Once again Samuel J. Snort Esq is rendered a prophet without honour or, worse, an honoured person without profit, in his own land.

Yes, another of my brilliant innovations in the realm of popular culture has been turned down flat by RTE, ITV, BBC and Channel 5. Things are beginning to look so grim that I may yet be forced to initiate negotiations with Al Jazeera, the Abu Dhabi network or, as a last, desperate resort, TV3.

As ever, my idea was extraordinary in its simplicity: hire out the library in Lillie’s Bordello for an exclusive eve of Slane party, complete with “special guests”, spread the word on the Dublin media grapevine that admission will be strictly controlled, and then, when the big night arrives, train the CCTV cameras on the front door to capture the chaotic scenes when the fevered hacks turn up and – here’s the beautiful bit – are point-blank refused admission.

Bribes and blowjobs

How viewers will rejoice to see our leading gossip columnists reduced to flashing useless gold membership cards and historic laminates, offering bribes and blowjobs to bouncers, shouting poignant pleas such as “Tell them Jason’s out here”, succumbing to fits of weeping and flop sweat and, finally, resorting to oaths and threats of violence when they are asked to step away form the red velvet rope so that a “VIP” like Tony Fenton can sweep unmolested from his stretch limo into the building. At this point, a squad of heavily armed riot police will enter the scene, flailing wildly with their batons, and eating any NUJ cards that happen to be waved in their general direction, by the now bloodied and cowering hack pack.

A fantastically entertaining scene, I think you’ll agree, and one that I was sure would have the tv execs falling over each other to buy my great new reality show entitled, I’m A Journalist, Get Me Into There.

But no, I was told there was already a similar and better idea in the can which, of course, turned out to be the entirely loathsome, I’m An Ex-Celebrity, I’m Desperate And I’ll Do Anything For A Gig. To Sam’s astonishment, my old mucker, the cricketer Phil Tufnell, is appearing in the latest installment of this cringe-worthy enterprise. Tuffers, as is well known, is quite partial to a bit of waccy baccy – Christ, how long did a game of cricket seem to him? – and I can only assume that they ambushed the poor bastard whilst he was ensconced in the deepest recesses of the perfumed garden, in order for him to sign on the dotted line for this pile of stinking compost.

Talking shite

But then, now that the war is over (and the football season is drawing to a close) it’s virtually impossible to find any half-decent entertainment anywhere on the box.

The View? Who really wants to watch the Assistant Deputy Curator of The Museum Of Orthopaedic Dentistry, a woman who writes poetry and a man who likes jazz, sitting in semi-darkness talking shite – “shite” being a specialist language of the arts community in which things don’t happen at the Project, they happen “@project” and exhibitions never take place in a room but rather in “a space”. Sam would very much like to go on this show some day and begin his review by saying: “Well, first I hung my coat and hat in the cloakspace, then I took a whizz in the bathspace and finally I was ready to walk into the room and have a goo at the pictures on the wall.”

But what about the Dunph on Ryan Confidential, I hear you cry. Sure, wasn’t that great craic? Well, certainly, Sam will concede that a man who by his own admission is simultaneously “a proud nigger”, “Lou Reed” and “an ordinary guy”, at least scores on the value for money front, since it’s unlikely that RTE offered him three “on-the-spot” contracts to sign.

Nevertheless, Sam felt that the most glaring and indeed televisual question of the hour remained unasked. Namely: “That chip you’re waving about Eamon, did you get that off your shoulder?” And, of course, the Dunph long ago revealed the true extent of his rock ‘n’ roll credentials when he complained: “You can’t get good coke in this town anymore”.

Oh yes you can, Eamo.

Your ever lovin’ Samuel J. Snort Esq