Samuel J. Snort esq is by a long way the most fertile man in Ireland, and readily acknowledged as such abroad, where a tube of essence de Sam – or what is affectionately known in the trade as “the white stuff” – fetches top dollar on the intensely competitive fertility market, and “Snort-grade” has become the universally accepted shorthand for the crème de la crème of international sperm bank deposits.

Sadly but predictably, in his own native land, and owing to the rank stupidity of the powers that be, the great man’s seed all too frequently falls on barren ground. Hence, for example, the deafening silence which greeted my modest proposals to turn Dublin’s Spire into one of the most fantastic tourist spectacles in the world.

Regular readers will recall that many months ago I suggested that by employing a simple hydraulic system, ‘The Phallus near The Palace’, as I so cleverly dubbed it, could be made to rise every morning concomitant with the pulling back of the curtains in O’ Connell Street’s lovely Ann Summer’s emporium. Mr Springsteen’s fine ditty ‘The Rising’ could blast out to accompany the event, while the Spire’s proximity to the GPO would surely appeal to the many Irish citizens who like their staple diet of ancient blood sacrifice nationalism served up with a tasty side-order of poontang. For occasions of special public celebration – such as when, say, one of our sports people comes 12th in a chess event in Bruges – I’d even sketched out plans for giant underground tanks containing milk, the contents of which could be shot out through the top of The Spire at the height of the festivities, drenching all our happy citizenry and delighted tourists in life-affirming jizz.

Wimpey cone

Did the City Fathers get down on their knees in a line and one after the other blow me senseless out of sheer delirious gratitude? Interested parties need only reflect briefly on the recent official unveiling of The Spire to discern the depressing negativity of the answer.

Ignoring Sam’s ingenious suggestion, the fuckers contented themselves with a wimpy cone of light on top and – beneath the base – a time capsule buried for posterity.

And did you, by any chance, read about the contents of the capsule, the vital material chosen by the city fathers, in their infinite wisdom, to give future generations a flavour of life in Dublin in 2003. I swear to Jah, patient reader, I’m not making the next bit up. According to reliable reports the capsule contains: an Argos catalogue, 20 Major cigarettes, the front page of the Irish Times of July 3, the property section of the same paper, a copy of the RTE Guide, menus from a pizza place and a top restaurant, and receipts from various clubs and bars.

Huh?

20 Major? No-one in Ireland has smoked Major since the repeal of the Corn Laws. An RTE Guide? When the startled beings of the future read about The Lyrics Board, they’re liable to think it’s one of those dark, cautionary documentaries, like The Nazis: A Warning From History. As for the mundane nature of the rest of the stuff, comment is superfluous, other than to imagine our descendants congratulating themselves that they didn’t have to live in such a dull, featureless world.

Of course, the usual chancers have wasted no time in coming out with their own witless suggestions for the objects they feel would more properly reflect our time – syringes, they say with a grim laugh, and bricks of dope and bags of coke and a rock or two of crack cocaine and a few dozen alcopops.

Doomsday event

As it happens, for once I’m in agreement with these sad bastards, if only because a man like me would need a good, secure place to hide his stash, in the increasingly inevitable doomsday event that Michael McDull launches Operation Adopt-A-Cop, in which a guard is assigned to live permanently in every household in the country and, at the first sign of anyone having unauthorised fun, is obliged by law to shoot on sight.

Other than that, I see only one useful purpose for a time capsule – it could contain a canister of Sam’s super soup, frozen at the moment of ejaculation and carrying a ‘best before, during and after’ sticker. At least when they crack open that baby in 3003, there’ll be some chance of intelligent life in Ireland blooming again.

Your ever lovin’ Samuel J. Snort esq