Regular readers of this award-winning, internationally syndicated, fucking brilliant and much envied rock column – and, let’s face it, there are no other kind – will recall that, for reasons far too convoluted, made up and generally untrue to repeat here (save to say that they involved a one-legged model, an ex-Beatle, an old grudge and a massive spliff of the finest Jamaican weed known to humanity), Samuel J. Snort recently acquired Michael Jackson’s old rollercoaster from Neverland.

Shag me silly with a grease-soaked spanner, but those rollercoasters are extremely fucking difficult to assemble! Three of Foghat’s roadies were seriously injured during its construction, but the thing is finally up and running in the spacious back garden of Snort Towers. The view from my study window now closely resembles the cover of a really uninspired heavy metal album.
Sadly, there was also the entirely regrettable matter of the four young lads who took the first ride. Unfortunately, the heavily stoned Foghat crew had forgotten to install any brakes in the cars (fucking Ernesto with his Purple Haze again!). The only good thing you can say about this unfortunate oversight is that the kids didn’t actually die on my property. They flew across the road and ended up in the empty swimming pool of the house across the street.
Anyway, I immediately rang Louis Walsh, who had supplied these crash test dummies. “Louis, I’m really sorry,” I said, “but remember that new boy band you sent over to Snort Towers to have a go on Jacko’s old rollercoaster? You were telling me they were about to shoot to stardom? Well, I’m afraid that they’ve just shot to somewhere else! Actually, they’ve overshot.”
Louis was a tad peeved, but he eventually just sighed and said, “Ah listen, Sam, don’t worry about it. Let’s face it, there’s plenty more where they came from. We’ll just say you owe me one.”
Thanks be to fuck for that! I really couldn’t afford another law suit. Not after all that trouble with the girl band I accidentally scalded in the jacuzzi. They weren’t just Girls Aloud, they were girls fucking screaming!
Anyway, no sooner had all that fuss died down (my good friend Harvey Keitel came in and did a little clean-up job) than I received a phone call from somebody representing a mysterious celebrity wanting to buy Snort Towers. “Hello Mr. Snort,” said a high pitched American voice. “My name is Sam, just like yours I believe, and I represent a mysterious celebrity who wants to buy Snort Towers.”
“Which particular mysterious celebrity would that be?” I asked, glancing at the tabloid headline ‘MICHAEL JACKSON LOOKING TO BUY IRISH TAX REFUGE’.
“I’m afraid that I’m not at liberty to tell you,” Sam said. “However, we understand that you have a rollercoaster attached to the property. My client is particularly fond of rollercoasters and is prepared to pay you handsomely if you’d consider... ”
“Hang on, Sam,” I said. “It’s Michael Jackson, isn’t it?”
Sam paused for a moment. “I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to say, Sam,” Sam said.
“Ah go on, tell me,” I teased. “It’s Wacko himself, isn’t it?”
“Well, it is, yes,” Sam eventually admitted. “As you probably know, things are a little uncomfortable for Michael in the States right now, and he’s looking to live in a place where he won’t be considered so strange. He happened to see a Daniel O’Donnell video recently and he figures that any country that doesn’t think Daniel’s completely off the fucking scale will definitely excuse a guy with a few pet llamas.”
“That makes perfect sense,” I said, primarily to fill 15 more words into the count.
“Michael read your column last week and understands that you recently came into possession of his rollercoaster,” Sam told me. “He’s told me to tell you to name your price.”
“Sorry Sam – Sam’s not interested!” I told him. “But I will sell him his rollercoaster back.”
“No, Michael wants the whole place,” Sam insisted. “He’s so anxious to get back on the ride that he doesn’t want to have to reassemble it. He wants it – and he wants it now!”
“No deal,” I said, “tell him to beat it!” I then put the phone down and pulled out the cord.
Now you might think that this was quite a weird thing for me to do. After all, it’s not everyday that an international pop star offers to buy your pad and tells you to name your price. But a man’s home is his castle. I could never sell Snort Towers.
I originally came into possession of the place more than 20 years ago when I won it in a game of cards with Keith Richards. Keef had only just won the deeds himself off Donovan, who earlier in the game had won it off a particularly stoned Bob Dylan, who had earlier won it off a young Richard Branson, who had earlier won it off an even younger Lord Henry Mountcharles. That was quite some game, I can tell you.
I had a tonne of pot in the, erm, pot. Various other valuables thrown into it during the course of that marathon eight day poker session included 23 Ukrainian groupies, the international rights to Blood On The Tracks, a brand new tour bus and, towards the end, a comatose Mick Jagger (that was Keith again).
Thinking back, I can’t actually remember who owned Snort Towers to begin with (though obviously it wasn’t known by that name then). Anyway, I won it easily enough when my hand of five aces beat Keef’s straight (which, predictably enough, wasn’t actually very straight at all).
Ah memories, sweet memories...
At this stage I’m sure you’re wondering what the hell you’re even bothering reading this meandering, nonsensical, vaguely ludicrous column for. “What the fuck is this meandering, nonsensical, vaguely ludicrous column actually about?” you’re saying to yourself. “What is all this bullshit about Michael Jackson’s rollercoaster and Snort Towers being for sale? And dead boybands and scalded girlbands? And what’s so funny about the guy being called Sam? I mean, not only is none of this believable, but it’s not even remotely funny. What the fuck is this guy on?”
To which I can only tell you, dear readers, a serious deadline and Ernesto’s Purple Haze...