Great have been the celebrations at Snort Towers since the news came out of the Four Goldmines that Bono had got his hat back.
There were those close to Sam who dared to suggest that the verdict represented a miscarriage of justice worthy of a major campaign of civil disobedience. As one of my muckers put it: “Sam, the band have already released U23 so surely it’s high time we demanded the release of the U21?” Very droll, I’m sure you’ll agree, but of course the reality of the situation is altogether more serious. Because if the biggest band in the world can’t hold onto its hat, what hope is there for the rest of us? And, especially for Sam Snort, who has been at the heart of more exchanges of clothing involving the female of the species than all of the world’s high street fashion outlets put together.
Big Doobie
Now, inspired by the bold example of the Fab Four, I have instructed my lawyers that it is time I got my kit back. Consequently, the venerable firm of Sue, Grabbit and Runne will shortly be petitioning the highest court in the land for the return to Snort Towers of the following personal items which have left my possession over the course of the years 1971-2005. To wit: 5,000 pairs of jeans, 1,800 pairs of leather pants, 79 cheesecloth shirts, 123,718 t-shirts bearing the words ‘Foghat Tour of The East Midlands 1974’, one t-shirt bearing the legend ‘My Social Worker Says I’m Special’, 20 pairs of aviator shades, 13 hats, 48 pairs of cowboy boots, 111 belts, 17 whips and, er, three pairs of underpants. To the counter-allegation that I may have willingly surrendered any and all of these items to willowy blondes of Scandinavian extraction in various Holiday Inn motel rooms across three continents over the course of three decades while hanging naked from the light-fittings with a big doobie in one hand, a white crystal dangling from one nostril and an expression of what can only be described as beatific joy smeared across my face, I say simply and categorically: well that’s very possible, right enough. But that’s neither here nor there. The fact is that if that the word ‘iconic’ any longer has any meaning in rock ‘n’ roll then it can only be when it’s applied to a pair of yellowing underpants from late 1975 complete with authentic Snortian skid marks. Which is another way of saying that Sam literally wants his shit back, not out of any petty impulse but for the far more noble purposes of supporting the historical record. To that end, I intend either to archive the material or donate it to the Museum Of Rock ‘n’ Roll in good old Cleveland for permanent exhibition. Or failing that, to auction it on e-bay. Or, if I get really desperate, the classified ads pages of the Evening Herald. Whatever, there must be a few fucking squid in this somewhere.
Legendary Porksword
Of course, there is also the highly sensitive issue of the missing Polaroid photographs. These are intimate pictures of my good self which, as I’m sure you’ll appreciate, were never intended for publication, being that they consist in the main of countless variations on such graphic images as Snort rampant, the legendary porksword at full mast, a rose stem clenched between my teeth and, hanging on for dear life as it were, a dusky babe of South American extraction in the throes of what can only be described as an almost mystical ecstasy. That one was taken one summer’s afternoon in the Garden Of Remembrance, if I’m not mistaken. Anyway, the good news is that, after years of proving untraceable, boxes of these pictures have suddenly turned up in the attic of Snort Towers. Readers will surely appreciate my relief that these explicit images are now safely back in my own hands. In due course, they will be filed, catalogued – and then promptly put up for sale on my website (Samsnort.cum) at competitive prices. As an added incentive, the first 5,000 purchasers will receive a free ‘Foghat, Tour of the Benelux Countries, 1974’ t-shirt. Finally, Sam Snort would like it to be known that he has further instructed his lawyers to seek the immediate return of his brain, which has been lost to its rightful owner since a post-gig party in the Fillmore West in 1972 at which someone from the Hog Farm may or may not have spiked his jug of thunderbird wine with some of the West Coast acid chemists’ earliest experiments in pharmaceutical mindfuck. ‘Cos, hey, what good is getting back your hat if you haven’t got a head to put the damn thing on?