FOR MOST people, this Christmas will be a joyous occasion, as things tend to be when there are monstrous amounts of drink taken, oiling the axles of leurve.

For most people. But not for everyone.

For those of us who knew and loved Pablo Escobar, this Yuletide season will be tinged with melancholy, what with Pablo buying the farm recently, his last deal going down. Escobar has had his chips.

The world’s most renowned marching-powder salesman went belly-up in a hail of gunfire, brutally murdered by the Colombian police who had been on the trail of the great man since he checked out of “prison” some time ago, vowing never to return.

There was a huge outpouring of grief in the part of the ordinary decent people of Medellin, to whom Pablo was a man of god-like stature, a doer of good works, a gas ticket.

For Sam Snort, there was much sadness too in losing an old and trusted friend and business partner, not to mention the hassle of having to look for alternative supplies of nose-candy with less than thirty shopping days to go to Sam Snort’s ultra-legendary Xmas Party.

I used to visit him in “prison”, a beautifully appointed villa adapted to the man’s own specifications, from which he ran his world-wide enterprise. He considered me a kind of ambassador of good vibes, and as we sniffed the purest Charlie in all the world, he would speak wisdom to me in Spanish, and I would reply in English. This cross-cultural exchange was all the more heart-warming for the fact that neither of us knew what the fuck the other was talking about, but hey, who gives a bollocks when you have Escobar’s Number One Cut coursing through your vitals?

HUMONGOUS PECKER

You know, I somehow suspect that his departure from this euscury penitentiary was influenced by his desire to attend my Xmas bash, of which he had heard and read so much. And you know, it seems to me that, profound though our desolation may be at the way he was mown down like a fucking animal, it behoves my friends and me to stage an absolute dizbuster spectacular this year. It is what Pablo would have wanted.

Bless him.

Before he returns home to face multiple charges of gross indecency, I have pencilled in the bould Jacko at the top of this year’s guest list. To Jacko I say, let the healing begin. He is being treated for “addiction to painkillers” at the moment, but after my little soirée, Jacko will feel no pain. He will probably become addicted to a lot of other things, like poitín, home-tranquillisers and copious quantities of that wonderful substance known as Ecstasy. But signs of further dissipation may get him some sympathy in court, so he should come.

My crowd might be a bit on the grown-up side for him, as his and my interpretation of the word “babes” is rather different, but I’m sure one of my personal assistants can pay a visit to the Zoo, and round up something to Wacko’s liking.

One man who will definitely be standing around the mountain of South American courage creator emblazoned with the legend, “Pablo Escobar, Remember Him This Way” is Adam Clayton.

That little sojourn of his in a London hotel did more to revive the spirit of rock’n’roll than any one event since Jimbo Morrisson flashed his humongous pecker at all and sundry.

I can see us singing fulsome renditions of old Colombian rebel songs, with Jerry Lee Lewis joining in, rattling the ivories. Since Jerry Lee is now a resident of Dublin, he won’t have far to come, but as for his getting home, the chances are that Jerry will be rocking the millennium in chez Snort. He always felt that he was inevitably gravitating towards the Snortian orbit, and I’m sure that he will see no reason to leave for at least a few years.

I wouldn’t normally invite the other members of supergroup U2 to an event of this stature, because they might start saying the fucking rosary just when the action is heating up, and the first of the evening’s sacrifices to the god of poontang are in full swing.

LUCKY GALS

This year is no different, because if Adam brings Naomi, then Naomi’s supermodel friends might want to come along as well, craving an introduction to the legendary Snortian hospitality, which flows with unbridled liberality once the formality of sitting on the Snortian pecker has been duly completed.

These babes like to have escorts hanging out of them, preferably rock’n’roll behemoths, and this is where Bono, Larry and Edge can squeeze into the frame. They might also come in handy if the Last Rites have to be administered to one of my guests, mumbling a bit of that Jesus H. Christ vibe over a good-looking corpse or two.

In general though, the boys can stay in the kitchen lighting matches over the poitín to make sure that it isn’t Parazone.

It’s the supermodels that Sam Snort is interested in, those lucky gals. There’s Cindy, and Lindy, and Bindy and Mindy and Mork, and old Pipe Cleaner herself. Honey, you can clean Sam Snort’s pipe any old time.

There’s Mitzi and Pritzi and Fitzi and Katie and Matey and Datey and, hell, there’s so many of those superchicks for whom this will be a very merry Christmas when they come under the thunder of Samuel B. Snort, hung like a donkey, and horny as a hound.

And yet . . . and yet . . . there will be absent friends. Manuel Noriega, of course, will be beamed live by satellite from his padded cell in Florida to babble a bit of bollocks to us all. He’s completely nuts at this stage, but we will all applaud his indomitable spirit.

And then there’s Pablo. Dear dead, Pablo. It was a fair cop, guv, but society was to blame.

But hey, fuck Pablo.

And fuck Sam Snort, too. It’s my party, after all.