There are many things you could accurately say about young Olaf Tyaransen s much talked-about autobiography, The Story Of O.

You could say, for example, that it strikes a chord, that it has that authentic ring of truth, that it speaks of and to the universal outlaw in all of us. But for Samuel J. Snort Esq, the most important thing to say about The Story Of O is that it brings me back back to a closely-typed, 700-page manuscript which has been circulating in the cultural underground for many moons and which is called, coincidentally enough, The Story Of S.
Now, I m not saying that the boy Tyaransen has ripped me off per se; let s just say that the best legal expertise available assures me that if The Story Of O was a song, Mr T would have to pay me a handsome royalty.
Wrinkly Old Dope
As you will have gathered, and despite upstart claims to the contrary,The Story Of S is Ireland s real first outlaw autobiography, a Snortian epic of whipsong prose and a sex n drugs n rock n roll saga so transcendentally debauched and depraved that even wimpy Howard Marks turned down the opportunity to plug the book on the grounds that, to quote the wrinkly old dope, it might hurt my prospects on the chatshow circuit, Sam .
Indeed, the tome was deemed so hot to handle that no reputable publisher was prepared to touch it with something even the length of my own bargepole while, among my many friends in the business they call show, only Ted The Fuckin Nuge Nugent cared little enough about his reputation to offer some positive comments for the jacket blurb. Sadly, we had to decline the Nuge s offer on account of the fact that the poor bastard can t actually read; whilst we admired his zeal, as it were, we feared the critical backlash.
I mean, just picture the nightmare scenario: the Sunday Times popular culture critic sniffily pointing out that Mr Ted Nugent s racy endorsement of the debut book by Mr Sam Snort ( It has more poontang per paragraph than that there Calmer Suitor ) comes as something of a surprise given that it has long been whispered on the rock circuit that the popular music guitar player has to have the 24-hour room service menu in a hotel read out to him by a hillbilly roadie called Bubba .
So The Story Of S has never officially seen the light of day, though a bit like the Stones infamous Cocksucker Blues, copies have always managed to find their way into the homes of the right people. Thus it was that John Cooper Clarke came to know and love The Story Of S, calling it the guvnor dirty book, a book so dirty, in fact, that you d have to smuggle it through airports inside a bag of heroin .
Wang Dang Doodled
And now, strangely enough, all these years later, we have Olaf Tyaransen s The Story Of O, a book which, as I say, may owe more than just its title to my own literary efforts it may also, to give just a couple of examples, owe most of its plot, style, philosophy, leading characters and especially its rich crop of swear words to The Story Of S. And, hey, that s just the thank you list! In fairness to Olaf however I must make it clear that I can take no responsibility whatsoever for his poetic excursions. Repeat: the poetry is entirely his own work.
Still, if as they say, imitation is the sincerest from of flattery, then, admittedly with some judcious cosmetic surgery, Olaf could just about pass for me in a dimly lit optician s waiting room. When the nuisance Marks (or No Marks as we wittily dubbed him) wasn t hanging around Snort Towers at all hours trying to learn how to roll a fabled Armagh Aubergine 17-skinner one-handed while simultaneously having one s wang dang doodled, it was young Olaf who was repeatedly beseeching me to instruct him in the ways of the Snortian One. Soft-hearted soul that I am, I confess now that I did allow him to sit at the feet of the master, even occasionally permitting him to give me a pedicure in the interests of meeting my FAS training obligations.
He looked, he listened, he shaped my toenails and sometimes we played boardgames: how interesting it is therefore to read in his book his fascinating account of a game of Scrabble that is rather capsized by a drug-related incident.
Could this in any way, I wonder, be related to our own early Scrabble games in Snort Towers during which the budding outlaw would frequently stare at me wide-eyed and ask questions like, Poontang, Mr Snort, how many o s? and Trousersnake, Mr Snort, one word or two?
He was an eager learner, I ll give him that, yet I search in vain through his book for reference to that long ago afternoon when, over that much-loved Scrabble board, he suddenly clutched his stomach and began howling in pain. Later, after he had had the benefit of a powerful laxative, he sheepishly explained that, having been given a hand comprised mainly of vowels, in a desperate attempt to prove himself an outlaw peer worthy of my companionship, he rashly scooped up four e s and swallowed them.
So it was that a hard-earned understanding of the crucial difference between brain-blasting pills and stomach-blasting wooden squares was just one lesson on the great learning curve of life which Olaf experinenced under my tender, guiding care.
Pills, Powders, Poontang
Not that you ll find such an incident in his book. Instead, the ungrateful little bollocks repays me by claiming sole credit for a so-called outlaw autobiography which, in everything bar its frankly measly quota of pills, powders, poitin and poontang, is a shameless attempt to claim the low moral ground which has been the natural and unchallenged fiefdom of me, Samuel J. Snort Esq, since the dawn of Time (a late sixties showband, I briefly mismanaged).
Well, you can run but you can t hide, and in last week s edition of this organ, Mr Tyaransen paraded his own for all the world to see.
Suffice it to say that he and it combined were easily accomodated within the borders of a single page.
Meaning? Sam Snort still rules. Accept no
substitute.
An ah thank the ladeez know jest what ahm a-talkin bout.

Your ever-lovin Samuel J. Esq