Fry like you mean it

Samuel J. Snort has quite a lot on his plate this week, but not so much that he won’t make room for a side order of... French fries. Now at least some of you readers are asking yourselves, what the fuck is Samuel on? About?

Well, French fries, obviously. But before the French fries, the French publicity stunt...
This involved a hitherto unheard of young model named Katie French, who had a very public falling out with her fiancé – a Dublin greasy spoon proprietor by the name of Marcus Sweeney.
When Marcus walked in on Katie doing a photo shoot for the Sindo’s Death magazine in his caff, he threw a major wobbler. The tasty Katie was posing in her knickers, causing Marcus to get his own in a twist. Apparently she’d promised him that she was going to give up that sort of modelling (not if Sam has any say in the matter – but I digress!) They staged a screaming match in front of the cameraman, journalist and make-up girls – thereby ensuring maximum publicity in the press.
The engagement was broken off, Sweeney demanded his 50 quid engagement ring back and chucked the brazen hussy out of his bedsit. His nasty text messages were reprinted in the tabloids. Then, just as the story began to die, the unhappy couple were spotted canoodling in Dundrum Shopping Centre, prompting bored journalists to speculate ‘are they getting back together?’
Anyway, the upshot of all of this is that Katie French has now displaced Glenda ‘Eyebrows’ Gilson as Ireland’s top ‘supermodel’. Snort!
Sam always thought that supermodels were underfed creatures, who fronted campaigns by massive fashion houses, graced the covers of magazines like Vogue and Cosmo, and charged at least 10 grand to get out of bed.
In Ireland, however, our ‘supermodels’ grace the covers of yokes like VIP, charge about a hundred quid an hour and are never more than five minutes from St. Stephen’s Green (which appears to be the only location deemed suitable for publicity shots; usually to promote something classy like a new acne cream).
Which brings me back to French fries.
Last week, a post rugby male diner in Thornton’s restaurant requested a side order of French fries. Chips weren’t actually on the menu, but the kitchen complied anyway. Unfortunately, the chips didn’t arrive until after meal had been served. They were, however delivered to the table by Michelin starred chef Kevin Thornton himself. When the diner turned his nose up at the specially prepared chips, Kevin quite correctly lost his rag. “We don’t have French fries on the menu. These were cooked especially for you. Now you eat them, you dickhead,” he snarled. Sam couldn’t have put it better himself!
The poor offended diner called Liveline a few days later to whinge (coincidentally, Marcus and Katie did exactly the same thing recently). Kevin appeared on the show and explained that said gentleman had been rude to the staff all night, and that this was why he had decided to cut loose. Sam would do exactly the same thing if anyone said a rude word to his Filipino houseboy, Raul, or to any of his very finely toned and supple Swedish masseuses. Yes he would.
So listen up, Sir Diner. So from now on, you just eat up and be a good boy.
Enough! Enough! Enough! On to slightly less trivial matters. . .
Following a raucous night on the tiles (at a roof party), Sam was stumbling past a newsagents last week, when a headline caught my eye, “Gay Calls For Legalisation Of Drugs.”
Now, the headline itself didn’t particularly surprise me. It’s well known that illegal drugs are widely used and abused throughout the homosexual community. Still, I was quite curious as to which particular gay was making this public call for legalisation. Graham Norton? David Norris? Derek Mooney? Des Bishop? Anna Nolan?
Silly me – it was actually former Late Late Show host and chairman of the Road Safety Authority, Gabriel Mary Byrne (who, despite the middle name, isn’t gay at all). Apparently Gaybo told The Dunph on RTÉ Radio that, “It’s a major chasm for me that we should seriously consider legalising drugs. It seems to me that, in no other area of human endeavour, have you tried to cure a problem for 40 years by doing exactly the same thing and finding out that it doesn’t work.”
Fair fucks to Gayt! As it happens, Sam and Mr. Byrne go back years. Now I’m going to tell you a story not one word of which is true. Or maybe it is: I don’t know because I haven’t told it yet. Anyway, perhaps I was hallucinating it at the time, but I seem to remember one mad occasion after a Horslips gig. I’d just scored some killer weed off a young Fr. Brian Trendy, and myself, Eamon Carr, Tony St.Gregory and Gaybo headed back to my gaff for a smoke. I think Maxi, Dick and Twink were there as well.
Anyway, the weed was primo quality. After a couple of hours smoking, Gaybo complained that he had a serious case of the munchies. I went out to the kitchen but there was nothing in the cupboards except a loaf of bread. Three hours and two small fires later, I returned to Gaybo. Handing him a plate, I muttered the immortal line, “And here is your toast, Gay Byrne!”
Oh, we pissed ourselves at that one, we truly did.
Ah, but back to reality. Gay’s call to legalise the weed, speed, smack and crack was greeted with the usual derision by the usual suspects.
Minister of State in charge of drug strategy, Noel Ahern, said, “Blah blah blah blah blah blah blah.”
Gráinne Kenny, the president of the Europe Against Drugs Network (Eurmad) said that she “welcomed” Gay’s call because, “Let’s face it, I’ve been singing the same tired old song for years and the drug problem has worsened 1000% under my watch. Obviously we’ve been going about things totally the wrong way and it’s time for some radical action.”
Needless to say, Sam just made that quote up. But Noel Ahern is quoted verbatim.
Just enough room left to comment on Jade Goody’s tour of India. But I’m sick of this idiotic nonentity so I’ll end this fortnight’s fabulous column before I do a Kevin Thornton on her.
Pic: Graham Keogh