Little people just can’t handle the truth.

That’s the only conclusion I can come to after seeing the hysterical reaction to M**********r, my ghost-written account of the life and times of Lance Turnpike, lead singer with southern-fried boogiemeisters Foghat.

First of all, it’s not as if Lance approached me to write the book because he would be incapable of writing one himself. That’s perfectly true, of course – ‘ol Lance even signs autographs with an X – but it’s beside the point. The real reason that one of rock’s most legendary figures entrusted me with the heavy responsibility of putting his life story in print, is because he knew that only Sam Snort would handle so much potentially explosive material with the requisite delicate touch. At the same time, of course, such literary decorum must be balanced against the writer’s higher duty to tell the unvarnished truth, however unpalatably it may strike muppets of an all too sensitive disposition.

F***ing f**k

Consider, for example, how most conventional Irish autobiographies begin, something along the lines of: “It was 2.30am on a cold winter’s night when I came into being in a small provincial nursing home, the first child of Maggie Furlong, a housekeeper, and the Most Rev. Doctor Archibald Cleary, a bishop.”

From the get-go, Lance Turnpike’s autobiography is different – raw, honest, uncompromising, real. Compare and contrast:

“‘Aaaaargh, f***ing f**k’,” roared my mother, as the doctor encouraged her with shouts of ‘Push for f**k’s sake’. ‘Here he comes, and he’s a f***ing big f****r, if I’m not mistaken,’ joined in the midwife. The next second I was being slapped mightily on the back by the doctor and, as air filled my tiny lungs for the first time, I opened my mouth and bellowed, as if for all the world to hear, ‘Stop f***ing whacking me, you big f***ing f**k’.

“It would be another 25 years before I finally got my own back on that obstetrician, but with the help of a private detective agency we finally tracked the b*****d down to a small practice in Boise, Idaho, where my friends, the brothers Hernandez, subsequently paid him a little midnight visit. Suffice to say, the physician is now busy healing himself, the miserable f****r.”

Unfortunately, these simple, honest paragraphs have been deliberately taken out of context (ie the book) by those with scores to settle, and blithely reprinted in the tabloid press, exactly as they were written and for a serialisation fee not unadjacent to five hundred thousand big ones.

As a result, Lance Turnpike is now being threatened with legal action by the doctor, the midwife and, indeed, his mother. All for the sin of telling it like it was.

Of course, it should be obvious to everyone that the words quoted are not necessarily a strictly verbatim account of what transpired at the moment of his birth. Indeed, most right-thinking people will readily accept that it is unlikely that a newly born infant would have such a highly developed grasp of robust Anglo-Saxon.

However, all creative people, I believe, are entitled to a certain, shall we say, artistic license, in the service of a greater truth. And while artistic license should not be confused with a license to print money, I have found that it is often a very good thing if it is.

F***ing w****r

That said, such has been the overwhelmingly negative reaction to my life of Lance Turnpike, and so vilified has this unusually complex and thoughtful human being been as a result, that, having had a frank exchange of views with the man himself, I now feel obliged to clarify certain other potentially contentious remarks in the autobiography.

For example, when Lance describes Phil Collins as “a bald little w****r with no f****ing talent” he means, of course, that he admires him both for his professionalism and his longevity. When he calls Mick Jagger “a toothless old whore, a rock ‘n’ roll imposter and a f***ing flat-out hypocrite” he is not, in any sense, detracting from Mick’s position as one of the most influential and legendary of rock superstars. And when he recalls punching Van Morrison backstage at a Chieftains gig he is merely describing a dream I once had after a long night on the town. At least, I think it was a dream…

Finally, with regard to Lance’s statement that he will never again play with Foghat, unless Moose Manmountain steps down as manager and they all give up this trendy rehab shit and go back on the piss, it is just possible that, as his ghostwriter, I may have gotten some of this the wrong way around.

Not that it matters a shit, anyway. Like me, Lance Turnpike is entitled to change his mind. And if he does, he knows I’ll always be there to help him change it back again…

Your ever lovin’ Samuel J. Snort esq