WHAT KIND of a fucking country are we living in when a publican will offer up to £600 to babes who dance topless on the premises, only to be assailed by a cacophony of dog's abuse?

For starters, it says very little for the babes of Ballyferriter that they have to be given such generous inducements in the first place. At Snort Mansions, this kind of thing is de rigeur due to a house policy which encourages nudity at all times, with no mention of filthy lucre to taint the libertarian thrust of the proceedings.

For 600 quid, Sam Snort would expect a hell of a bit more than a spot of topless hoofing. Not that the issue would ever arise, because, like my good friend Billy Idol, I have never had to pay for sex. Not that I believe old Billy for a moment but that's another story!

Here was a publican trying to liven up an incredibly fucking dull little town in rural Ireland, and if he can be faulted at all, it is only on the grounds that his financial acumen is a little under-developed.

That kind of cash should at worst buy you a live sex-show, a stint of mud-wrestling, and a blow-job for the winner of the raffle.

Then there was the brouhaha about the babe who stripped for the raddled multitudes at Féile.

OK, there was an element of bad taste involved - in the sense that it is difficult to concentrate on a good strip-show with Chris de Burgh caterwauling in the background.

Take Chris out of the picture, and for gender equality add in a bloke who's willing to liberate himself from his threads, man, and you have a fine spot of entertainment. Therefore Same Snort's heart, and his other vital organs, go out to the young babe in question, who has apparently been sacked from her job as a DJ in London for reasons which are entirely mysterious.

flying shite

She can not be held responsible for the activities of Chris de Burgh, and guilt by association is a feeble premise on which to deprive a person of their livelihood.

If this was the case, then Sam Snort would have lost more livelihoods than there are dickheads in Ballyferriter.

I now call on de Burgh ("oh de Burgh, de Burgh, I am calling on you") to make appropriate recompense to the unfortunate babe. Suitable compensation will be fixed by an independent tribunal, just in case Chris is thinking of making a magnanimous donation of £7.50 and a signed copy of "Beyond These Castle Walls."

Let justice prevail though the heavens may fall! And let Ireland be a country where a woman can display her jugs - and indeed a man can display his - without falling on hard times.

It has not gone unnoticed, meanwhile, by the entrepreneurial arm of Sam Snort Inc., that the Woman's Heart phenomenon is turning into a very nice little earner.

To date, they have shifted millions of units in the record stores, and are turning them away in droves from venues throughout the land.

It beats me, really. I mean, A Woman's Heart? Honey, it's not your heart that I'm interested in, no sirree. The last time that Sam Snort looked in the mirror, he did not see the face of Dr. Christian Barnard grinning back at him!

He saw the face of Sam Snort, who rates a woman's heart rather low on the priority list of important female organs.

The tour has attracted a certain amount of controversy on the part of intellectuals, who have argued that women's hearts are no less prone to emotional ailments than those of men. Furthermore, the self-pitying aura of the proceedings perpetuates the notion of women as victims of society who tend to bear most of the suffering of the world in an unquestioning manner.

Personally, Sam Snort does not give a flying shite about this kind of academic mumbo jumbo, but I certainly give a flying shite - indeed many flying shites - when I see enormous piles of mazooma rolling into someone else's coffers when the very same mazooma could be flowing into the pile stashed under the various king-size mattresses on the four-poster beds with mirrors as canopies that are dotted throughout Snort Mansions.

modest fee

With this in mind, and to redress what some pundits believe to be a glaring inequality between the sexes, I am hereby launching a rival tour to the Woman's Heart extravaganza, which has the working title of A Man's Pecker.

I know what critics will say. They will say that I'm low, I'm so low, as only Sam Snort can be.

To which I say an unequivocal and a resounding "bollocks."

I am inviting suitable applicants to audition for a part in this fascinating experiment, by submitting a tape of their best work, along with details of their personality - for example, the size of their pecker, which must fall into the very large-to-huge category and be at least one quarter the size of my own - and a statement of not more than 25 words describing what they intend doing with it over the next six months.

Is their pecker booked up already, or will they be free to waggle it in the general direction of punters throughout the nation, for a modest fee?

Hopefully, we will be up and running in the autumn, just in time for the return of the Late Late Show, which will obviously be keen to emulate the success of A Woman's Heart by devoting an entire show to A Man's Pecker, before sending the happy little troupe on tour with the good wishes of Gaybo ringing in our ears and the people in the audience suffering from shock having got a first hand glimpse, close-up, of the famous Snort pecker itself.

As M.C., I am currently writing the theme-song, and I am dabbling with excellent titles like 'I Lost My Pecker To A Starship Trooper', 'Pecker of Gold', or even 'Peckerbreak Hotel'.

I will be hoping also for a guest appearance on the Late Late by my old friend Chubby Pecker, who will appeal to the oldies in the audience.

If we don't hit paydirt with this one, I'll be a monkey's uncle. See you at No.1!

• Keeping on humping, Samuel J. Snort S.J.