AS YOU all know by now, the fucking Queen of England and her desperately sad family are experiencing difficult times, due to being completely out to lunch since the 17th century or thereabouts. As you will no doubt see in a minute, this can create particular problems around Christmas time.

A communication arrived at Snort Mansions the other day, personally delivered by a babe with big tits and a serious ass, which read as follows:

“Dear Sam,

This is the fucking Queen. Sorry to disturb you if you are “on the job” at the moment, but I hope the babe is to your liking. My thick sons wouldn’t know what to do with her, because due to the extremely dysfunctional nature of our family, they think that their peckers are for pissing through. But I know that you will of course be able to handle her, with your enormous dong and your unfailing charm.

“Consider her my Christmas present to you, Sam, because I want to ask a favour of you. You know that horse-shit that I put out every year on Christmas Day? The horse-shit in which I show home movies of my trips to Indi-aw and Cana-daw, and other such places where my sick husband is shooting reindeers?

“Well, that shit don’t work no more. I need you, Sam, to do the Queen’s speech this Christmas, and do it good. Plenty more babes where your courier came from.”

“Yours, H.M. The Fucking Queen.”

WILD ANIMALS

Well now, this is OK, says I, but it will have to be pre-recorded, of course, because Sam Snort has better things to be doing at Xmas than sitting in some bizarre palace talking shite to the punters.

I have submitted a draft proposal of my Christmas Day Speech – The King’s Speech, if you will – and I am sure that it will find favour. For my fee, I will be paid in babes with big tits. It goes something like this:

The sounds of ‘Wild Thing’ by The Troggs accompany scenes of the world’s greatest rock journalist looking out through the French windows of a stately home. He turns to face the camera, displaying his eighteen inches of prime-time jungle meat, dangling between his legs, for all the world like the tail of a lion. He takes its huge weight in his hands and whomps it down on an oak table. Then he begins to speak.

“Do you see this? Do you see this thang? Do you know what it is, you sad motherfuckers?

“I’ll tell you what it is. It’s the pecker of Samuel J. Snort. It’s the thang that Cindy Crawford was sitting on last night for four fucking hours while you people were singing ‘The Lord is my Shepherd, there is nothing I shall want.’

“Well, I think there is something you shall want, when I show you a brief film of me and Cindy last night.”

There is then a home movie of Sam and Cindy fucking like wild animals. Back to the narrator:

“As you know, I have pre-recorded this message because even as you are planning what time you can face your pathetic Christmas dinners, Sam Snort is at his very own Xmas Party, probably with his head buried in a lot of pussy.

“Yes, the Sam Snort Xmas Party is a tradition which is an intrinsic part of the way we live now, those of us who are lucky enough to live. While all of you sad people are eating fucking turkey and fucking ham, Sam Snort will be eating beaver.

GIANT HAVANA

“He will occasionally lift up his head from between the thighs of a honey-babe to say things like ‘oh hi Prince, I think it’s your turn now’. Or, ‘Ben Dunne, great to see you man, chop out a line there’. Or, ‘How are you, Larry Goodman, bring in the Sultan of Baghdad and let the sick Moslem fuck party till his dick drops off’. Or, ‘Come on in Mr. Adam Clayton, but, hey, only if you’ve got that Campbell lady with you’. Or, ‘Bertie Ahern, the Bass is in the fridge, you look like you need it, man. Put that pecker back in, I’m not finished with her yet’.”

Then Sam Snort will approach the camera, his gigantic plonker now erect, its purple tip glistening in the sun which streams through the French windows. The sounds of ‘Wild Thing’ can again be heard, softly at first, but growing ever louder, as the man with the luminous dong now confronts the nation, leather strides around his ankles, pecker in full erection, grooving to the superb music of The Troggs, of Reg Presley, of all that mighty civilisation.

He removes a huge Havana cigar from his breast pocket, fires it up, and inhales deeply. He assumes an expression of profound satisfaction, measures the giant Havana against the huge pecker, and says, “No, but close, cigar.” (There is canned laughter.)

Then he appears to be deep in thought, as though searching his vast brain for the perfect, defining statement to sum up what has gone before.

He smiles wryly, he seems incandescent now, he stands in profile to the camera, the huge dick standing out like a bargepole. He looks to the camera:

“JUST CALL ME YOUR MAJESTY,” he says. “YOUR FUCKING MAJESTY.”

Happy Christmas, boys and girls.