Sam, find the whole affair puke-inducing? I mean, what the fuck were Snow Patrol thinking of, standing there in their scruffy jeans and carefully tousled hair, next to the lady in red and the poor auld hubby?
Were they thinking: yep, this is what I joined a rock ‘n’ roll band for, to get rich, famous and laid and have my picture taken with the President of Ireland?
Sam is also happy to name and shame the likes of Neil Hannon, George Murphy, John Spillane, Mundy, Jerry Fish, Damien Rice – Fish and Rice, they should form a duo – and all the other saps who went along to hear the Prez make a speech in which, according to the man who should be called Gary Lighthead, she “thanked us for making our music, poetry and books”.
But not, she obviously forgot to add, for making a total exhibition of themselves.
Now, call me old-fashioned, but if the ultimate figurehead of the establishment feels relaxed enough to big up the “music, poetry and books” of the “artistic community” then there must be something very seriously wrong with both.
Christ on a moped, can you imagine Dev singing the praises of Philo, Rory or the mighty Lipsos, let alone permitting them to spill their drinks and stub out their joints all over the Aras?
No, no and a thousand times no.
Anyway, there was some consolation in thinking about what must have gone through Mary’s mind which she picked up the new Hot Press to admire the nice picture of herself and her new chums in that nice Snow Patrol band, and then, idly turning over the leaves to see what else the fantastically energetic and creative young people of Ireland are getting up to, she alights upon page 11 and sees an illustration and then does a little double-take and then begins screaming for the hubby as she realises that the Good Priest’s strides are in a heap around his ankles and grasped firmly in his right hand is – ohmigodpassmthesmellingsalts – the old clerical mutton dagger itself.
The poets and the musicians and the writers may not, 'er, give a toss anymore – just as long as they get invited to all the best addresses – but it’s nice to know that a bit of never mind the bollocks attitude still lives on in the nib of a pen.
Your ever lovin’ Samuel J. Snort Esq