“Erection required nine concrete foundation piles and 204 bolts,” the Irish Times breathlessly reported last week, making the construction of Dublin’s Spire sound more like an operation to give Frankenstein’s monster a working pecker.

Nine foundation piles and 204 bolts to produce an erection, is it? Inevitably, Sam can’t help but think that, even in a worst case scenario – say, whilst comatose on skunk weed or otherwise technically brain dead – the very most it would take for him to achieve the same results is a small tub of ginseng and a video of Christina Aguilera.

No wonder then that the first sighting of the capital’s newest landmark has inspired many to think of it fondly as Sam Snort’s Monument Of Leuvre. Not that you’ll read about this in the popular prints where – in common with the spire itself – a conspicuous lack of balls means they have confined themselves to printing horribly twee alternatives like ‘The Eyeful Tower’, ‘The Why? In The Sky’ and ‘The Height Of Folly’.

Marching powder

Best of a bad lot so far has been ‘The North Pole’, a title which at least has the virtue of brevity and should also appeal to southsiders who already experience a distinct chill every time they’re forced to cross the river. However, it is, of course, not a patch on my own effort which, inspired by the object’s close proximity to a well-known Fleet Street hostelry, sees it dubbed, memorably, ‘The Phallus Near The Palace’.

Again, we have here distinct echoes of the most famous love truncheon in Ireland. And there’s more to come (as it were). The illumination ceremony, we are told, will see a ghostly white light emanating from the tip of the spire – a fantastic sight which will cause many of the ladeez watching to swoon, putting them in mind, as it most surely will, of the lovely dusting of white marching powder with which Sam likes to crown his own soaring construction.

Sad to say, the begrudgers have been out in force to diss Sam Snort’s Monument Of Leurve, arguing that the money would have been better spent on more hospital trolleys or some such bollocks. This is like arguing that the 25 million Foghat spent on, er, cleaning up the ‘Foghat Live’ tapes in the studio would have been better spent combating AIDS or finding a cure for cancer. Yeah, and give the punters a dose of sub-standard live Hat, bum notes, wrong city announcements and all? I don’t fucking well think so.

No, sometimes, home is where the art is, and Dubliners can at last be proud of having something that ranks just behind Dr Quirkey’s Good Time Emporium in terms of bringing much needed high-class entertainment to the country’s premier boulevard.

That said, the planners can be justifiably faulted for perhaps not thinking imaginatively enough. As you might expect, my own grand designs for Sam Snort’s Monument Of Leurve went that little bit further.

For one thing, I envisioned a system of sophisticated hydraulics and subtle cranage which would have permitted the actual rising of the Spire every dawn, just like a real-life morning wood.

The cue for this erection would have been the pulling of the curtains in the window of the Ann Summers shop, the whole choreographed event making for a uniquely tourist-friendly spectacle/ritual to rival London’s changing of the guards, the raising of Old Glory in Washington and that guy you can see pissing on the Fr Matthew Statue in Cork.

In prolonged ‘milk quota’ discussions with my farming friends, I had also arranged for an uninterrupted supply of milk to be piped into vast underground tanks located under O’ Connell Street directly beneath the Spire. Then via a series of powerful pumps… well, yes, I think you’re ahead of me here.

National orgasm

Picture any great day of national celebration – a draw in a football match, a runner-up spot in the Eurovision, a county councillor receiving a suspended sentence – and, right at the moment of highest excitement will occur the unforgettable spectacle of The National Orgasm, as Sam Snort’s Monument of Leurve, risen to its full height and with a huge gushing roar, spews a great white shower all over the GPO.

What better tribute to the sacrifice of the brave men of ’16, than a giant dick coming like an express train all over the most historic street in Erin?

Tiocaidh ar la. Or even tiociadh an lar. Either way, ah thank the ladeez know exactly what ahm a-talkin’ about.

Your ever lovin’ Samuel J. Snort esq