THERE HAS been a guarded welcome in some sections of the media to the elevation of mein feuhrer, Niall Stokes, to the Chairmanship of the IRTC.

Sam Snort can see some merit in the appointment too. He is in broad agreement with the proposal that it is better to have less High Court judges on the IRTC, and more long-haired weirdoes with a lurid history of rock 'n' roll excess.

The problem is, that in shifting the focus of the Commission from the world of law to the world of lawlessness, the Minister has not gone nearly far enough in, as they say, "grasping the nettle."

If friends of the vibe are now to be in charge of the airwaves, then it is better that the chosen ones bring to the post the smack of firm leadership. Or just the smack, plain and simple.

Clearly, I am referring here to one Sam Snort, whose ideas about broadcasting have the sort of radical edge which is needed in these times, as we stand at the crossroads of history. (No we don't - Ed.) (Oh, fuck it, we're always at the crossroads of history when Sam Snort is behind the wheel - Sam)

Therefore, I would like to bring it to the attention of the Minister that while mein feuhrer polices the independent sector, there is a yawning void in the public sector, namely RTE, waiting to be filled by someone with the balls to bang a few heads together, whilst banging his own balls together to frighten the life out of the eunuchs of Montrose. Yes indeed! And you know what? That someone is me.

Street Prices

Jesus H. Christ, when I think of what a wonderful fucking station RTE would become with Sam Snort manning the tiller, I can only assume that the Minister has been calling me non-stop for the past month, little realising that I have been abroad at the Betty Ford Clinic, trying to persuade some of my buddies that they were much better crack when they were pissed as newts all the time.

Well, I'm back now, and I'd like to outline for the Minister's delectation, some of the innovations which I have in mind.

On one level, I intend to restore some of the traditional values of Irish radio, which have fallen into abeyance as we approach this crossroads in history. (Which crossroads in history are you talking about now, Sam? - Ed) (The one just past the Lamb Doyles on the road to Enniskerry - Sam) (I kinda thought you had something profound in mind - Ed) (That's me - Sam)

Din Joe introduced the concept of dancing on the radio, and now I would like to develop the concept to include shagging on the radio.

Instead of the hornpipe, we will concentrate on the horn, and at regular intervals throughout the day, the plain people of Ireland will be treated to the sounds of leurve, live and unexpurgated. We could divide the schedule into Morning Shag, The Afternoon Bonk, Evening Poontang, and, of course, Doing It All Night Long.

I will personally supervise the sessions, providing a running commentary, and sometimes joining in for some serious on-the-spot reportage. And will I be dedicated to the job in hand? I will indeed.

Charming stuff, and all at no cost to the taxpayer. In fact, people will probably pay large waks of mazooma for the privilege of doing it with Sam Snort, and the resulting revenues can be channelled into a fund to send rubber johnnies to Eamonn Casey, now that he can bonk to his heart's content in the wilds of the Ecuadorian jungle.

Gay Byrne? Well, he'll have to fucking go, pronto. In plain procedural terms, his show will be impossible to sustain, due to legal complications. With the introduction of Divorce, a husband will merely have to say, "your honour, my wife was the type of woman who rang up Gay Byrne, told him she loved his show, and then gave out about people smoking on the DART."

Case dismissed, the husband gets everything, the house, the children, and a barring order forbidding the wife from further contact until she can prove that she has been cured.

Sam Snort will mind the pumps in his absence, with the show's air-time extended from the current 9-11 slot, to a more expansive 9-5 outing.

Yes, there will be changes.

Gone will be abysmal activities such as sending out mad oul' wans to do the shopping in Quinnsworth, and discovering that you could save 7 1/2p. by purchasing the same items in Dunnes Stores, 14 miles away.

I have a different kind of consumer information in mind, like informing listeners of the current street prices of hash and marching powder. Hurry, hurry, hurry while stocks last!

Sheep shaggers

I will also, of course, be inviting people to ring up with hangover cures, because if I am supposed to be addressing the nation at 9am every day, I will need to liaise with other boozers to find the optimum levels of consumption.

Calls who complain will be invited to come in and sort it out like men . . . and that's just the women.

Far better to have a bit of brawling on the radio, rather than this "I didn't interrupt you, so don't interrupt me," shite.

There will be other minor adjustments, too. All Irish language programmes will be abolished, because even if anyone could understand them, they would be a load of bollocks all round.

I will have complete control of musical policy, beginning with the substitution of 'Wild Thing' for 'O'Donnell Abu', and proceeding in like manner in order to alienate most of the sad motherfuckers who listen to RTE at the moment, and to bring the freaks in from the cold.

Politicians will be completely barred from the airwaves unless they are prepared to preface all of their appearances with the words "Cardinal Daly sucks cock. And you'd better believe it." That should sort out the sheepshaggers from the goatfuckers once and for all.

You can see in all of these proposals a desire for change, but a healthy acknowledgement that change must be gradual, piecemeal, and sensitive to a wide variety of interests.

I await the call.