My good buddy Marlon Brando has been all over the shop recently. What I mean by this remarkably eloquent metaphor is that the Big Man has been widely featured in the newspapers on account of biographies and autobiographies being published, describing his great life.

In a sense, Marlon has been all over the shop for as long as Sam Snort has known him – and that my good friends, is as long as the Snortian pecker itself in terms of time. In other words, our intimate buddy-dom seems to go on for ever. And ever. And ever. (Just like you about your dick, Sam – Ed). (My pleasure, Ed – Sam).

Yeah, Brando has frolicked like a fucker at Snort Mansions, and yours truly has kicked his heels up in Tahiti, but the details become a bit blurred when – as has, I can assure you, happened – you find it hard to remember whether you are chez Snort or aboard Marlon’s paradise island, even at the time of frolicking.

Still, what an ace fellow he is. He tells people that he couldn’t give a flying fuck about acting, and they won’t believe him, the dickheads. But it is true.

Marlon has quietly explained with great dignity, to anyone who cares to listen that he only gives a fuck about collecting ten million dollars a pop for mumbling incoherently, and they smile knowingly and say, ‘what a card’. Thus provoked he grabs them by the lapels and says, “listen to me, asshole. You’ve got to believe that I am purely interested in banging dusky babes on my desert island, and nothing else,” – and they still don’t get it.

But Sam Snort gets it. He gets it all the time.

MORE BUTTER

It is not widely known that I had a substantial input into the classic Last Tango In Paris. It is, of course, just one of the many millions of superb works of art that I have had a substantial input into. But that, as they say, is another story for another decade.

There we were in Snort Mansions, or Tahiti, or some fucking place where the sun always shines, figuring out some new way that Marlon could pick up a few million bucks for bugger-all. I whipped out a sheet of paper that I keep for emergencies, and began to write:

Brando Goes To Paris In A Long Coat

He Meets Maria Schneider

Big Tits

They Go To His Place

Great Ass

They Fuck

Grunting

They Fuck Again

Mumbling

More Fucking

They Argue

Fuck, Fuck, Fuck

Arguing

Butter

More Butter

They Fuck

Butter

They Argue

Butter

Well, old Marlon kinda liked that scenario, and before you could say “money for jam” – or even “money for butter” – he was on the blower to a reliable pervy Italian film director, and the rest is caked in fornicating spunk. It truly is.

Of course it is perfectly acceptable for a certified bull like Brando to expose himself to the cinema-going public, but it gets a bit tacky when a putz like Prince Charles starts inviting us to inspect the crown jewels.

There he was, parading his pecker at the French windows, being snapped by a photographer for the edification of sad German magazine readers. If he thinks that this will do him any good in the publicity war with Diana, that sweet little telephone freak, then he is sadly mistaken.

More than ever, we can now realise why she is reduced to making obscene phone-calls to get her jollies. (Don’t forget to call me, Di. I’ll be at Snort Mansions when I amn’t in Tahiti with Marlon).

Yes, indeed, that pecker is far from princely. Indeed, on the social scale, it is not even common.

Analysing it with a high-powered magnifying glass, I would have to compare it with a Mogerley’s sausage which has been left out in the sun for about six months, so that it has shrivelled and dried up and begun to resemble a cocktail stick rather than the succulent meat you find at the end of one.

PRINCE TODGER

If Diana was expected to suck on this specimen, it is little wonder that she couldn’t touch a morsel of proper food without throwing up. Yeah, you’d poke a finger down your own throat after dining on Chuck’s porksword. Just to get a taste of something decent.

From the risible dimensions of the Prince’s tackle, Sam Snort can confidently predict the imminent cessation of the Royal line, and the end of all that bolloxology for good. Yes we are talking about the Changing of the Guard – for good.

We can assume that Charlie’s heir, Prince William, is even less well endowed than his ill-equipped progenitor, and that such a tiddler could never raise enough humping-juice to perform the necessary deed.

They even called him Willy, to try to give the lad a bit of confidence in the nether regions. It was a nice try, and by the time he metamorphosed into Prince William, they had already gone through a gamut of evocative names to try to get the kid’s head concentrated on the job.

Prince Pecker was considered. Prince Love-Truncheon was kicked around for a while. They experimented with Prince Todger, Prince Crawling King Snake, Prince Mighty Pork Sword, Prince Love-Pump, and the drastic Prince Lunchbox.

They were even thinking of calling him Prince Prince, in honour of my fellow sex-crazed buddy from Paisley Park with the insatiable wire. But it was a lost cause, and eventually they went for the anodyne Willy, lengthened to William for public consumption, but shortened to Wills in private, because it is not even long enough to be a William.

So it looks like it’s good-bye to all that.

And good fucking riddance.