ALL HAIL Nick Leeson, high roller extraordinaire, the man who gave a whole new meaning to the notion of losing your Barings.

Sam Snort loses his Barings from time to time, often in a place called Leeson Street. I wonder are they by any chance related?

Barings of my ass at the general public from the window of a high-speed limo are also an essential recreation, though even I have to doff my leather strides in the general direction of Friend Nick, whose annihilation of such a venerated institution was of truly Snortian proportions.

It is a terrible pity that he was stopped before he could wipe out the entire fucking City of London and every lard-arsed motherfucker who plies his abysmal trade within its square mile.

Give Sam Snort a telephone, a computer, and a head full of speed, and he’d revive memories of the Wall Street Crash quicker than you could say “Dow Jones Index”.

I don’t think I’d fancy Singapore, mind. They beat your ass with a big stick for pissing in the streets and other such trifles, and Sam insists being able to piss unperturbed by such hidebound convention. They also take a poor view of press freedoms, and beat your ass like a gong if you call the Prime Minister a sad bollocks.

Fair fucks to Nick, then, for nicking all that money with such devil-may-care pizzazz, in such a totally repugnant and repressive environment. And I hope he got banjoed enough on the marching powder during his flight from the fuzz to do him for ten years in stir.

The only pity is that he didn’t bankrupt the fucking Queen before they called him in.

Way to go, Nicholas!

MIGHTY PHALLUS

The spectacular wonders of modern communications, the transfer of information to distant parts of the globe, are of key importance to Sam Snort as he organises his daily supply of the white powders and other such staple fare.

Another man cruising down the information superhighway is my old buddy, Daniel Day-Lewis, soul brother, solid sender.

If there is any substantial difference between Sam the Ram and Dan the Man, it is that millions of babes want to sit on Dan’s pecker, whereas with Sam, they need to.

Anyway, Big Dan set an example to us all recently, breaking it off with Isabelle Adjani by fax. I think the fax said something like “It’s over – Dan.” Way to go, Dan.

The temperamental French actress babe is “with child”, as they say, that child allegedly being the issue of my buddy Dan, and his throbbing porksword.

In some of the more idiotic newspapers, Danny Boy was castigated fro his “Dear John” fax, and for making Isabelle feel extremely pissed off as a result. They say that he was shirking the responsibilities of fatherhood.

Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha.

That’s a good one, that is.

For fuck’s sake, you don’t get to where Dan Day-Lewis or Sam Snort are today by “accepting the responsibilities of fatherhood.” That is for all those sad people who are not Dan or Sam or James Douglas Morrison, deceased.

Our only responsibility is to present the mighty phallus at the portcullis of leurve, oiled and cleaned and in prime condition. Our only duty is to keep that powerful love-pump in good condition for those nightly drenchings of the love-canyon of babedom.

Are people seriously suggesting that having had the enormous privilege of a ride aboard the torpedo which thrusts from the groin of Sam Snort, a babe is entitled to expect him to clean an infants’ shit for the rest of his life?

No, no, no. Shurely shome mishtake.

MARCHING POWDER

So Dan sent her a fax. Well, judging from her hysterical over-reaction, if he had told her in person, she would have bitten his dick off and fed it to the hens. And Dan Day-Lewis, as far as I know, is not planning to “get into character” for the role of John Bobbitt just yet.

Why, only the other night in Snort Mansions, Daniel “All Day And All Of The Night” Lewis and I were laughing uproariously about the whole caper.

We were discussing a new mega-bucks film project provisionally entitled “My Enormous Pecker”, with Dan playing me, though he insisted that I do all the close-ups.

“It’ll be a change from In The Name Of The Father,” I quipped, referring to his prospective paternity.

“And what about the Last Of The Mohicans? he spluttered. “Spare me from The First Of The Day-Lewises, eh Sam?”

“Then there’s The Age Of Innocence,” I rejoindered. “I’m afraid you’re guilty on all counts here, Dan.” Oh, how we laughed.

Our raucous roisterings continued as I brought the great man to my study for a look at Sam Snort’s fax machine.

There it was, glowing in the dark like the Snortian pecker encased in a luminous rubber johnny, sending out fax after fax of replies to paternity suits. The reply was identical in every one of these thousands of cases. “I don’t wear it – Sam.”

We were so creased with mirth at this stage, that I realised all of a sudden that I had actually gotten over our profound shock and distress at the fact that two million quid’s worth of top-quality marching powder had been found on a beach in Clare, and handed over to the fucking Old Bill. For fax sake.

Now that is sad.