Study my impressive cock in the progressive School of Rock, but – yes, you’ve guessed it, take a fuckin’ prize! – it’s been yet another insane fortnight in the hazy, crazy, twisty, whiskey existence of the globally infamous music scribe some chicks love to hate (but will generally still fellate).

Speaking of which, I see that one of actor Liam Neeson’s exes from his bachelor days has recently been spilling all in the media. Supermodel Janice Dickinson claims that our Liamo has “the biggest of any man alive.” And she wasn’t talking about his feet.
It used to be ‘kiss and tell’, but nowadays it’s ‘fuck and tell’. By her own account, Dickinson has also made the beast with two backs with the likes of Sir Mick ‘No Satisfaction’ Jagger, Warren ‘So Vain’ Beatty and Jack ‘You Can’t Handle The’ Nicholson. However, the Irishman apparently puts them all to shame.
Recalling her night of steam with Liam, Janice told a magazine journalist, “He unzipped his pants and an Evian bottle fell out! It was insane. Wouldn’t you just go gaga? He was amazing!”
Now, you undoubtedly already know what Samuel J. Snort is going to say to that, so I’m not even gonna waste the ink. Suffice to point out, I’ve never been reduced to hiding mineral water bottles in my jocks.
Supermodels are a complete waste of time anyway. I once tried to snort a couple of lines of Columbian marching power off the peachy bottom of a Vogue cover star. The fuckin’ gak fell through her crack.
I will say this, though. It’s hardly bloody news that Liam Neeson has a python for a trouser snake. At least, not over here. Years ago, he starred in some porno flick that Neil Jordon made when he was skint and needed the money. No, not the one about the transvestite. You know, I can’t actually remember the title, but I do recall that Liam starred as ‘The Big Fella’.
Just while we’re on the subject of willies, word reaches me through the grainvine that Texan troubadour Willie Nelson has been busted in Louisiana for having a pound-and-a-half of weed and a sack of shrooms on his tour bus. Serious bummer!
Of course, that was just what the cops found. Ernesto and Raul – who toured with Nelson back in the day (and night) – assured me that the bus Willie usually travels on is actually fully constructed out of compacted grass and pressed shrooms. Apparently, Woody Harrelson helped with the design.
Even so, what a waste of good drugs. Apparently the smoke Willie is used to inhaling is extremely fiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiine. Musician Toby Keith recently had a minor hit with his song ‘I’ll Never Smoke Weed With Willie Again’ (because of its potency rather than anything nasty Nelson said or did).
Ernesto and Raul will simply never be allowed smoke weed with Willie again. Apparently, he once missed an important gig because the bus got a puncture and the lads had smoked the last the last of the spare tyres. Enraged, Nelson immediately fired them. Actually, he fired at them. Boom! Boom!
Anyway, the fact is that Willie Nelson is an American national treasure – an outlaw legend of the living and bearded variety. He’s been making albums, touring the world and living the life for years. By now, the man knows a thing or two about a thing or three. Why shouldn’t he be allowed to smoke dope and drop mushrooms if that’s what he’s decided to do? After all, he’s a grown-up, gun-toting, tax-paying American citizen.
Anyway, I digress. Ress, I dig.
The marijuana drought seems to finally be over, thank the Overlord, and the country is greenly giggling again. I’d say that the executives at Rizla, Pringles and Cadburys are breathing huge sighs of relief.
However, I can’t help noticing that the price hikes seem to have remained. My Man argues that it’s been long overdue. While the euro changeover may have taken immediate effect at the higher end of the business, prices generally remained unchanged on the street. A ten-spot went from £10 to €10, and nobody seemed to notice. At least, not the dealers getting too high on their own supply.
Now that it’s known that people are willing to spend a couple of hundred per ounce, there’s no chance of the prices ever coming down again. Hmmmm . . .
Could the drought have been nothing but a cynical marketing ploy by our marijuana mafias? Nah, perish the thought. And anyone who crosses them.
Still, not to complain. At least it’s available. Deciding to take no chances, I ordered the entire Christmas grass supplies for Snort Towers last week. Buried deep in the fourth sack, my dealer had left me an early Christmas present – a copy of Howard Marks’ new book Senor Nice. Which was Nice.
I haven’t gotten around to reading it yet (though I’ve rolled numerous spliffs on its cover), but it’s basically a sequel to Mr. Nice and The Howard Marks Book of Dope Stories– a continuation of the story of his madcap life and travels post release from Terre-Haute Penitentiary. Not quite a straight sequel, though; it’s more about his adventures in Wales, South America and Jamaica.
Sam hasn’t bumped into Howard in far too long a time. Many years ago, I woke in his London pad with a head full of throbbing gristle. Even after I turned the stereo off, I was still mightily hungover. A flight had to be caught, regardless, and following a short, sharp shower, I raided the bathroom cabinet for drugs of the legal variety. Fortunately, there was a bottle of Paracetemol, and I swiftly washed three down with a glass of Absolut. Sorted.
Unfortunately, it wasn’t actually Paracetemol. I really had been sorted. This gradually became obvious, coming on in electric waves as I began my tingly journey home. Following the tube journey from Hell, I eventually escaped the Underground and hailed a cab to the airport. I boarded my flight with eyes like saucers, wearing both an erection and a smile that stretched from Stansted to Salthill. Needless to say, I hardly needed the plane to fly.
Anyway, the moral of that story is don’t trust the labels on anything you might find in Howard’s drugs cabinet. They do a lot more than they say on the tin.
Almost time to love you two times and leave you for two weeks, but one last quickie before we part. Like the rest of you, I was glued to the TV when Bertie Ahern told his tearjerking story to RTE’s Bryan Dobson.
Sadly, thanks to Ernesto’s thoughtlessness and carelessness, I was actually physically stuck to the TV. He was sniffing a lot of glue and Tipp-ex during the drought, and the useless fucker’s left it lying around all over the place.
Anyway, while I’m no fan of the man, I couldn’t help but feel a little sorry for Bertie over this whole Manchester money thing. People keep going on and on about this eight grand like it was a lot of bread.
They’re forgetting that Bertie’s visit happened during the very height of Madchester. Back in those days, pills were really fuckin’ expensive and it cost a fortune to get into the Hacienda. You’d easily blow eight grand in a weekend.