Paaaaarty Time!

YOU KNOW, Sam Snort was beginning to run out of hope that the true spirit of rock 'n' roll could ever be redeemed in these scabrous times. But now it has. It has indeed.

Almost on a daily basis, you hear some pasty-faced rock idol announcing that he has taken the pledge that he has discontinued his love affair with the old marching powder, that he now works out at the fucking gym every morning, and that he wants to adopt a Bolivian orphan.

As though making shitty records was not enough, these wimps insist on sharing their dreary lifestyles and health regimes with us, and saying things like "I admire what Prince Charles has done for the environment."

Then, just when rock 'n' roll was about to wimp its way entirely up its own ass, into the breach steps one of the biggest of them all, standing up for the ancient values, and gladdening the heart of old Sam Snort. Jerry Lee-Lewis, Jimi Hendrix, Robert Plant, Mick Jagger, Jim Morrison, John Lennon, Little Richard, Frank Sinatra, David Bowie, Chuck Berry, Lou Reed - all have been down the road of rock 'n' roll excess, so you will understand when Sam Snort says that Adam Clayton is in good company.

How pleasing too, that it was an Irishman, who rescued rock 'n' roll at the eleventh hour, walking in the footsteps of the mighty, calling forth the raging demons of old.

What does a rock 'n' roll animal do when he reaches some sort of emotional crisis? Why, he throws a fucking orgy of course. What do you expect him to do? Ring up Marian Finucane to find out if any of her listeners can share the experience?

Like fuck.

It's orgy time at R'n'R Central when his old lady is starting to act up on a guy. Sam Snort has been there and he knows. Jesus, I only wish that I had been on hand to raise a symbolic toast to luxuriate in the vibe - and of course to take some photographs.

Sam Snort was there in spirit. And next time, he means to be there in the flesh. In fact if anyone is thinking of throwing a paaaaarty, just call.

I will be along in a flash with the combustibles. And that's a promise.

dream ticket

On a somewhat more sombre note, I was puzzled to see Ms. Mary Harney accede to the role of leader of the Progressive Democrats.

Some time back, Ms. Harney said that she would not contemplate being leader of a political party, with all the pressures which this entails, in the absence of a supportive "partner," which, in her case, I assume to be a "husband."

Well, Mary ain't got married in the meantime, so it immediately struck me that this void in her life could be admirably filled by a certain individual with a winning personality, a keen political ambition of his own, and most crucially, an enormous pecker.

Step forward Sam Snort, the consort that all babes dream of, though few will ever have the privilege of truly knowing him in all the vast complexity of his being.

Ms. Harney is supposed to be a "liberal" class of person, so I'm sure that in her jubilation at being extended so generous an offer, she will readily accept that ours would be an "open" marriage.

If she takes this to mean bonking on the steps of Leinster House, then so be it. Sam Snort is game.

Essentially, though, it means that I can do the business with whomsoever I choose, and unless she is too busy politicking, then she can do likewise. Personally, I couldn't give a shit.

I just see this as a fulfilment of my public duty, oiling the wheels of the democratic process, as well as my personal duty to bring comfort and solace and an enormous pecker into the lives of single women everywhere.

Ms. Harney and Mr. Horny. It is the Dream Ticket, for sure.

fellow thespian

So my dear old friend Cyril Cusack popped his clogs. You know, in all the fond, and indeed less than fond reminiscences of the testy thespian, I saw no trace of an excellent story concerning Cyril's appearance in "The Flowing Tide" pub one day, fresh from a Hollywood triumph.

It is said that a disgruntled fellow Thespian, somewhat the worse for drink, took umbrage at what he felt was Cyril's superior manner, and spoke thus:

"Cusack," he said. "The only thing that anyone knows about you is that Georgie Best is riding your daughter."

Dear old Cyril, and, indeed, dear old Sinead.

From Georgie Best to Jeremy Irons. Hasn't she done well. And Sam Snort too. Haven't we all done well?