YO, CINDY Crawford! Yo is me on hearing of your estrangement from that ham(ster) actor, Richard Gere. I warned you about people like that.

I believe that Dick Gere is a bit of a Buddhist or something of that nature. Well, that’s all I needed to know Cindy, babe, to tell you that it wouldn’t work out. Show me a good Buddhist and I will show you no good buddy of mine. Cindy, I always knew you were too good for him.

Sam Snort has no truck with this Buddhist thang, as it seems to involve long periods of time sitting with your legs crossed, staring like a zombie at nothing in particular, and avoiding drink or drugs or poontang.

Any man shacked up with my Cindy who encourages her to cross her legs sounds like a bit of a Dick-head to me. Not to mention a thick-head.

Mr. Gere may think that he is on a natural high with all of that meditation, but Sam Snort likes his natural high to be helped along by the kind of natural substances which flourish in the wilds of South America. You can’t get enough of that natural stuff.

Before Gere leaves her, he takes out a big motherfucker of an ad in the paper saying that there is no truth in the rumour that their relationship has turned to shit. According to Dick, they are still shagging like the troupers that they are.

Well bully for you, Dick! Not only are you saving the oppressed peoples of Tibet, you can actually manage to get it up for Cindy, to plunge your porksword into the glistening love-canyon of a Grade-A babe. We are all very proud for you, you big jessie.

Sam Snort has never been in the business of abandoning supermodels to their fate, and as these ladies like being photographed with interesting men, she is welcome to avail of my services as an escort, now, in her hour of need.

She is also perfectly welcome to play with my mutton dagger, just to reassure her that I won’t disappear along with the paparazzi. The type of Nirvana that Sam Snort has in mind does not come about through banging a gong, but through banging all night long.

EIGHTEEN INCHES

Then there’s poor Liz Hurley, she of the big garbonzas and the negligible clothing.

It seems that old Liz was set upon by a gang of vengeful women, and robbed of her possessions, which no doubt included an address book containing the hot-line to a certain illustrious rock journalist.

I am in a bit of a quandary about squiring Liz around the place, because if she wants to avoid hordes of vengeful women, she will hardly do it in the company of Samuel J. Snort.

When women see me out on the town with a new babe, they go hog wild, and attempt to prise the babe away from me, and appropriate the Snortian pecker for their own purposes.

It’s just an occupational hazard of my lifestyle; and I say that there’s time for everyone, but sometimes they just can’t wait. Come one, come all is my philosophy. But it can cause a bit of mayhem, this abundance of poontang on my plate.

Liz Hurley is also doing the business with an actor chap, that pillock Hugh Grant, star of Four Weddings And A Funeral.

I mean, what a pisser, eh? Four fucking weddings in the one movie and precious little poontang? No opportunity to adjudicate on whether he should be called Huge Grant? From what Liz tells me, it’s more a case of Four Inches And Shrinking All The Time with that lad.

I think it’s time that Liz shipped out of that particular movie, and into a Snortian vehicle, something like Eighteen Solid Inches And Rising. Yup, that’s the way to go for the little lady with the big jugs.

Yo Liz! Let’s play hurley! See what you can do with my high, lobbing, dropping balls, and I’ll see what I can do with your sliotar, not to mention your sliotoris. Let’s take the field for a Long Puck competition, and then retire to Snort Mansions for the Long Fuck competition. Yahoo! Up Tipp! Up with the old pecker! Let’s do it over the bar! Let’s tog out and tog off! (That’s enough hurley – Ed.)

XMAS

BASMEROONIE

On the local front, I see that my old chum Bertie Ahern has become leader of the Fianna Fáil Party. Yo, Bertie! Whip some skull on those grassroots, you big, bonking, brute.

Albert fucking Reynolds said that “the people like to know where the Taoiseach is living,” a reference to Bertie putting it about a bit outside the nuptial duvet. A case of one wedding and any amount of poontang.

Well, Albert fucking Reynolds is wrong. The people couldn’t give a bollocks about where the Taoiseach is living as long as he has a pulse, like Bertie, and is aware that his schlong has various functions other than that of spraying the toilet-bowl with piddle in order to shift a lump of shite that has lodged on the porcelain after the last user.

I’ll be expecting Bertie out to Snort Mansions for my Xmas basheroonie, because when he becomes Taoiseach, he will undoubtedly attract more pussy than he would as a Minister. My batman will have to weed out those Fianna Fáil mavens who upset my friends with their terrible kit and bad perfume and incipient hysteria, but Bertie should be able to swing something in the line of ’tang.

The keg of Bass has been ordered. The Prime Minister will not leave until he has drained it to the last drop.

• Sam Snort