It appears that many poor citizens suffered alarmistic vibrations as a result of Mr Joe Jacob’s ill-judged if frankly hilarious intervention in the debate about our little country’s ability to cope with a nuclear incident.

But not Sam Snort. Sam, level-headed bloke that he is, has always believed that in the event of a major nuclear catastrophe close to our shores, Ireland is basically fucked, doomed, done and dusted, buggered, wrecked, banjaxed, finished, kaput and, all things considered, unlikely to host another Eurovision Song Contest in the foreseeable future.

Once you accept that this is so, you will be pleasantly surprised to find that concerns about tablets, factsheets and "radiation outdoors" disappear into thin air, pretty much like most of the population will when the big is finally put into bang. This thought, I feel, should induce a feeling of something close to serenity. Or, as my old mate Stipey once crooned: "It’s the end of the world as we know it and I feel fine".

Which is also great news since that’s one less person Sam needs to keep in his massive nuclear shelter deep in the bowels of Snort Towers. And anyway, Stipey is such a whinger that we’d only have had to fuck him out after a few weeks anyway.

Lest there be any confusion about this: just because Ireland is done for in the event of a nuclear catastrophe, there’s no good reason at all why Samuel J. Snort Esq should have to go down with the rest of you poor saps. After all, when the nuclear winter has finally given way to the first tentative spring of the new world, it will be vital that a man with balls of iron and a mighty porksword is on hand to make sure that things get off to the best possible start next time ‘round.

DESPERATE CALLERS

Needless to say, the fact that I have access to a state of the art bunker has made me more popular than Henry Mountcharles in the run-up to a Slane gig. Such has been the pressure on the phone system at Snort Towers, for example, that we’ve had to install an automatic helpline, featuring the gravelly voice of my old mate Lance Turnpike, lead singer with Foghat, advising desperate callers: "The answer is no, now would you kindly fuck off". And if that doesn’t get rid of the bastards, the hold music – Foghat’s ‘Slow Blues Dirge In D (Extended Version)’ – certainly will.

Of course, this still leaves thousands of movers and shakers who are convinced that they deserve a place aboard the Snort Ark. Much as we’d like to have ‘em all, we simply can’t, which is why, in keeping with the great rock fest tradition, we are putting in place a sophisticated laminate-controlled access programme, which will hopefully cater for all comers in the appropriate way.

The rock media, of course, are very important and will be entitled to a lovely plus-one green laminate which will give them – and their nearest and dearest – access to a fine marquee on the rolling lawn of Snort Towers.

Unfortunately, the canvas tent will provide only minimal cover in the event of a nuclear bomb going off directly overhead but at least the men and women of the press will have enjoyed a free bar and cocktail sausages before being delivered up to oblivion, a process with which most of them are already intimately familiar.

We’ll also save a few bob by not having to install phone lines in the media tent since, in keeping with noble tradition, the hacks will have filed their on the spot reports the day before, leaving them free to concentrate on skulling lager and complaining about the fact that they haven’t got a red laminate.

Consequently, it’s entirely possible that, generations hence, some new worlder will stumble across a carbonised notebook containing the imperishable words of a red-top hack, describing the end of the world gig at Snort Towers the day before it happened.

"Rain, even of the acid kind, failed to dampen the enthusiam of thousands of rock fans who congregated in the natural amphitheatre of Snort Towers for what was billed as the last gig in the world ever", writes RICHIE O’ REILLY. "Support band Ash warmed up the punters with an energetic set, featuring some of their biggest hits, but the crowd were really only here for the headline act. And they were not to be disappointed as, no sooner had Dave Fanning made the introductions, than there was a blinding white flash, a massive roar that shook the heavens – and, well, not much chance of an encore. Otherwise the event passed off peacefully, though on the night before the gig, two fans in a nearby campsite were arrested for minor drugs offences."

BALTIC LAPDANCERS

Meanwhile, my staff is busy compiling an A-list of top pop folk who will join me after the show for a nice relaxing nuclear winter deep in the bosom of Mother Earth. My old mates Foghat are certainties, of course, as are Ted "The Fuckin’ Nuge" Nugent, well-known industrialists the Bros Hernandez, the Snort family doctor "Needles" Bernard, legendary roadperson and oddjob expert Manmountain Dense and, finally, in a solemn gesture of international peace and harmony, some two dozen lapdancers from the Baltic states.

Care to join us? Then don’t miss the fab competition in the next issue of Hot Press when, in association with Heineken, we will be offering two lucky readers what is, I think it’s fair to say, quite literally the chance of lifetime – two guaranteed places in the Snort Nuclear Bunker plus £150 in spending money. Not only that but runners-up will each receive a copy of the new album by Aslan.

Your ever lovin’ Samuel J. Snort Esq