You heard, I presume, that avian flu has been detected in a cat in Germany. Which news isn’t about to stop Sam’s non-stop-party lifestyle, of course, but it does allow him to note that, well, this really puts the cat amongst the pigeons. Boom, and if you will, boom.

And so onto the hot story of the fortnight.
‘200 hundred year old acts to be repealed’ said a headline in The Irish Times the other day. Which I take to mean that the Strolling Bones won’t be coming to the Phoenix Park this summer, after all. Either that, or the Corn Laws are up the Khyber without a pass.
Whatever, blame Bertie Ahern, who seems to have something against ancient acts, though I trust he won’t include the legendary Dubliners in this sweeping process of cultural deletion.
And not least because I lately hear that the one, the only and the truly indivisible Ronald Drew Esq will be the Grand Marshal for the St Patrick’s Day parade in the capital city. This is surely the smartest thing the organisers have done since the bould Paddy himself was knee-high to a piglet, and will be greeted with acclamation by all right-thinking people, especially those who tend to head for the heels at the mere rumour of that deply annoying Macnas crowd appearing in the streets.
Nope, Ronnie Drew is the real deal, and to have a proper Dubliner doing the ultimate civic duty in Dublin, makes Sam think there’s hope for us all yet.
As it happens, the news also presents a not too be missed opportunity to tell The Greatest True Story Ever Told.

Salt Mountain

But first, a health warning: painful though it is for him to admit it, Sam understands that there are some readers who habitually take the contents of this column with an EU mountain’s worth of salt. Sadly, they feel moved to question certain cast-iron assertions which have been made in this space over many years, such as that Sam was the original lead singer in the Rolling Stones but was deemed “too damn sexy” by Brian Jones to continue in the group. Or that it was Sam who actually wrote the lyrics to ‘Sad-eyed Lady Of The Lowlands’ after his old mucker Bobby suffered a chronic case of writer’s block coming up to the recording deadline. And so on.
Sam consoles himself with the realisation that all the great ones – Jesus, Mandela, Gavin Friday – have had to endure the prophet-without-honour role at various stages in their careers before vindication finally arrived in the form of a great world religion or a unified South Africa or, um, The Man Seezer.
That said, it is essential to point out that the following story – whilst seemingly absurd and even impossible - is actually one hundred per cent true, so please do bear with it to the end. Fasten your seatbelts, everyone.
Back in the day, after a busy spell gigging and perhaps even doing a little bit of socialising with Luke, Barney and the rest of the gang, Ronnie found himself with a day off and thought it would be fine idea to bring one of his children for a trip to the zoo.
So off they go the Park where, upon entry, Ronnie quickly finds himself assailed by all sorts of pungent wild animal smells and, in his delicate state, is beginning to think that this was not such a smart call after all.
At one point he is in the exotic bird house, and finds himself momentarily eyeball to eyeball with a mynah, one of our feathered friends which possesses the remarkable ability to mimic human speech.
Conceive now of Ronnie’s ineffable astonishment when the bird cocks his head and in a birdy rasp, says: “Howya Ronnie Drew?”
Did I say astonishment? What Ronnie feels now is The Fear, the chilling realisation that this is what the temperance people were always warning about – a few jars, and maybe the odd ball of malt, and the next thing you know, the animals are chattin’ away to you.

Dear Life

At this critical moment a zookeeper happens by and Ronnie quickly identifies him as possibly his last remaining link with sanity. “Just stand here for a moment, please,” Ronnie beseeches, “and tell me if anything happens.”
And so Ronnie looks the mynah bird in the eye again and the mynah bird cocks his head again - and croaks, “Howya Ronnie Drew.”
Ronnie is by now hanging onto the arm of the zookeeper for dear life, but your man seems not one bit perturbed.
“Ah, sure there’s a simple explanation for that,” he says pleasantly. “Y’see, we got that bird from an oul’ dear who lives on the North Circular Road – and she trained it to say ‘Howya Ronnie Drew to any man with a beard.”
Here endeth the greatest true story ever told.
And if you don’t believe me, ask Ronnie, a grand Marshal if ever there was one.