First thing to acknowledge this issue is the perspicacity of my old mate Squiggle, The Artist Formerly Known As Prince or, as he’s best known around the world, That Funny Little Dude Hanging Out Of Sam.

Still, fair play to him: he saw our equine drugs controversy coming long before anyone else. Remember? “Now he’s doing horse.”
While we’re on the subject, I heard some politician say about the controversy that “we shouldn’t jump to conclusions.” Which is fair comment, methinks, considering that it was poxy jumping which got us into this mess in the first place.
Moving on to a much less stable environment, there was gnashing of teeth and chewing of carpets in Snort Towers this week as the latest monthly delivery of books for the Grand Library arrived.
We noticed as they were being unloaded that the contents seemed unusually light, and no sooner had the big cardboard boxes been ripped apart with his fierce ceremonial sword by my South Sea Islands houseboy Raul, than the ghastly truth was revealed. Because of some terrible cock-up, the special books with the hollow centres containing carefully wrapped plastic packages had obviously been shipped to another address, and instead we were forced to take delivery of your actual, genuine reading material.
Like, as if I need this literary shit. I’m reminded of the story of the Irish rugby player and heroic imbiber, who read somewhere that too much drink was bad for you. So he gave up reading. Similarly, when Sam needs brain fodder, he’s hardly going to bother reading something, except maybe the recommended dosage sticker on the bottle. And even then, that would be only to exceed it by a factor of five to ten.
So here I am in the Grand Library menaced by actual fucking works of literature. Meanwhile, at a public library in the midlands, they’re giggling uncontrollably at having discovered the pot in Harry Potter.

Unusual Items

Still, a couple of titles did catch my eye. I see that my old mucker Neil McCormick has weighed in with I Was Bono’s Doppelganger, a book about living in the shadow of Bono. Yeah, you and the whole world, mate. Anyway, I’m sure it’s a ripping yarn but since a cursory perusal reveals plenty about this here organ but NOT ONE FUCKING word about Sam Snort, I’m afraid the book has already been sent down to the workshop for some hollowing-out by precision craftsmen with a long history of making unusual items for the Grateful Dead.
As for Sam’s definitive take on Bono, Irish rock, the hotpress years and everything else, you’ll just have to wait for my soon-come memoir, I Was Brush Shiels Doppelganger.
The other book that demanded my attention was the first volume of autobiography by an even older pal of Sam’s, the one and only Bobby Dylan. To say that this book has been long-awaited is a bit like saying that the Zim is a bit of a wordy bastard. But, sad to report, the wait has not been worth it - for here, truly, is a title that puts the ‘chronic’ in Chronicles.
The first criticism I have to make is that there’s no index. How the fuck is Sam supposed to find himself in the entrails of the Bobby Dylan story if the fucker won’t even provide a map? All that was needed was something simple like, ‘Snort, Samuel J: influence of, debt owed to; money borrowed from; guitar taught by; women procured by; crucial assistance with lyrics from; ‘Like A Rolling Stone’ suggested by; vicious row about Jesus with; writing ‘Sad Eyed Lady’ about; wife stolen by; introduced to Beatles by; first joint smoked with; last rites likely to be administered by (pps 3 – 293).

Harmonica Lessons

The second criticism I have to make is that there is no acknowledgement, not even a trace of something short and sweet, like ‘For Sam, without whom I wouldn’t even be half as good as Chris De Burgh. PS Thanks for the harmonica lessons’.
But no, there’s nothing like that at all, so I’ll be fucked if I’m going to wade through page after page of sub-poetic bollocksology masquerading as original thought.
Still, the black and white pic of New York City by night on the cover is kinda cool, and certainly makes for a distinct improvement on the awful pseudo-psychedelic look of ‘Tarantula’.
So, at least to that extent, we can say of Bob Dylan: the tomes they are a changing.b

Your ever lovin’ Samuel J. Snort esq