aress my lengthy instrument with a well-oiled farming implement, but it’s been a somewhat nostalgic old week for Ireland’s smoothest, sultriest, sexiest and smartest rock journalist. But enough about that anorexic fucker Stuart Clark (the Nicole Richie of the journalism scene). Boom, boom! And fuckin’ boom!

Nah, fear not, gentle readers – as per usual, this column will be mostly concerning itself with the recent life, times and crimes of one Samuel J. Snort. In other words - me, myself and high.
Or rather, me, myself and not-so-high. I’d like to write the following few sentences in block capitals to grab the attention of anybody who may merely be flicking through the pages of this fine publication, potentially oblivious to the fact that there’s a serious national emergency underway.
THERE IS NO MARIJUANA IN THIS COUNTRY AT THE MOMENT!!! NO GREEN IN THIS SUPPOSEDLY GREEN ISLE!! NOT A SCREED!!! NOT A BUD!!! NOT ENOUGH TO GET YOUR INCONTINENT GRANNY STONED!! THE ONLY THC TO BE FOUND IN THIS FUCKING MONEY OBSESSED BANANA REPUBLIC IS IN FUCKING ‘THICK’!!!! BASTARDS!!!!
Whew...I’m sorry, but it was good to get that out. And I certainly hope it got the attention of someone who’s sorted. If you happen to be holding, and can spare a few grams, kindly send it on to yours truly, c/o Snort Towers.
[Actually, don’t. Send it to me at Hot Press, c/o Niall Stokes].

Anyway, when I say it’s been a nostalgic week, I wasn’t really referring to my old mucker Clark. No, I was talking – as usual – about my own great self. And maybe ‘nostalgic’ is the wrong word. However, I did ring just about every single old number in my address book. From A to Z and back again. I’ve been talking to a lot of people I haven’t spoken to in years. I even tried calling people who were dead. (In the circles I operate in, dead doesn’t always mean in the ground – sometimes it just means that they’ve gone underground).
Why? Well, like I said, the country appears to be in the middle of a serious cannabis drought. Scoring weed from any of my normal sources was proving well nigh impossible. Ernesto and Raul weren’t having any luck either (and we polished off the last of Ernesto’s Purple Haze weeks ago). So I began looking elsewhere. To wit, everywhere. Here’s an example of the kind of conversations I’ve been having.
[A phone ringing... ]
“Hello?”
“Oh hello. Is that Ignatius O’Reilly?”
“Yes – who’s this?”
“This is Samuel J. Snort, Iggy. Do you remember we were in high infants together?”
“Oh my God! Do you mean the Samuel J. Snort? The guy who shagged the H-Dip?”
“The one and only, baby. How you been doing?”
“Em...fine. What time is it?”
“Er...it’s around 4am. Sorry about calling so late.”
“Jesus! I haven’t heard from you in about 30 years!”
“Well, you know how it is! Busy, busy! But listen to me, Iggy baby, enough of all that crap. Do you know where I can score some smoke?”
“What?”
“Weed! Grass! Smoke! Bud! Spliff! Marijuana! Ganga! Come on, Iggy! I know you’re holding!”
“But...I don’t even smoke cigarettes!”
“Well, do you know anybody who does? Come on, Iggy, help me out here! Things are getting desperate. I haven’t had a spliff in three fuckin’ days.”
“Sorry Sam, but I’ve never taken any drugs.... Hello? Sam?”

Thankfully, about three-fucking-hundred phone calls later, I finally made the right kind of connection and got sorted out with a couple of precious ounces of primo White Widow, fresh from some massive fucking greenhouse in the Netherlands. Hallelujah!
My supplier shall, of course, remain nameless (and shameless), save to say that he’s heavily involved in the international distribution of some of the finest weeds known to humanity.
When I asked if he could explain the current marijuana drought that seems to be afflicting every city, town, village and recording studio in this country, his answer was actually quite enlightening. I had presumed it was all down to increased airport security or the renewed efforts of the Irish Drug Squad (and their American overlords), but it turned out not to be that at all.
“It’s not just in Ireland,” my benefactor explained. “It’s actually quite hard to get good weed anywhere on the continent right now.”
“And why is this?” I asked.
“Demand has finally outstripped supply,” he replied. “The demand for good quality weed has exploded across Europe in the last couple of years. Everybody is smoking and everybody wants the good stuff. So this current drought has fuck all to do with the forces of law and order. It’s simply that there isn’t enough to go around.”
Once safely holed up back in Snort Towers, I rolled a joint the size of an elephant’s trunk, inhaled deeply, and considered this intriguing piece of information. Across Europe, alcohol sales are falling off and spliff sales are going through the roof. In some ways, this is good news. Fond as I am of both substances, I think the world – or Europe at least – will be a better place if everybody’s getting stoned rather than shitfaced. But if the number of smokers continues to increase, they’re gonna have to legalise the stuff.
Of course, not everybody agrees. A couple of weeks back, the Irish Times (undoubtedly the finest newspaper on D’Olier Street) ran an article by one Antonio Maria Costa, the executive director of the United Nations Office on Drugs and Crime.
Headlined ‘Cannabis Is Dangerous And We Ignore It At Our Peril’, his article was the funniest fucking thing I’ve come across since I last shagged a certain female comedian.
So what was the trouble with Maria? Well, speaking from his propagandist pulpit, he reckoned that “the cannabis now in circulation is many times more powerful than the weed which many of today’s ageing baby-boomers smoked.”
Actually, that’s not entirely true. Sure, there’s stronger stuff around these days, but it’s not all killer. Weed comes in various strengths and potencies. Certain blends give you a mild, pleasant and euphoric high. Others reduce your mind to rubble.
The thing is that it’s a seller’s market and the consumer can only buy what’s on offer. The cafes of Amsterdam aside, you’re rarely offered a choice. There’s a very big difference between drinking a pint of beer and drinking a pint of brandy. Same story with dope. But wouldn’t it be better that the user could choose themselves? After all, most of us wouldn’t want to drink a pint of brandy. At least, not unless it was a special occasion. Or a Tuesday.
Anyway, as you’d expect from a man drawing a big fuck-off UN salary for talking US-approved shite, Maria had lots more to say on the subject of the dangers of weed, except it was all a load of total bollocks. Really, I shouldn’t give it any credibility by even mentioning any of it here (this column is a lot more influential than you think). However, as we wind up this fortnight’s fabulous column, one of his sillier arguments has to be explained in order to be laughed at.
“Would even the most ardent supporter of legalisation want to fly in an aircraft whose pilot used cannabis?” he asked, in all seriousness.
The answer, Maria, my dim-witted UN friend, is, “No - of course, we fucking wouldn’t! What the fuck are you on, you fucking moron?”
Ah fuck it, I don’t care. Fuck these conservative fucking fools, and the rich gravy they swim in. I’ve enough weed left to get me through the Electric Picnic and the return of The Late Late Show. And I guess that’ll just have to do for now.