I refer, of course, to the evil machinations of the Anti-Happiness League, as personified by such putrid party-pooping politicos as Michael McDull, Mickey Martin and Mickser Woods. (What is with this Mick shit by the way? Answers on a postcard, conspiracy theorists. Send ‘em in green biro to Ireland On Sunday, Dublin, England). And I refer specifically to the latest dastardly campaign to keep weed addicts out of the pubs.
No matter that this is a bit like banning booze in an opium den – it’s not the intrinsic nuttiness that irks but the depressing realisation that this is yet another attempt by people we have never met, and have absolutely no wish to meet, to tell us how to live our lives. To which I say, with all due respect: fuck you, you fucking fucks and fuck your muthas.

ATAVISTIC SHIT
Look, younger readers may not realise it but Sam and his generation fought this war a long time ago and have no intention of putting up with this kind of atavistic shit again. Of course, back in those days, the Anti-Happiness League wore a different strip – generally all black with a naff little white collar peeping out over the top. At least that, and the purple robes of the boss class, made the bastards easy to detect and it wasn’t long before we’d nearly coursed the fuckers out of existence, leaving the country free for divorce, gay pride marches and a condom machine in every sub-post office.
But now the AHL has reappeared in a newer, more subtle guise, all nice suits and fancy loafers, spinning its repressive legislation with PR sophistication and trying to kid us into thinking that the new clampdown is really all for our own good.
To which I reply: pray depart and perform the standard anatomical impossibility. Or, in the vernacular: go fuck yourselves.

Let us count just some of the ways in which the AHL is pressing its dreary case: car clamping, penalty points, tax on plastic bags, tax on chewing gum, tax on ATM receipts and, of course, coming on January 1, a ban on smoking in pubs and restaurants.
Do any of these waterbrains think anything through at all? Did it ever dawn on them, for example, that a tax on plastic bags would have a terrible impact on the glue-sniffing leisure industry? Has anyone checked out how many jobs have been lost at UHU? And I don’t know if you’ve tried but let me assure you that it’s virtually impossible to get more than one blast out of a recyclable bag – the fucker just sticks together and is thereafter fit for nothing but the bin. (Ah, but which bin, green or black, that is the question - woe betide the citizen who puts the wrong crap in the wrong crap container, another irritating example of the League’s determination to regiment and control every little aspect of our lives).

I also hear reports that there are plans afoot to restrict the number of citizens who can gather in a public place to six. Anything above that will require a license, it appears. I’m not sure how real a prospect this is – indeed, it’s perfectly possible that I made the whole thing up just now – but rest assured that if McDull reads this he’ll have it in some class of a discussion paper, claiming it as his own, before you can say “Leas Cathaoirleach”. Nnext thing, Woodsy will be up on his hind legs demanding a tax on jax paper.
And then Harney will want a ban on dope. (Er, bad news Sam, there already is one – Ed. WHAT?!?! – Sam)

EXPLODING LIVER
One thing that now looks certain is that from January 1 next year, any decent self-respecting alchoholic – eight pints and three small ones to the good and just about to drain his one for the road before climbing in his car and driving home to wallop the long-suffering wife – will face an almost mandatory death sentence if he inadvertently torches a Woodbine before leaving the bar.
Jah knows, better that he would cause his liver to explode than blow a wisp of tobacco smoke in the general direction of the bar person who, as we are all too aware, spends his every waking hour meditating, doing Pilates, drinking Evian and giving aromatherapy sessions to the young female Chinese lounge staff, whether they want them or not. Also, his personal hygiene never offends innocent smokers.
Look, we can’t stay quiet about this stuff any more. Sam Snort is already formulating plans for Sam’s Speakeasy, a discreet basement place where there’ll always be a special welcome on the mat for heavy topers, strong smokers and glue sniffers. (Happy Hour Fridays for folks with inoperable lung cancer). More on this anon. Battle has at last been joined. Only terminal illness can stop us now.