IT'S GOOD to see my old buddies "Yosser" Arafat and Yitzzhak Rabin burying the hatchet without actually burying it in one another's skulls.

Sam Snort will, of course, be available at all times to assist in whatever way he (or she) can, during the difficult period which lies ahead. I would become a figure as renowned as the guy who brought down the walls of Jericho with his horn. I will build up the walls of Jericho by recourse to that self-same appendage.

In general, the role of Peace Envoy is one which has always appealed to the statesman within me.

Indeed, if they are thinking of getting Jimmy Carter to sort out the Northern question, how much better it would be if, instead of saying "get Carter," they said, "get Snort!" Finally we might be on the way to solving that most intractable of all problems (and I'm not talking about trying to get it up again just after I've shot my load - I've already sorted that out, long ago).

If they are thinking of hammering out a solution, then surely they require the services of a leading hammer-man. Enter Snort, three sheets to the wind.

marching powder

I would spread the message of peace and leurve like no other. By providing large quantities of cannabis at a competitive rate to members of both communities, you would be guaranteed one hell of a lot of peace, and the extraordinary prospect of the Orangemen skanking down the Shankill Road on the Twelfth, to the strains of 'Pass The Dutchie', as distinct from 'The Sash'. Indeed, I can see variations on the traditional themes, with titles such as 'The Spliff My Father Smoked', or slogans like "More Dope, Less Pope."

As regards the message of leurve, it is self-explanatory, really, in the sense that if they are fucking, they can't be fighting. Blow-jobs are a lot more desirable than blowing-up jobs. Yes, intractable problems call for original solutions!

Another aspect of the Peace Envoy gig which appeals to me is the phenomenon of the "fact-finding mission." Rest assured that Sam will be discovering "facts" of a somewhat different hue to the norm.

Useful facts, such as the best place to get drink after hours, the most glamorous escort agency, and, of course, the best connection for marching powder.

In Norn Iron, with its Marching Season, the issue of marching powder is particularly acute.

With a name like Sam, the Prods will take me for one of their own, while the Provos will be happy to do business with someone who has a Sam missile of his own, dangling between his legs, ready to be launched at any hour of the day or night.

Ulster will say "yes" to Sam Snort. In fact Ulster will say Yes! Yes! Yes! to Sam Snort just like everyone else does.

simple phallus

On my native territory of Dublin city, the problems are somewhat less complex, but I can still see my way to offering a helping hand as the occasion arises.

In the area of Urban Renewal, for example, there is much work to be done, not least in the area of statuary.

I think that we are all a little bored with statues of Parnell and O'Connell though they should probably stay there for the moment in honour of the fornicating activities for which both of these men are justly commemorated.

Still, nothing has quite replaced Nelson's Pillar as the focus of O'Connell Street, an obvious drawback, in the sense that you can't just remove an enormous phallic symbol like that, and expect the place to be the same ever again.

To all intents and purposes, O'Connell Street has been neutered, snipped of its virility, now that Nelson's tower of power is no more.

Never fear, the erection of Sam's Pillar will correct the situation, particularly after I have brokered a solution to Ulster.

Just a plain and simple phallus will do, moulded from my very own blunderbuss and constructed about twice as high as Nelson's Pillar in order to reflect the true dimensions of size and prowess, with perhaps an aperture at the very tip, gushing a symbolic fountain of leurve.

In the style of The Floozie In The Jacuzzi, and The Tart With The Cart, citizens would soon be referring affectionately to it as The Meat On The Street.

In the context of the development of Temple Bar, the time seems right for the erection of the Sam Snort Interpretative Centre, a multi-media extravaganza containing the Snort archive in print, on video, in song and story.

It will be unique in being the first Interpretative Centre strictly for over-18s, due to the availability of vast amounts of alcohol, and the fact that the guides will be either scantily clad, or not clad at all - and that's just the men.

pithy classic

Seeing as we are in this train of thought, I have taken a keen interest in the selection elsewhere in Hot Press, of the fifty best bonking records of all time.

It is an interesting selection, comprising as it does, paens to kinky boots, lesbianism and many other diversions from your common or garden Christian hump.

Surely, though, a special place should have been allocated for the greatest leurve song of all time, the one that says it all, concisely, poetically, perfectly.

I refer, of course, to Wayne County and the Electric Chairs' humungous contribution to world civilisation, the pithy classic, 'If You Don't Want To Fuck Me, Baby, Fuck Off'.

Dear old Wayne. I knew him, Horatio. I even knew him when he became Jayne County, the wily old dog.

Every way he, or she, had it. We will not see his, or her, like again.